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Alex and I stood at the window in his living room. It was enormous—the size of a house, quite literally, and just as tall—and was furnished like a palace, with gorgeous soft furniture. He had beautiful antique oak and mahogany sofas, chaise-lounges imported from Paris.
“I used to be a better host,” he said. “These days I keep myself to myself.”
“You gonna give me a tour?” I said.
“Come on,” he said. “You can go look around if you want.Mi casa es su casa.”
“But I might get lost,” I said flirtatiously. It was just a joke.
But kind of true.
Alex walked me through the rooms. Our first stop was the kitchen, a wide expanse of stainless steel benches and marble surfaces.
“This is kind of rad,” I said. “It looks like a restaurant.”
“I kind of prefer to do my own cooking. Unless I’m throwing a party. Then I can get six chefs in here.”
Then we took a tour of his library. It was piled high with books. On the shelves behind were books about computers, technology, programming. I could see that Alex didn’t read much for fun. But I did smile when I saw a few science-fiction books at the top of one of the shelf. They had names likeThe Thing From MarsandGalaxy War. They looked old, too. Had they been his teenage obsession? The floor and the tables were littered with legal volumes, some of which still had barely been unwrapped from their packaging.
“You’ve read all of this?” I said
“Hardly. But I try to read every day if I can. I’ve got a couple of rare ones, too.”
“Like what?”
Alex pointed over at a table with a few volumes encased in glass.
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” I said. “You like that one?”
“I read it in school. I used to read a lot in school, I guess. Not that it ever showed in my grades.”
“You should read this one again,” I said. I’d only ever seen the movie. “You know, it’s about an innocent man who gets let off because of this amazing lawyer?”
“It’s not a happy ending,” said Alex, mournfully.
He moved away. “So why’s this in here?” I frowned.
“Oh,” he said, coming back. “It’s signed by Harper Lee. First Edition.”
“Is that rare?”
“Not so rare. But—” Alex said, reaching under the table and pressing a button. The door on the glass case unlocked. “Take a look.”
I opened it up.
“To J.F.K. from Harper Lee.”
My eyes widened.
“That who I think it is?”
Alex nodded, and I gingerly put the book back where it was, patting it gently.
Then he showed me his guest room.
“Since when do you have guests?” I said.
“Not really ever,” he admitted. “But still. Imagine.”
