Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
“Can we go in?” he asks gently. “I’d like to see it, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
The big gate is made of weathered reclaimed barn doors, hung on thick cut stone pillars with antiqued bronze lanterns on the tops. Flanked by lacy olive trees and thickets of twenty-foot-high evergreen trees, it completely hides away the house inside.
“What’s the code?” August drives up to the gate and makes as if to leave the car.
“I have a remote opener on my phone,” I tell him, inexplicably shaky. I love this house. Every last inch of it. The estate is my heritage, the place I visited time and again for comfort, for sanctuary. But, in this moment, I feel like an intruder, as though I’ll never fully belong here again.
The big wood gates slide back, and we enter another world, far removed from the sun and heat and noise of LA. Here is grace and beauty, an age long gone by.
An allée of jacaranda trees in full bloom line the crushed limestone drive, creating a tunnel of purple. Sunlight spills through the fluttering blooms and dapples the windshield in violet light.
The end of the drive opens to a wide circular limestone paved car park and the house itself. The one-story ranch would be right at home in Provence with its dusky stone and stucco siding, weathered wooden shutters, and climbing vines. The roof extends out on one side to create an open porch that follows the length of the house.
And all I can think is I’m home. But home isn’t supposed to hurt like this, is it?
Eight
August
I’ve visited this house several times, even stayed here that one summer. It’s never failed to impress me.
Pen’s quiet as we leave the truck and step under the shade of the porch, heading for the front door. Much like my own house, there’s a security panel in place of a lock. She punches in the code and lets us in.
The house is cool and still like it’s been waiting. Again, I’m struck by how beautiful the place is. White stucco walls reflect the light pouring in from oversize iron-framed windows.
Quietly, like she’s a visitor, Pen sets her bag on the wide plank floors and then walks farther in. The house is a U shape branching out on each side from the main living room. Like an old barn, the roof and ceilings are pitched, with a massive weathered beam running along the center line and smaller beams branching out like ribs on a whale all along its length.
We wander past the den with overstuffed bookshelves lining the walls, and then a pretty sitting room that reminds me of Pegs and how she’d invite me to sit on those deep cream-colored couches and tell her about my games.
The kitchen has been redone since I was here. Instead of being dark and brown, it now has white cabinets, marble counters, and a walnut wood island. A huge carved limestone mantelpiece that looks like it came out of a French château surrounds the stove area. Skylights let light spill down on the counters.
“It’s slightly different than I remember,” I tell a silent Pen. “But I can still picture your grandmother here making those sweet orange breakfast rolls that she loved.”
“I can too. God, I’d eat so many, my stomach would ache. No regrets, though.”
“Not when it comes to those rolls.”
Along the back of the house runs a long hallway with iron framed French doors that lead out to the pool and central courtyard. We head for the main bedroom.
Pen stops just inside the big square room. There’s an adobe fireplace curving out of one corner and a set of stairs along the wall closest to us that leads to a loft room. This is the only area in the house that’s two stories and the ceiling is double height because of it.
“I left most of their things in the other rooms but cleaned out everything here,” she says.
“I’ve never been up there,” I confess, glancing at the loft.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it? Like we might get in trouble for snooping in their room.”
“I’m betting they’ll love it if we do.” With a waggle of my brows, I take her hand and lead her up. The loft is an office, probably Pops’s, given the big ash wood desk and leather executive chair. But the shelves have been cleaned out of books. A set of double doors leads to a Juliet balcony and a view of the garden. It’s a nice spot, sunny, away from everything.
“You could study in here,” I tell Pen. “Write your papers.”
She stands at the threshold of the room, just at the top of the stairs, hands clasped before her. There’s a look of such longing in her big brown eyes that my chest clenches.
“Penelope?”
She shakes herself out of wherever she went and blinks back at me before answering with exaggerated gravity, “August.”