Page 59 of Binding Their Hearts

Alice turned up the stereo. Mahler’s Adagietto from Symphony No. 5 swelled in the front seats, and he spared a hand to slide across her thigh in gratitude. Emma would hardly be indiscreet; if Jay meant to keep a secret, she would give nothing away. But Jay might, in his excitement.

Emma deftly guided him through the narrow thoroughfares from Back Bay toward Beacon Hill. A set of wide steps rose to a familiar door on his right.

“We’re nearly past your house, Em.” Easing his foot from the gas, he awaited an indication to park as he scanned the street for a space.

“We’re not going to my home, Sir Smartypants.”

As she blatantly bratted at him, Jay collapsed into laughter. Alice very definitely had a tight grip on her lips, tucked as they were between her teeth.

He exaggerated an exceptionally put-upon sigh. A jest about informing her master would land poorly; he would need to take a different tack. “I’m surrounded by conspirators.”

“Not me.” Alice peered out the windshield. “I don’t know where we’re going.”

“Me neither.” Jay slid sideways, his earnest—and yes, innocent—face appearing in the mirror as he peeked ahead between the seats. “This is all Emma.”

She, of course, sat still and quiet, refusing to give him more details than the necessary instructions. He held his silence; the curiosity pecking away at him would not gain the upper hand.

Seven blocks later, he pulled into an empty space on a one-way street with traditional red-brick sidewalks beneath the small pools of lamplight in front of 19th century townhouses. As he opened his door, Jay followed suit, and they descended upon the curb side to help the ladies step from the sedan.

Digging in her clutch, Emma led them up the sidewalk to a four-story mottled-red brick home with what appeared to be black shutters, though that might have been the darkness of the evening. Marvelous condition. The street was quiet, the lamplight casting a cozy glow, the sort of friendly charm he hoped to give Alice and Jay in their new neighborhood.

Emma produced a key and stepped inside, bringing up the lights as she went. “The owners are away; explore as you like.”

That explained the slight chill. No need to remove one’s coat when the thermostat had been lowered to the bare minimum required to prevent pipes from freezing.

As a space for the ceremony, the house lacked the club’s oversize proportions, although the ceiling did have lovely height—ten feet, perhaps twelve here on the ground floor. He prowled through the space. The owners had clearly done some updating but left the soul of the building intact—the hearths, the millwork, the sweeping oval staircase. The front formal parlor gave way to an expansive dining room and a divine kitchen. A wall of windows overlooked a courtyard. “Garden?”

Emma flipped a switch beside the back door. Exterior lights illuminated a brick patio seating area surrounded by mulched beds awaiting spring. The privacy fence extended to a fair-size shed at the far end of the space. Still, unless their wedding party numbered less than twenty people, the location wouldn’t suit, and Emma would certainly know it.

He reluctantly abandoned the kitchen, so like his own but on a grander scale. And with direct access to the outdoors, and space to grow herbs. He had no such place now. Immersing oneself in the peace of greenery meant visiting a nearby park. The roof deck didn’t allow raised beds for home-grown vegetables.

“It’s practically”—Jay’s voice came from below, down the open stairs—“a movie theater in here.”

Alice answered him more quietly, her words an indecipherable rise and fall of curiosity or encouragement.

He continued around the balustrade, past a powder room, heading upward, and Emma followed. “Finished basement?”

“Redone several years ago, I’m told.” She kept a pace behind, though the stairs were wide enough for two. “The owner is a cinephile.”

After a generous landing, the second floor diverged into even more generous rooms—a library or den with French doors faced the street, and a primary suite swallowed the rest of the space. The attached bath was even more sumptuous than the one at Will’s lake house. The library would require heavier curtains if they intended—hmm.

“Is this a suggestion for a honeymoon, Em? If you’re gifting us a week’s stay, it’s far too extravagant.” Never mind that the timing wouldn’t work; Jay had informed them that their wedding date would be in two Sundays, and neither Jay nor Alice had mentioned taking time away from work.

“If you wanted, I could likely arrange that.” She gave nothing away in her voice, the consummate hostess.

Hunger gnawed at him, and not for dinner. The ample space, the ceiling height, the exquisite architectural detailing—homes with such charms had stayed stubbornly off the market in week after week of looking. Promising candidates on paper yesterday had crumbled to moldy basements, bathrooms the size of public restroom stalls, and small, dark bedrooms with less natural light than they enjoyed now. Another apartment would be simpler. His heart demanded a home.

“But”—Emma shrugged with gentle grace—“you ought to see the whole picture first.”

He climbed the stairs once more and met three well-appointed guest bedrooms, a shared bath, and a common area—a miniature parlor as it stood, but perhaps the space had once been a cozy study for the owner’s children. The house offered plenty of room for a family. Someday Alice would kneel beside a low table, her steady voice rising above excited chatter as robotics kits sprang to life with help from little hands. Jay would double- and triple-check chin straps on safety helmets as he taught the children to stay upright on their first bicycles. In the summers, Henry would teach the children to care for a garden and make fresh meals from the produce they’d grown themselves. His heart beat out its aching rhythm. SOME-day. SOME-day.

A final turn up the stairs—four floors plus a finished basement certainly must give the occupants a workout—and he trembled. The back wall resembled a greenhouse, a full wall of windows and French doors out to what must be a roof deck. “Southern exposure.”

More lights came up, Emma moving to and fro. A kitchenette for serving the deck. Bracketed between a pantry and a closet, a full bath with a skylight. Beyond that, openness. The footprint covered perhaps two-thirds of the lower floors, but the view extended from the front windows through to the wall of glass. A smattering of artistic detritus waited for a painter to return. Empty easels. Blank canvases. Paint-speckled drop cloths.

He struggled to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. “How long did you say the owner would be away?”

Perhaps he could lease this house. A month. Two. The whole of winter, if snowbirds had flown south. Long enough to ease the transition from the apartment and give him time to find his dear loves a home of their own to match this perfection. SOME-day. SOME-day.

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