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And with him busy, I got the chance to really look around, take it in without him feeling awkward for it while he stacked locks and papers.
There was nothing to paint. The inside of his home was exactly the same as the outside – logs and the off-white stuff wedged between the flat-edge logs. The floor was wooden too – wide-planked with giant nail heads and no shine, just weathered and welcoming. There were woven rugs around in places in burnt oranges and greens and creams. Masculine, but warm.
Directly in front of the fireplace was a giant dark brown material couch with a coffee table in front of it. No accent chairs. Like he never had occasion to need extra seating, keeping everything cozy and intimate.
No TV.
At least not in the open main space.
The kitchen was situated in the back left corner with cherry wood cabinets and cupboards. the appliances were new, stainless. The countertops looked like they may have been marble – brown and gold swirls. The oversized island cut it off from the dining space toward the front of the house at my left – a highly glossed table with four chairs and an intricate pattern carved into the center base as well as the legs of each chair.
He’d made them, I realized.
He’d likely made the coffee table too.
Possibly even the cabinetry in the kitchen.
His hands had touched everything inside his house.
I had maybe never been more envious of anything in my life as I was of his cozy, comfortable, lived-in home.
“I know the curtain thing is weird,” Smith said, drawing my attention to where he was half looking over his shoulder at me as he poked the burgeoning fire. The curtain thing he was referring to was the absolute lack of them. Not on a single window that I could see. “It’s so secluded back here,” he went on. “There is really no need. And I like seeing nature.”
He liked having it around too.
There were houseplants situated in various corners – a giant, big-leaf one over by the dining room, trailing ones hanging off the edges of the fireplace. Bringing the outside in, cleaning the air, giving you fresh stuff to breathe.
And breathe I did, taking a slow, deep pull of air in, letting it inflate my lungs, breathing in his scent.
Campfire and sawdust and pine cleaner.
That was the smell of his house.
I wanted it all over me. I prayed it would cling to me when I left, that I could smell the fire in my hair, the sawdust on my clothes, the pine on my skin.
“I like it without the curtains,” I told him when I realized he was still looking over at me, anxiously needing some kind of response. “Do you want to trade places?” I asked, sending him a wobbly smile.
“My entire house could fit into your kitchen and dining room,” he told me. Rightly so.
“Yeah but… not an inch of all that square footage feels like a home. That sounds silly,” I added, shaking my head at myself.
“No, it doesn’t. I get it. You didn’t pick anything out. It’s yours, but it isn’t.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, nodding.
“Want a tour?” he asked, standing, satisfied with the crackling, dancing fire. Nothing like the superficial gas fireplace at my home.
“Yes,” I said, the word rushing, tumbling out clumsily, making a warm smile light his eyes. More green than brown in his house, even with the suit still on.
“There’s not a whole lot left to see,” he admitted, moving in beside me, leading me down past the dining room to the small hallway with three doors. “This is the guest room. Or it would have been if I didn’t take it over with boxes from both my parents and my grandparents after they passed, not ready to go through any of it, but not wanting to get rid of anything until I did,” he said, pulling open a room full of – as he said – boxes. And trunks. And old luggage full almost to bursting.
“This is the bathroom,” he went on, opening the door situated between the guest and what had to be the master. “Only room with Sheetrock and paint,” he added as he flicked on the light.
And it was.
The space was maybe half the size of my bathroom with a shower/tub combo, a small wooden vanity with a bowl sink, the bottom lined with soft-looking river rocks, and an old, oversized, gilded mirror that must have belonged to an older relative since it was the stuff of antique shops, not modern stores. The color he’d chosen for his walls was a creamy tan – warm, comforting. Like everything else in his home.
“And this is the master,” he said, leading me to the last room where I found another large fireplace, this one with red penny bricks. The bed he’d told me about his grandfather carving dominated the space, covered with brown sheets, a large tan comforter, and two spare blankets folded at the edge of the bed – one brown, one red and black plaid. The nightstands matched the bed in stain color, but looked more modern. Like maybe Smith had made them himself with glass tops and deep drawers. Lamps graced each one and across from the bed was the TV that was missing in the living room, situated under a dresser that Smith had likely made himself as well.
