Page 130 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“That is pretty ugly.” He shakes his head. “Maybe they think it’s art or something and didn’t want to get rid of it.”
I snort in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Maybe they left it as a reminder that when your wife gets pissed, hide the hammers and paintbrushes.”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny.”
“Or maybe they left it so that every time one of them comes home pissed or they have a fight, it’ll remind them that they always need to stop, listen to what the other person is saying, have some patience . . . because life’s never going to be perfect, but in the end it’s going to be okay.” He’s got his head angled to the side, and I have to wonder how he made all of that up on the fly.
“Perhaps.” Something feels off here. I narrow my eyes at him as I try to figure what exactly it is.
“What do you think their story is, Getty?”
My smile is automatic at the memory of the night so long ago that started things for us. “Hmm. Newlyweds perhaps. He can’t wait to bring her home, carry her over the threshold, and make love to her on the deck with the moonlight above and the sound of the ocean around them.”
Zander’s smile seems sentimental when he meets my eyes. “My, how much you’ve improved at this game since that first time at Mario’s.”
I shrug. It’s easier to believe in the idea of happily-ever-after now that I have Zander in my life. “Then again, she could be a madam and is going to open the first brothel here on PineRidge.”
Zander’s laugh is sharp as he takes the two steps to the front door. When he presses the handle on the new front door, it swings open.
“Holy shit. It’s open. Let’s look,” he whispers, and steps inside without hesitating.
“Zander,” I half whisper, half shout, my head swiveling left and right to see if anyone’s watching or calling the cops. “Zander!”
When he doesn’t answer, I step hesitantly just inside the door. It’s the new tiled floor beneath my feet that catches my eyes first. The fresh paint on the walls in browns and tans next. And I’m so taken with how this house could be the same as the one I lived in before, my feet take a few steps farther inside.
The kitchen’s been redone with granite slab and glossy white cabinets. The sliding glass doors to the deck replaced with French doors. The mini-blinds switched out for shutters.
Forgetting that I don’t belong here, I keep looking at the beauty that has been restored in this old house. The bathroom gutted and replaced. New fixtures. Crown molding added.
“Zander?” I realize I haven’t seen him. Panic. Then I feel ridiculous.
“In here.”
I venture into his old bedroom and my eyes widen. Not only at the striking image of him standing in the empty room with the sun behind his back. A halo of light around his head. But also because the entire room has been transformed. Bigger windows facing the ocean. Built-ins installed. Shelves and cubbies. Overhead lighting taken down and adjustable lighting put in.
“Zander?” Questioning. Asking. Wondering.
“Yes.” Coy. Smug. Implying.
This can’t be right. You’re crazy, Getty.
But when I turn around to face the wall where Zander’s old bed used to be, the one where we spent our first time together, the hints and inklings I’ve been feeling walking through the house finally come together. There is a huge sign on the wall with three easels set up below it.
And the sign reads GETTY’S STUDIO.
I spin back around, hand to my mouth, heart beating out of my chest. “Zander?” His name again, but this time it’s fueled with even more emotion. Hope. Want. Awe. “Is this really . . . ?”
He takes a step toward me, jaw clenching, eyes so serious. “It’s yours, Getty. One hundred percent yours. I know how much it makes you happy.”
“No. Yes. Oh my God. What did you do?” I reach out to him, needing to touch him to make sure I’m awake, that this is real, so I can process this. And he is real all right, because he takes both of my hands in his and lifts his eyes to mine.
“It all came down to two wor
ds. Grand. Gestures. My mom mentioned them in her letter to me. Rylee mentioned them when I was trying to figure out how to get you to believe me. It was my sign. My moment of clarity. About what you need to feel safe. What I can provide for you.” He shakes his head and smiles softly. “What I can do to show you I know what matters most to you.”
He draws in a deep breath and all I can do is give him the time he needs, because he’s effectively stealing the words from my mouth right now.
