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“Pull up some plank,” I say, scooting over and waving to encompass the warped floorboards. “Sorry we’re not set up for entertaining yet. It’s going to be a while because some guy ran up the bidding on me, and I used up my cushion for stuff like renovations.”
He drops his head and stares at the concrete. “He sounds like a real jerk.”
“I thought so. But there’s new evidence coming in, and I’m still deciding.”
He nods and climbs the steps, settling on the porch with his feet on the top step, his legs together, knees bent. He looks like a very proper 1950s schoolgirl. He makes a few adjustments, shifting this way, then that, and it’s so uncomfortable to watch that I feel the laugh threatening again. I absolutely can’t laugh at him right now or I’ll upset our new truce. But of course, knowing it’s a bad time to laugh makes it harder not to, and my mouth quivers in the first sign of betrayal.
No, no, no. No laughing. Maybe I can excuse myself to fetch us coffee inside until the threatening laughter passes? I’m about to offer when Henry stands up again.
“Would you like to do this at my house? It’s pretty comfortable over there.”
“Yes.” That’s an easy yes too. I’ve been dying to see the inside of some of these Orchard Street houses. I’m not passing up a chance. I can hold my breath and do a slow count until the laugh passes while we walk next door. It works, and by the time we climb the porch, the urge has subsided.
Thank goodness. I may not like Henry Hill much, but it’ll be better if we can be civil, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s going to deal with one of my laughing jags if he thinks it’s about him. They don’t even make sense to me, so it’s not like I could explain it.
As he waves me through the front door, I take in as much as I can without looking like a thief casing the joint. The traditional interior matches the outside vibe of the house, and I suspect this is all a holdover from when his grandparents lived here, not his own stamp.
The inside has a fall vibe, and it’s not a bad thing, but it definitely feels like houses did when I was a kid. Warm beige walls, deep brown accents, not much print on the fabrics, but they’re higher quality. The wood furniture is dark, but the built-ins are a medium honey oak color, and I have a feeling if I walked into his kitchen, I’d see the same.
All in all, it feels like a slightly outdated space that was decorated by someone with good taste, warm and cozy, where a lot of houses now tend toward cool and light.
“Dining table okay?” Henry asks.
“Sure.” I follow him through the living room arched doorway that leads to a dining room, only instead of a long formal table, a round table for six sits beside the window overlooking the side of my house. And the giant Santa face made of lights. Not sorry.
A stack of books with a notebook on top suggests he works on this table too, and I can understand why noise distracts him. But why not just go to a room farther away in the house? If I hear a good opening in the conversation, I’ll ask.
He waves me into a seat but turns slightly toward the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”
I’ve already had a coffee infusion this morning, so I shake my head. “Water would be nice.”
He nods and returns a minute later with a glass of water for me and a steaming mug of coffee for himself. He sets each cup down, his movements careful and precise, and pulls one item after another out of the Bixby’s bag.
When he gets to the chocolate croissant, he extends it toward me. “I assume you would like this one?”
“Yes, please.” I barely resist making grabby hands. “Bill and Lisa’s daughter, Tabitha, turned me onto these, and I’m beginning to worry I might have a problem.” Like that even getting one once a week is still $24 a month I can’t afford for only pastry.
“Bill and Lisa?” he asks.
“You’ve probably seen them around my place a couple of times. They live on Mulberry.”
“One street over,” he says. “Is that who you sent Evie to? Are they her grandparents?”
I take a bite of my croissant as I consider how to explain. “That’s not an easy yes or no. How about we trade information? You tell me what your deal is with Christmas, and I’ll explain about them?”
He nods. “It’s not a long story, and I’ll spare you the dramatic details, but Christmas is hard. How old is your daughter? Around seven?” When I nod, he continues. “When I was her age, my grandmother died a few days before Christmas.”
He falls quiet, a faraway look in his eyes, and remembering the scant details Miss Lily had shared, I say, “Was it sudden?”
A blink, a quiet sigh, then, “Yes. And it was my fault.”
Oh, wow. I have no idea how to respond to that, especially since I don’t know the circumstances. But since asking how someone died is about the rudest thing ever, I don’t say anything.
“My parents have always told me it wasn’t my fault, and intellectually, I understand that. But there’s a seven-year-old boy somewhere inside me that doesn’t, quite.” He sighs and takes another sip of his coffee before setting his mug down. “Anyway, I guess I’ve been a Scrooge ever since. Or maybe a grinch? Scrooge was the money-grubber, wasn’t he?”
“He was. Wouldn’t let poor Bob Cratchit off work for the holiday.”
He gives me a small smile. “That’s not me. I teach anthropology at Jefferson. It’s not exactly a get-rich-quick plan.”
