Family Be Mine (11 page)

H
UNT INCHED OPEN THE DOORWAY
from the garage to the hallway. Juggling two boxes of kitchen supplies, one atop the other, he craned his neck to the side to see where he was going as he made his way to the foyer.

What he saw was Sarah brandishing the beater. He dropped Fred's leash and the dog scampered ahead, circled Sarah gleefully and gave a “hello” bark before racing up the stairs. His paws maybe hit every third step.

Sarah stood there, her arm aloft like the Statue of Liberty. She moved her eyes from Hunt to Fred and back to Hunt. Awkwardly, she lowered her arm. “I didn't know what was going on. Who was trying to get in by—by— What I mean to say is I heard this massive rumbling noise, and I thought maybe—maybe…”

“There'd been an alien invasion?” Hunt asked. “As much as I like the idea of you defending the house by whipping up a quick soufflé, I'm afraid it was just the sound of my industrial-strength garage door.” He tried pressing the switch by leaning into it with his shoulder, but it was difficult to maneuver with precision. “Could you push the elevator button for me?”

“Oh, sure.” She placed the beater on the top box and took it from him. “I wasn't sure exactly what to do,
so I thought I'd just wait. I guess Fred is much more accustomed to the place.”

“Actually, this is the first time he's used the stairs. He must have figured out what they were all about at Ben's.”

The paneling drew back when Sarah pressed the button, and Hunt had her go in first. “I'll get the other stuff after I've shown you to your room. Meanwhile, just press two.”

“Two?”

“Yeah, there's a bedroom and bathroom on this floor, along with the garage and storage and laundry rooms. But one floor up is the living room and dining room and kitchen. We can dump this stuff there.”

Quickly, the small, paneled elevator whisked them up a floor. The doors opened, and Sarah stepped out. “Wow,” she said, looking around, her mouth open.

The open space was a light-filled showroom of white-marble floor tiles, low Danish modern furniture, and industrial lighting. She did a three-sixty, taking in the wall of windows over the shaded side street, before focusing on the rest of the decor. There was a sleek, glass dining table and molded chairs, and a glossy white galley kitchen separated from the rest of the space by a white marble island. The stainless steel appliances were all high-end. And except for the front section of today's
New York Times,
there wasn't a thing—not a bowl of fruit, not a dirty coffee mug, not a box of Cheerios—sitting on the acre of white countertop.

Sarah winced. “I'm not sure my stuff is going to fit in with the decor.”

“I'll just have to call my decorator and have her come over and instruct us where to put everything.”

She looked at him askance. “You're joking, right?”

“I lay awake at night worrying about storage,” Hunt teased. He stepped around her and rested the box on the counter. “Here, let me take that.” He removed the one from her arms. “You can keep your stuff out on the counter if it's easier. It will add to the postindustrial charm of the place.”

Sarah walked over and studied a large abstract oil painting hung above a low bookcase. It was a jumble of drips and blobs. “KitchenAid and Jackson Pollock. I never envisioned the two of them together.” She turned back. “That is by Pollock, isn't it?” She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.

“If I told you I bought it at the same time as a wastepaper basket from Target, would it seem less extravagant?”

“No, but I'd believe it.” Then she noticed the twisted glass lighting fixture over the dining room table. Its undulating tubes of bright reds and oranges looked like a swirling sea creature from a coral reef. She pointed upward. “And that's by that famous glass guy, Dale Something, right?”

“Dale Chihuly, yes. You know a lot about art then?”

“Some. I lived in New York for a while, and going to museums and art galleries on weekends became my guilty pleasure. Well, not that guilty—I stuck to wastepaper baskets from Target.”

Hunt laughed. “We'll have to compare. I'm sure it's charming. Anyway, one good thing about the Chihuly piece—it's up out of Fred's reach. Speaking of Fred, where has the monster gone?” Hunt asked. He glanced around, but didn't have to look far.

“Fred!” he thundered.

The dog was sitting smack-dab in the middle of a low black leather couch, his tail wagging, slapping quietly each time it made contact with the buttery-soft hide. Sarah could just imagine how his nails would go right through with very little effort.

