Page 62 of The Last Good Man

A couple of cars are parked on fine gravel in the front, while fairy lights adorn the nearby trees, main entrance, and window sills.

A waterfall of lights shaped like icicles drips from under the eaves, challenging the dominion of gray winter.

Not far from the house, tidy, narrow alleys loop around a lake partly obscured by fog, an arched wooden bridge, and the trees waiting for a new set of clothes in the spring.

I find a parking spot near the entrance, turn off the engine, and open the door.

The silence of this magnificent place is imbued with the smell of earth, crumpled leaves, and burning logs while frozen rain comes down in beads of light.

Despite the grayish afternoon and sun captive behind a blanket of dark clouds, I've never seen something more beautiful.

It’s cold.

Definitely chillier than yesterday, but I don’t mind the shivers rolling down my spine.

The lit windows catch my attention.

A man and a woman chat in the hallway at the base of a stairwell, and to my right, I notice the dining room.

The decor is cozy and nostalgic, the view of a departed world coming to life in my imagination as my eyes move steadily over the linen-covered tables, heavy ornate chairs, Victorian mantle clock, and the two–arm bronze sconces guarding the fireplace.

Floral centerpieces enliven the tables, and paintings hung on the walls. It’s too early for dinner but not for an afternoon snack.

Maybe tea, pastries, and finger sandwiches.

At least, that’s what I crave.

Two. No… Three tables are occupied.

A young mother with a little girl sits next to the window. She keeps looking at the hallway as if waiting for someone to join her.

An older man sits alone at a table nearby, his head tilted down, his eyes pinned on a bookin front ofhim.

And then an older woman chats on the phone, bringing her drink to her lipsfrom time to timeand peppering her conversation with tiny bursts of laughter.

She makes me smile.

“Miss Hill?”

The man I spotted in the hallway walks out of the house with a big umbrella and a smile on his face as I rise out of my seat, collect my raincoat, and put it on.

His white hair sets a nice contrast to his blue eyes.

“Mr. Stone?”

He gives me a soft nod.

“You can call me Herbert.”

“Nice to meet you, Herbert.”

We connect hands.

“Same wise.”

“We spoke on the phone, right?” I say, retrieving my things from inside the car while he’s waiting patiently with his umbrella hovering over our heads, protecting us from the damp mist rolling over the lawn in waves.

“Yes. Once. The other time, you spoke to my son.”

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