Page 7 of The Homemaker
A turntable sat on a stand below the TV next to a wood crate with vinyl albums. A sweet LambruscoandSinatra? This Murphy guy was quickly becoming my Lord and Savior of what I declared an alternate universe. Bad shit didn’t happen in Fig Cottage because?—
“Oh yesss …” My thoughts sidetracked as I sighed before taking another sip of wine. What a perfect record collection. Louis Armstrong, “Dream A Little Dream Of Me.”
Queen.
Norah Jones.
Paul Anka.
Olivia Newton-John.
Lionel Richie.
Superhost Murphy got laid on the regular. Of that, I felt certain. I giggled, suddenly considering the possibility that Murphy was a woman, not a man. That made more sense.
The wine.
Flawless taste in music.
And so many living plants in such a small space.
Murphy was definitely a woman, so we would become fast friends, and maybe I would never leave the alternate universe.
After selecting Paul Anka’s21 Golden Hits, I padded back into the kitchen for a little more wine. A black cat with white boots eyed me through the French doors.
“Well, hello, kitty.” I opened the door and stepped onto the cedar deck with an L-shaped sectional, rattan chairs, a rectangular, gas fire table, and string lights. A few blooms on a lilac bush remained, offering a hint of sweet floral perfume. The perfect oasis.
I reclined on the sofa, pulling up my white sundress to give my legs some of the glorious late spring sun. Mr. Kitty jumped up next to me and purred the second I ran my hand down his back.
The back door to the detached garage opened, and a dark-haired guy in a blue Minnesota Twins T-shirt, cargo shorts, and white canvas sneakers closed it behind him then paused when he spied me.
I sat up, covering my legs, and smiled. “Hi.”
“You must be Alice.” He grinned so big, it made me wonder if I’d be charged extra for it.
“Um, yeah. I just arrived.” I stared at my wine glass for a second. “Clearly, I’ve already made myself at home. Are you Murphy?”
“I am.” He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one hand while making his way to the split stairs that led to the second level deck. “Welcome. Is everything to your liking? Do you have any questions? Anything you need?” His smile was just as handsome as the rest of him. It all matched his flawless taste in music.
“You’re a guy.”
He chuckled, and it was kind, maybe even a little shy. “Last I checked.”
“Sorry.” I laughed. “Everything about the rental is sospot-on. Too perfect to have been chosen by …” I pressed my lips together.
“A man?”
I returned a guilty shrug.
He scratched his neck. “I think that’s a compliment. What do you think, Palmer?”
“Palmer?” I questioned.
He nodded. “The cat. His name is Arnold Palmer. But we’re guys, so I call him Palmer, and he calls me Paddon.”
“Palmer and Paddon?”
“Like Batman and Robin.”