“Fred!” Hunt shouted again. “You know that's out of bounds. Off!” He gave the dog a furious look, and the mutt reluctantly hopped off, only to rush across the floor, up the stairway by the kitchen, then a few seconds later, run down again. He sat up proudly in front of Hunt.

With what looked like a very expensive men's loafer in his mouth.

Hunt winced. “I would say it's wonderful that he's conquered his fear of stairs, but now it only opens up new opportunities to do evil. I have a solution, though. Food! What this dog needs is his dinner.”

“What this dog needs is obedience classes.”

“I know, I know. But first things, first. There's a bathroom down the back—” he pointed over his shoulder “—but the bedrooms are up another flight. As Fred has demonstrated, there're the stairs. Otherwise we can take the elevator.”

“The stairs are fine. Listen, just give me directions, and I can find it myself. That way you can take care of the dog before he destroys something else.”

“Okay, if you don't mind. My bedroom is to the left, facing the side street, but there're two bedrooms down the hall to the right. One's a study, but the other should work for you. It's got a connecting bathroom with towels and toiletries if you want to freshen up.”

Sarah held the brushed steel handrail and trudged up the stairs. She nearly stumbled when she realized
the drawings marching up the wall were the original artwork from
New Yorker
cartoons. She remembered decorating the makeshift bathroom in the illegal loft in Queens with ripped covers from the same magazine.

She reached the top of the stairs. She knew he said to turn right, but she couldn't resist sneaking a peek into the master bedroom. Besides, the door was open.
Maybe I just confused my right with my left,
she said, not really needing to justify her nosiness. She stopped.
Wow!

The master bedroom ran the width of the house and had a wall of glass along the side street and a large platform bed—endlessly large. Only good manners, and the knowledge that Hunt might come up at any minute, kept her from investigating if the sheets were black.

She turned the other way along the hall and spied a smaller room to the right. Streetlamps shone through two long windows and illuminated the outlines of the sparse furnishings. She switched on the lights. Recessed lighting bathed the queen-size bed covered with a puffy, white duvet and a mountain of pillows. There were built-in closets, a low white dresser and a comfy upholstered armchair with a woven throw over one arm. A tall glass vase filled with branches of bittersweet sat on one end of the dresser.

Sarah slipped her small sports knapsack off her shoulder onto the dresser. The room was perfectly lovely, if a little soulless, much like the rest of the house. But it was home for her for the next month or so. It could be worse, a lot worse.

She wandered to the adjoining bathroom that had a glass shower stall with glass-tiled walls. The marble sink was atop a Shaker-style vanity, compact but elegant.
She turned on the faucet and bent her head, cupping the water in her hands to splash her face. She reached for one of the incredibly plush white towels hanging from a heated towel rack and patted her face. Then she faced the mirror of the medicine chest.

She looked like crap. No, not that bad, just exhausted after a long day and evening. At least the twin lights over the mirror were forgiving enough not to highlight her pregnancy pimples.

She left the towel on the sink, not having the energy to hang it back up, and shuffled back to the bedroom. She pried off her shoes without bothering to undo the laces and stared at the bed. It wasn't a difficult choice to lie down.

Sarah adjusted the pillows behind her head and rested one on her belly.
I must remember to get out Quiltie,
she told herself. She yearned for something that was hers.

“What have I gotten myself into?” she asked out loud. She hugged the pillow and stared at the ceiling, the white paint a flawless abyss of minimalist chic, and replayed the evening's events.

Clearly, from his initial comments, Hunt was chafing under the bit. Just as clear was that they were as different as chalk and cheese. This house said it all. And to give him some excuse, she
had
been foisted on him without much choice on his part.

She also knew that for better or worse, they both had to make the best of the situation. She might not be any happier than he was, but Sarah was determined to act civilly until the baby came or preferably, until she came up with another idea. After all, it's not as if by temporarily moving in, she was making any kind of emotional commitment. At best you could describe their
arrangement as roommates of convenience.
That's what we are,
Sarah decided.
Roommates
.

