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Who knew?
Okay, okay–Perky and Fiona knew. But that’s because they’re jerks who think they know me better than I know myself.
But they are wrong—
Shoot.
They’re right.
Will’s parents’ house, on careful examination, is more than a showplace. Quiet beige dominates the stonework, but it’s done with such fine taste and superb craftsmanship that it commands attention. Together, the architectural designer and the mason elevated the simplest scheme to an artisanal visual feast, with the stonework itself at the center. If you’ve ever been caught off guard by beauty, you know what I mean. I could look at the walls, the steps, the intersection of paths for hours and never be bored.
And that’s just the beginning.
When I arrived here last week for the fluffer job, I was in a different head space. Head space matters. We think of reality as one monolithic state, but it’s actually a prism. Twist in another direction by a millimeter and the world you thought you knew disappears, replaced by a charmingly different–yet disturbingly familiar–state.
The Mallory who walked up this stone path last week is one twist away from the Mallory I am now.
I like the now better.
Combining an appealing, comfortable feel with an eye for power display is tough to manage. The Lothams have done it. Will said his mother managed interior design for the company, and while her own ideas at the office made me cringe, as I punch the key code into the lock and open the front door, I have to retract my doubts. She obviously hired the best to do this house.
It is, simply put, damn near perfect.
Gone is the garish red ottoman. Gone is the strange sofa. In their place, I see neutrals in tones that someone has assembled with a delicacy that is intriguing. Meant to blend in, the layers are all different shades and textures, with occasional soft blues and greens to bring the outside in. The New Zealand wool carpet isn’t there just for show. It’s meant for bare feet to walk on, for the indulgence of treating your sore tootsies after a long day, for allowing everyday pleasure to be factored into design.
Isn’t that supposed to be the point?
Yet only the best design does that, and few people look for it.
Except me.
And, apparently, whoever designed this home.
I said damn near perfect, mind you. The energy is still off, the unused, stagnant spaces making it pool into frustrated ponds of lifeless potential. This house was not meant to be even partly empty. Energy matters. Just like people.
Just like Will.
I move down the hall to the kitchen on the right, and stop dead in my tracks.
There, on the counter, are three items.
A jar of marshmallow Fluff.
A jar of creamy peanut butter.
A loaf of bread.
A note, with an envelope embossed with the initials WJL (William Joshua Lotham, my mind recites, pulling up data I shouldn’t be able to retrieve so quickly but do), is propped against the Fluff.
Ha.
Ha.
With an eagerness I don’t want to admit, I open the envelope and run my fingertips along the slanted handwriting. In high school, Will wanted to be an architect. His penmanship has a draftsman’s quality to it, almost font-like in its squared uniformity.
In case you have a sudden craving.
W
