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The next morning, as he prepared to leave, he looked at me strangely and asked if something was bothering me. I smiled as I put down the fork, a large piece of scrambled egg on the end. My appetite had been voluminous recently, and I was planning on having seconds as soon as he left.
“No,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”
“You should get some rest while I’m gone,” he said.
“I will.” I grinned. “Don’t worry.”
“Good.” He grinned back.
That smile. No matter what, it always made my stomach flutter.
As he left, I felt overcome with emotion. It overwhelmed me, and I didn’t know what to think or feel. I ended up spending some time tooling around the house aimlessly, going into rooms where memories of my grandparents would play. I wondered what they would have thought of the woman I had become.
I realized that as much as I wanted to and was determined to sell the house, I had grown really attached to it. Even aside from the memories of my family, spending time in those walls with Ryan had solidified my love of it. Everywhere I looked, I could see the evidence of my blood, sweat and tears. The house felt equally like my grandparents, mine, and the place that Ryan and I had fallen for each other in.
There was just so much to think about.
15
RYAN
It took some time to track down the owner of the house, but when I finally found them I was a bit taken aback. The agent told me that they suspected they were elderly, and may not even be alive, yet when I found the name cross-referenced in the city data in Dallas, along with a phone record that matched, it came up to a person just sixty years old. While no spring chicken, they certainly weren’t elderly.
I took a risk just showing up at their door, but I didn’t want to give them an opportunity to blow me off. I probably only had one shot to talk to them, and my best bet was to get to see them face to face and try to speak with them personally. As the door opened, an older woman, probably in her early sixties as well, answered. She was well put together, her hair still blonde at the tips, though it looked like it might have been dyed, and she was wearing yoga pants and a sweater.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Mrs. Vachon?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“My name is Ryan Beasley,” I said. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Vachon if I could.”
“What’s this about, if you don’t mind?” she asked in a voice that was as sweet as it was skeptical.
“It’s about his property in Murdock,” I said.
She rolled her eyes, and for a moment I thought she was going to shut the door in my face. But then she shrugged and turned her back to me.
“Maurice? Maurice, there’s a man here to speak to you about your father’s house,” she said.
“On my way,” came a scratchy voice from deep inside the modest home.
Soon, a hulking older man came into view, coming up a flight of stairs going down. He was wearing jeans and a sweater tucked in, but his broad shoulders and wide belly made it poke out of them on the sides. He looked like he had been an athlete at some point, all muscle and mass.
“Mr. Vachon?” I asked as he reached the door. “Ryan Beasley.”
I held out my hand, and he took it, squeezing hard enough to show me that while he might have thirty or so years on me, he was not a man afraid of a stranger knocking on his door.
“Maurice,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“I’ll be upfront with you, sir,” I said. “It’s the house in Murdock.”
“What about it?” he asked. “Did my brother send you?”
“No, sir,” I said. “I’m here because my girlfriend fell in love with it and no one knows why it isn’t for sale, especially since it’s been abandoned.”
There was a pause, and then Maurice turned to the side, beckoning me to come in.
“Might as well tell you if you came all the way from Murdock. Come on in,” he said.
I followed him to the living room, just a few feet away, and saw as he noticed my limp. I stood at attention beside him before he motioned me to one of the chairs.
“Military?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” I said. “Did my dime with Uncle Sam.”
“I did a quarter,” he said. “Jungles and desert.”
“All sandbox for me,” I said.
“That why you have a limp?” he asked. Most people had a sense of avoidance to mentioning my injury, even if it was obvious. After the drive all the way to Dallas, my leg was acting up, and I was sure it was like a billboard. Fellow soldiers, on the other hand, tended to address it right away. Something about commiserating with your brothers. And sometimes thanking the good Lord above you didn’t end up the same way.
