Kathleen O'Brien - The Redemption Of Matthew Quinn

Yes, it was Florida—with his sister’s smothering solicitude and his brother-in-law’s silent disapproval—or it was some quick, anonymous job like this one.

So he’d gotten up early, called his sister to tell her he was fine but that he was taking a summer job up here, to give himself time to think things over, time to clear his head.

And then he’d driven straight to Summer House.

But apparently he was too early. Natalie had left a note on the front door, in that same frilly calligraphy that had led him to her in the first place.

“Darn! I missed you!” the note said, and Matthew could almost hear her voice in the exclamation points. “Follow signs to pool house and settle in. Back absolutely ASAP.”

He followed the silly pink sticky notes, which were affixed every few feet to whatever was available—outstretched hands of statues, terra-cotta pots, tendrils of ivy. They led him toward the eastern side of the house, through the mildewed grotto— God, what a wreck!—and out toward the monstrous, dry hole in the ground that had once been the lavish swimming pool.

He paused there, peering in, noting its broken, cavernous walls and steeply sloping floor. An elaborate mosaic had been inlaid into the finish, but so many small pieces were missing that it looked like a half-done jigsaw puzzle, and Matthew couldn’t quite tell what the picture was.

Good grief, he thought, shaking his head. The place was even worse than he’d thought. He definitely should have said no. The best handyman in the world couldn’t help. Natalie Granville should just rent a bulldozer and start over.

The pool house was on the far side of the cracked deck and it was, predictably, just as run-down as the rest of the crazy old mansion.

His duffel bag held lightly in one hand, Matthew stood before the beautiful ruin. It reminded him, with its marble columns and formal pediments, of a small, abandoned temple.

Mold mottled the walls. Early-morning sunlight streamed through holes in the roof, spotlighting foot-high weeds that grew up in the cracked floor tiles. And two of the three white columns had curiously jagged missing chunks, as if a dragon had sampled them for lunch.

It was picturesque and broody and probably uncomfortable as hell. Oh yeah, he positively should have said no.

But Natalie’s final pink note fluttered on the front door.

Hurray! You found it! The words were followed by three more exclamation points and a smiley face. “Welcome home!”

He peeled the note off and held it in his hand, shaking his head in silent amazement. Where on earth did a woman like Natalie Granville, who should have been thoroughly oppressed by her dilemma, find so much enthusiasm?

And besides, Summer House wasn’t his home. He didn’t have a home.

“I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

He turned toward the sound of the voice. It was Natalie, looking clean and sober and surprisingly professional in a pale blue linen suit. In fact, she looked so different from the disheveled, half-naked eccentric who had fallen into his arms that at first he hardly recognized her.

Nothing could change the fact that she was beautiful. But all these efforts to look “normal”—the young exec uniform, the safe pink lipstick, the curls scraped back and tamed into a tight ponytail—took away some of her quirky magic.

What a shame. He had kind of liked her drunk and disorderly.

But just then the balmy summer breeze kicked up, and a few of those soft, shining corkscrew curls lifted free. She wrinkled her nose and, with a sheepish smile, yanked the clip from her hair. Then she bent down, peeled off her high heels and flexed her bare foot with a relieved groan.

“God, I hate shoes. Don’t you?” She turned toward him and grimaced. Somehow she even managed to make a grimace look cheerful. And suddenly he realized that the magic was still there. It would take more than a linen suit to make Natalie Granville “normal.”

“Don’t let the mess out here scare you off,” she said. She dropped her purse and shoes on the broken flagstones and reached out to take his hand. “I didn’t get to the outside yet. But wait until you see inside. It has a few good points, I promise.”

Before he could protest, she pulled open the door and led him into the cool interior. She bustled around, apparently nervous, flicking at imaginary specks of dust, nudging picture frames a millimeter to the left or right, smoothing the fall of curtains around the picture window that looked out onto the spectacular mountain view.

The place was bigger than it appeared from the outside. It was bright and airy and smelled of fresh paint. Natalie had left all the curtains open wide, and all the lights on, too. For a moment Matthew wondered whether she guessed how much he valued sunshine these days.

“It’s not perfect, of course.” She smiled at him, wrinkling her nose again. “The pictures are hideous. The roof needs some attention, but rain’s not actually dripping in yet. And it has a fabulous, very modern Roman bathroom. Which is more than I can say for the main house.”

“It’s fine,” he said, meaning it. He didn’t give a damn about the pictures.

She looked around, obviously searching for a few good points to mention.

“Oh, yes! I forgot to explain about the bed.”

It did need explaining, he had to admit. A huge walnut four-poster, it dominated the central part of the room. It faced the picture window, and the sunlight exposed an elaborate jungle of birds and butterflies and snakes carved into every inch of exposed wood.

“I know it’s a little big for this place, but it’s a fantastic bed. Rumor is my great-great grandfather won it a hundred years ago in an arm-wrestling contest with the king of Tahiti.” She smoothed the soft white bedspread. “The king was only twelve at the time. Doesn’t really seem very fair of my grandfather, does it?”

Matthew smiled. “Or very smart of the king.”

She looked up. “That’s exactly what I’ve always thought,” she said happily, as if delighted to discover they shared a common outlook on something so important.

“Anyhow, it’s comfortable, which is why we’ve always kept it, even though it eats up all the space. But let’s see…other than this main room, there’s a kitchenette, which is pretty awful, and the bathroom, which, as I said, is fantastic. In fact, we used to wonder if my grandfather used to have assignations down here. Great bed, great Roman tub…and almost nothing else. Makes you think.”

He smiled. Sounded pretty good to him.

“Time for a full disclosure, I guess. The left burner on the stove won’t heat. You have to jiggle the handle to make the toilet stop running. The overhead light in here makes a hissing noise when it rains. And the faucet in the kitchen sink has a very annoying tendency to drip when you’re trying to sleep.”

She sighed, apparently having come to the end of her litany of drawbacks. “I’m sorry.” She gave him a tilted smile. “My only hope is, I figure it’s got to beat prison, right?”

Matthew had hardly been listening. He’d been looking out the window, enjoying the limitless expanse of blue sky and the way the green oaks and hemlocks seemed to swarm down the mountainside into the cozy hamlet of Firefly Glen. But her last sentence got his attention.

He turned around slowly. “Beat prison?”

“Oh, dear.” Natalie’s high brow furrowed and she twisted a curl in her forefinger. “Maybe I’m being stupid. I should have realized. You probably were in one of those country club prisons, weren’t you?”

For a second he didn’t know how to answer. Except for his parole officer, Natalie was the first person since his release to say the word “prison” in his presence. Everyone else, even his sister, had locked it away with other shameful words you’d never mention in polite society, like hemorrhoids or cannibalism or incest.