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Serenity hummed through me, filtering out the unnecessary noise of life until all I could hear were the birds eagerly chirping from within the tall canopy of evergreens surrounding me. I’d need to make the most of this before getting back to the blaring car horns and thumping music I was subjected to at my apartment.
Fast approaching footfalls interrupted my moment of bliss, and through the rearview mirror I spotted Franky jogging up the drive. He stopped at the front passenger window.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asked, sweat traveling from his hairline and disappearing into the scruff overtaking his strong jaw. “I thought I’d be back from my morning run before you arrived.”
One could learn a lot by looking into Franky’s eyes. They were nuanced, and most times they did the talking for him. I wanted to become an expert at deciphering the meaning behind every shift. Like what it meant when they seemed to spark with life, or when they were dull, or round, or narrowed. They were shining like burnished brass now, full of excitement. Was he happy to see me? Did I want him to be?
“It’s fine. I just got here, and I’m early anyway.” I kept my gaze trained above his neck and off the broad expanse of chest area exposed below.
“Come in,” he said, using the running shirt tossed over his shoulder to wipe down his forehead. “I’ll make us breakfast before we get started.”
“You can cook?” I asked, quickly getting out of the car.
“I guess we’re about to find out.” He sounded uncertain as he moved toward the side of the house.
“Great, so I’ll either be your guinea pig, or your victim.”
“Or both,” Franky said, laughing, the sound a deep rumble and more effervescent than his brief laugh on the pier last night. He was different today. More relaxed and less contemplative, and as much as I didn’t want to assume the credit for that, it was hard not to, because I was different too, and it definitely had something to do with him.
“Wow,” I said, as we rounded the front of the house. Puget Sound was an inlet of the Pacific Ocean, and Franky’s home had an amazing, unobstructed view of it. I’d passed other homes on my way up, but they were nothing more than specks in the distance from here.
The patio felt more like an extension of the interior with the way the glass wall opened up from end to end. At the far side, a set of stairs built into the home’s rocky foundation led to a small dock and an anchored boat.
“It’s peaceful here,” he said.
Pine ceiling fans hung from the exposed beams inside, and the white walls and matching washed-wood floors gave the home a nautical look. It was beautiful, and aside from a sofa and my painting, it was also unfurnished. “Did you just move in?”
“Yeah,” he said, bypassing the living room for the open kitchen. There wasn’t a single stool around the marble island, and the breakfast nook was just a square, empty space.
“When’s the rest of your furniture coming?” I asked, peering at the two Adirondack chairs surrounding the firepit on the patio. There was easily enough unused space out there for a twenty-seat outdoor dining set.
“I didn’t order any more furniture,” he said, plucking a carton of eggs from the fridge.
“Do you at least have a bed?”
“I have a comfortable mattress,” he said absently, eyeing the eggs like they required a code to crack.
“Tell me you have a bowl for the eggs.” I chuckled, circling to his side of the island and opening cabinets until I struck gold.
“I’ve got cooking utensils, bathroom supplies, light bulbs, and even a canister of air freshener. I just don’t have much furniture.” He pressed his back into the counter behind him, crossing his legs at the ankle as I cracked six eggs into the porcelain bowl.
“Why not? Are you a minimalist or something?”
“No,” he said, unsure. I didn’t know him well, but I knew that tone was unlike him. I glanced over, waiting for him to give me more. “I’m going to make it all.”
“You’re going to do what?” I accepted the whisk he pulled from a drawer near his hip, mixing the eggs as he continued.
“You remember Gloria?”
“Your nan—” I caught myself. “The woman who helped raise you?”
“Yeah. Her husband was a carpenter. He did most of the work on my family’s estate. I’d sneak off and help him whenever my father wasn’t around. And there were rare occasions when my father would allow me to spend the night with Gloria and her boys, and we’d get to build things in their garage all night.” He smiled, but his pupils were dim.Dim means sadness. I made a mental note of it.
“Anyway,” he said, grabbing the salt and pepper from the cabinet above him. “Thought I’d see if I still had it in me.”
“Do you keep in touch with Gloria and her family?” I secretly hoped he had someone to call for help, because I had a feeling this project of his might end with a missing finger or three.
“No. My father abruptly let them go one day. He claimed it was because I’d outgrown my need for Gloria.”
