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Each piece has a Western vibe. Very Texas. Horses. Cowboys. None of them look cheap and most definitely not inexpensively framed. “Why haven’t you hung these?” The dust on them suggests either procrastination or disinterest.
“They don’t exactly go with the—what did the decorator call it—modern farmhouse motif of the rest of the place, do they?”
I tilt my head. Indeed, the darker wood stands in contrast to the proliferation of white around me. “But doyoulike these things?”
He backs up, sinking into a recliner, the leather upholstery shiny from use. “I do. Every year I attend the Stock Show in Fort Worth. Wander around the exhibition hall for a few hours and then always come home with a new piece of artwork.” Another indifferent shrug. “Maybe I should get rid of them.”
Does he wander aroundalone?
Irrelevant.
“Not if you like them, you shouldn’t. And I’m thinking that if you spread them throughout the house, they’d work fine.”
“Maybe.”
“Do whatyoulike, John. Make ityourhome.”
Lines furrow along his brow, but the essence of his expression, fixed on me, is elusive. My mouth goes dry. I blindly survey the room, fingering theJat my throat. What is going on here?
The old chair groans as he pulls himself up, dwarfing it, the room, and everything around. He’s so tall. Broad and commanding. His agents must cower when he speaks. “Let me show you the rest of the place.”
I follow him back to the foyer. We make a left and end up in an office, thus far, the one space showing signs of life. A slew of white covers the surface of the large desk, like a blizzard of paper that’s fallen and piled itself into haphazard drifts. The built-in bookshelves contain more of the same, plus stacks of manilla folders. Centered on the desk is an open laptop with a cord strung like a tripwire between it and the wall.
“Nice.” I grin, and he matches with a smile of his own.
Returning to the foyer, we pass a dark windbreaker on a wooden coat rack. The sharp contrast between the black fabric and the bright whiteDEAmakes the letters stand out.
If the main part of the house is sterile, the rest is downright forsaken. Even the sprawling master suite is vacant except for a king-sized bed, a nightstand, and a chest of drawers—assuming one doesn’t count the discarded clothing scattered and strewn, the overflowing laundry basket in a corner, or the open suitcase on the floor. His trip was more than a week ago.
A jumble of sheets with one corner of the fitted base popping up is all that tops the bed.
“Uh, guess I should have skipped this stop on the tour. Sorry. Wasn’t expecting visitors today.”
The messes stand in contrast to the man. He’s so pressed and buttoned up, orderly and regimented. His car gleams in the sunlight and a lone gum wrapper in a cupholder would be a travesty. I can only imagine he runs a military-tight ship on the job. But at home?
Well, at his house.Homebarely applies here. Like the man, the external and the internal feel misaligned.
Despite the glimpse I catch of a luxurious master bath, I’m itchy to hurry the tour along.
John breezes past me toward the back door. “Let me show you the best part.”
Wait, this wasn’t it?
The gentle autumn afternoon wraps around me when I follow him onto the patio, a space that evokes images of summer cookouts and holiday fireworks. It’s the one space utilized almost to potential with new garden furniture and a built-in grill.
Like the front, the lawn in back is weedy. The yard is large and slopes away to a stand of trees. A wide dirt path winds down to the river through the grove of oaks.
Side by side, neither of us filling the pretty day with talk, we follow the trail to the rippling water. There’s a small dock, really just a plank walk about a dozen feet long. A dark green kayak with two paddles stowed inside rests haphazardly on the shoreline.
“Is that yours?”
John nods. “I fish once in a while.”
“You’re not afraid someone will steal it?”
“Could happen, I guess.” He shrugs, ambivalent.
Folding his arms and gazing across the river, wide in this spot, John almost seems lost. His pressed dress sleeves are increasingly wearied as the day moves on, as are the tiredness around his eyes and the lines on his face.
