Page 13 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
I can’t help but wonder now, why the Spencer family, which by all accounts had a long historical connection to this land, would move and leave this house vacant, allowing it to fall into disrepair.
“Didn’t you ever come back holidays?” I tilt my head to the side, waiting for his answer.
“No.”
I continue to look at him, waiting for more, for some kind of explanation.
Eventually, the long silence forces him to expand.
“My father had a falling out with my grandfather, and we left,” he sighs. “When my grandparents died, my parents wanted no part of the property. They planned to sell it all, but the will stipulated it had to remain in the family. They contested and went to court over it, the presiding judge ruled half could be sold, but half, in the pioneer spirit in which it was willed, should remain in the family.”
“How wonderful for you,” I smile.
“I didn’t know about it until I returned from overseas,” he shakes his head. “I never would have supported the subdivision. I’m an only child, so basically there was no one else who would want to live here. I’d always intended to come back, as my father well knew.”
“I’m sorry then, that I own your family home,” I murmur, “I’m sure this is where you would be more comfortable.”
“I have fond memories of my grandparents,” he shakes his head, “my parents never let me see them again after we moved. Being in their house seems like I’m with them again in a strange way. Renovating their home is paying some kind of homage, I guess,” he shrugs, “and this house needed a woman’s touch.”
As he says this, he points to the home-made rag-rugs on the floor, the cushions, and my amateur paintings adorning the walls.
“You do these?”
“The paintings? Yes, how did you know?”
The other night when you came over, you had paint on the back of your hand.
‘How could you notice that?’
“That would be lipstick,” I shake my head, watching as Orson, hearing low voices, makes his way back down the hall. “I was trying various shades on the back of my hand.”
He stares at me, his eyes moving from my bare lips to my un-made-up eyes and back again.
“You don’t seem like the type to need much make-up,” he says finally.
‘Do you mean I’m ugly?’
“Not for me,” I shake my head, frowning as I consider his statement, “for our clients, at the funeral home.”
“You put make-up on dead people?”
“Yes,” I laugh, “that’s my job.”
“On dead people?”
“Yes, ready for their viewings, so their loved ones see them looking their best.”
“The dead are dead,” he mutters, “they don’t care how they look.”
He shakes his head, and I stiffen and grit my teeth as he bends low to scratch my piglet behind the ears. It would be oh, so easy to attack him now, while he is unguarded, to sink my fangs into the side of that gorgeous neck, push him to the floor and…my God, I’ll bet he would still look fantastic, even in death….
“American Blues?” he interrupts my terrible inner monologue as he raises his eyebrows and walks over to peer down at Buffy and her babies in the box in the corner.
“Yes. I’m keeping them here where it’s warmest. How did you know?”
“Raised them as a kid,” he smiles. “I hope you didn’t leave the male in with them.”
“I did,” I shake my head sadly.
