Five
 “Yes. I’m going to burn the candle at both ends and then take the rest of the year off.” The thought filled her with delight and she burst forth: “If you’re around, maybe we can take a trip. Cabo San Lucas—.” She caught herself and wanted to bite her tongue, realizing she’d let down her guard.
“I own a home here, Sylvie. I’ll be around.” He smiled slightly, and there was nothing lecherous in it. “What if we were just to run away together now? Tonight?”
She laughed. What a funny thing to say. She glanced over and he was laughing too. “Show me your house. I want to see your house.” She slapped her hand on her seat between her knees for emphasis. “I’m curious.”
He looked at his watch.
Her heart sank. “Oh no, not if you have to go somewhere.”
“I’m sorry, that was rude. It’s just—I have to fly out in the morning to Chicago. Please forgive me.”
“It’s okay.”
“No really, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ll give you a quick tour and then take you home.”
“No,” she said, but she was curious. Partly, she wanted to see if there was any evidence he was married and maybe just playing around. Girlfriend—that wouldn’t bother her. Wife—that she wouldn’t tolerate. Partly, too, she wanted to test him a little more before she could trust him.
The house was wonderful. Nestled in a dead-end street high in the hills of La Jolla, the house had a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean. As she and Rob drove up, the house seemed perched just under the sky. If they climbed any higher, they’d be flying. A full moon cast its cool light over clean concrete walks and driveways. Lush vegetation choking the house looked black. Thick walls and hedges on either side shut out nosy neighbors, if there were any. The black wrought-iron gates were open, and in each was welded a large T. The garage door slid open as they approached, and Rob drove right into the garage. “What a beautiful home,” she said sincerely.
“I take good care of it,” Rob said getting out with a jingle of keys. “It represents everything I’ve worked for in my life, and I’m quite proud of it.”
The garage had room for four cars, but only two spaces were actually in use. She pointed to a light blue Italian sports car. Instinctively she felt it must have a feminine owner. “Whose is that?”
“That was my ex-wife’s,” he said. “I’m afraid we had a somewhat bitter divorce, and I got to keep her car.” Before Sylvie could reply, he seemed to anger slightly. He rose up on the balls of his feet and counted on his fingers. “Don’t worry, she got the silverware, the good china, her jewelry, some of the furniture, everything but my gold fillings.”
“I’m sorry.” She felt taken aback.
“No, I’m sorry. That was rude again. No need for you to worry about my old private stuff.”
“Okay. Well anyway, it’s a nice house.” She noted the dark recesses of the garage. Where the other cars would be, there were ceiling-high wooden racks. Some contained stored clothing carriers on hangers, others books, others yet boxes that looked as if they might be full of letters and papers. Along the far wall was a huge collection of wine bottles that pointed outward from wooden slats.
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Copyright © 1996 by John T. Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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