Besides, not to be totally self-centered, he was going through a difficult time, too. She might be about to have a baby all on her own, but he was grappling with life-and-death issues—all on
his
own. Maybe it wouldn't hurt her to reach out to him then, provide some respite from her own self-doubts and fears?

With more effort than she wanted to admit, Sarah swung her legs to the side of the bed and, grabbing on to the side table, swiveled to an upright position. The room swam a little—not so bad this time—and she followed Julie's instructions to take her time before standing up.

By the time she padded down the stairs in her bare feet she saw that Hunt had unpacked her boxes, but the contents lay strewn on the island.

He looked up as she approached. “I wasn't quite sure where to put things. My experience in the kitchen is pretty much limited to pressing the power button on the microwave, using the wine cooler and opening the refrigerator door. Oh, yes, and the freezer for ice.” He picked up her tomelike copy of the Escoffier Cookbook and asked, “What is this? The baker's bible?”

“Don't even joke about something so sacred.” She swiped the book from his hand and rested it safely on the countertop. “Some people jog to relax or do crossword puzzles or watch kung fu movies. I bake.”

“Didn't you ever hear of drinking? Speaking of which, would you care for some wine?” He turned around and opened the wine cooler beneath the counter.

“No, thanks. Alcohol is a no-no during pregnancy.”

Hunt frowned. “Of course. Sorry about that.”

“But you can have a glass.”

“No, that's all right. How about something along the lines of…” He examined various small containers that he'd unloaded from her boxes. “Here's something called ‘Sleepy Time' tea. The bears in the picture on the box look very content, so it must be good.”

Sarah laughed. “Yes, it's my nighttime ritual.”

“Then by all means. I'll just put some water in the kettle. That much I can do. You can get the mugs down from the overhead cabinet by the dishwasher.

“Listen,” he continued as he busied himself filling the Michael Graves kettle from the sink tap and igniting a gas burner on the stove, “I want to apologize for my behavior when we first got here. I think I started freaking out a bit. It's one thing to tell everyone that you're happy to help out, but it's another, once you get home…to realize—”

“That you're actually saddled with a complete stranger?” Sarah lined the mugs up side by side and opened the box of tea bags.

Hunt turned around, took off his glasses and rested them on the counter. “I wouldn't put it exactly like that.”

“But then again…” Sarah glanced around, sensing something was missing.
That's right.
“Where's Fred?”

“He finally succumbed to exhaustion and is asleep on his bed in the corner by the couch.” The teakettle whistled. Hunt poured the water into the cups. Silently, they watched the tea brew.

“Sugar?” Hunt asked nervously. “I'm sorry, I don't have any milk.” He pulled out a slim drawer for spoons.

“No, thanks. I just take it plain. Do you have a small bowl or something I can save this in?” She held up her tea bag on her spoon.

“Here, I'll throw it into the garbage under the sink.”

“Actually, I like to reuse my tea bags since I don't like my tea too strong.”

Hunt looked at her with wide eyes. “I'm sure that's very admirable, a very ‘waste not, want not' philosophy and all. But I think as long as you're staying here, we can afford to go a bit wild and only use them once.” Hunt whisked away her tea bag and threw his away, too. Then he raised his hand toward the living room. “Shall we?”

“Okay.” Sarah took her mug and followed him over. She studied the low, straight couch and the armchair that slanted back.

“I think the couch might be the best bet for you. I can probably find some pillows if you want.”

“That's okay. I've got a few pillows at my apartment that Julie needlepointed for me. Maybe I can bring them over?” She eased herself down on the corner of the couch, and took a sip of her tea.

“Julie and needlepoint? Why does that seem like such an oxymoron?” He sat in the bowed-steel armed chair with a casual grace, and flopped one leg over the other, resting his ankle atop the opposite knee. “Speaking of your apartment, what about getting some more of your stuff, as well. I don't know, perhaps you need another pair of shoes, more flour? That lovely bathing suit of yours?”