|Publisher:||Penguin Random House LLC|
|Product dimensions:||5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.41(d)|
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Two Family Home
By SARAH TITLE
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.Copyright © 2015 Sarah Title
All rights reserved.
"It looks ... nice."
Lindsey tried her best not to roll her eyes. She was twenty-six after all. Surely eye-rolling at her mom's not-so-subtle snobbery was something she should have left behind in Phoenix with her prom dress and her John Mayer poster.
It was affectionate eye-rolling, she told herself. And it was less out of annoyance, and more for the benefit of Mary Beth Brakefield, surely the most patient realtor in the country. They were only looking for a rental.
And this was the third apartment Mary Beth had patiently dragged Lindsey and her parents to. From the outside, Lindsey thought it looked like the best. Only a few stairs up to the front porch, unlike the last one that had three narrow flights up to the admittedly gorgeous top-floor apartment of a building that reminded Lindsey of an old-timey brothel. Plus, this one had a porch, and the porch faced some very cute storefronts across the street, and rolling hills beyond that. A wonderful place for morning coffee. The house was a duplex on a quiet street, which was a marked improvement over the old-and-not-that-charming apartments near the campus of Pembroke College.
The front yard could use some work, but it was so small that she wasn't sure if it even mattered. Maybe a shrub. A shrub and a lawn gnome.
"The owner of the house lives next door," Mary Beth said, gamely ignoring her mother's attitude. "He's very quiet."
"What does he do?" Lindsey's father had his measuring tape out, ready to assess.
"He's an artist."
Lindsey's mother's eyes lit up, then down. "Oh?" Her mother had some artist friends in Taos. Lindsey imagined she was concerned about her daughter living next door to a free-spirited, bad-at-responsibility guy. What kind of bad influence would he be on her impressionable daughter? Her impressionable, twenty-six-year-old, professional nurse daughter who had repeatedly demonstrated her sound and responsible judgment?
But that's what happens when you grow up in the bosom of a tight-knit family, Lindsey mused, and never leave that bosom. Her mom had spent so much time thinking she was making Lindsey's decisions for her, she didn't realize Lindsey had been perfectly capable of making her own.
Bad decisions aside, a free-spirited artist sounded kind of cool. Not at all what she was expecting from small-town Kentucky.
Good. She was ready to be surprised by life. That was why she was doing this.
"He keeps to himself," Mary Beth said. "I think he converted the garage into a studio."
"You think?" her mother asked. Lindsey pursed her lips to keep her eyes from rolling.
"Well, like I said, he keeps to himself. I don't think anyone but he has actually been in there."
"I don't like the sound of that ..." Lindsey's dad began.
"Oh, he's perfectly safe. And very nice. I've known him for a while." Lindsey hadn't known Mary Beth for long, but she recognized a fib when she heard one. "He's just kind of secretive about his work."
"I don't like the sound of that, either," Lindsey's mom muttered, and Lindsey did roll her eyes this time. Because she knew her mom didn't mind that the guy was secretive; she didn't like the fact that her daughter was impossible to keep secrets from.
So what if Lindsey had dogged determination and unflinching curiosity? Wasn't that part of her charm?
Even if the enticement of a mysterious garage artist hadn't been there, when Lindsey walked in, she knew this was the place for her.
The hardwood floors were old, but in pretty good shape, and just begging for a small, bright area rug. The walls were a pleasant, neutral color—eggshell, if she remembered her paint samples correctly. Not very exciting for an artist's apartment, but serviceable for an artist's tenant. Besides, she was no artist. The living room and kitchen were divided by a half-wall that also served as a very charming breakfast bar. Upstairs was a good-sized bedroom with a giant closet (yay), and a bathroom with a giant claw-foot tub (YAY). Mary Beth pointed out the laundry room downstairs—not coin-operated, Lindsey was very pleased to see. Laundry "room" may have been generous, but there was enough room for the washer and dryer and a small shelving unit, and it apparently had its own closet.
Her dad tried the door. "Locked. What's in here?"
"Oh, that leads next door to Walker's apartment. The landlord."
Her mother's eyebrows shot up in alarm.
"It stays locked," Mary Beth reassured her. "And you can keep the chain on. Walker insists he's never used that door. It's just one of those peculiar things in an old house."
"That's perfect for you, Lindsey. You and your peculiar old houses."
Her mom was still a little sore that Lindsey hadn't gone for the newer, modern apartment building. But it had no character, and it was awfully close to campus. Lindsey got the feeling she would be the oldest tenant there. And then there was the sharp smell of someone smoking something that was not legal to be smoking in Kentucky. Mary Beth, whose husband was the Willow Springs Chief of Police, had rushed them out of there pretty quickly. It was pretty much the only reason Lindsey's mom hadn't gone out and signed the lease for her right then and there. Even though Lindsey was an adult and could make decisions on her own, Mom.
Lindsey did love a peculiar old house. Especially because this one was so different from the modern houses of their neighborhood outside of Phoenix, the McMansions, with their high ceilings and big, blank walls. This Kentucky house was humble and, divided in half, felt cozy.
These things were great, but Lindsey was really sold by two features: the fireplace in the living room, which reminded her that she was at last going to live in a place with seasons, and the view from the kitchen window out onto a small deck and a big backyard.
It looked like there was some semblance of a garden in the backyard. Lindsey had always wanted to try gardening, and this one looked like it could use some work. Mary Beth told them that the garden was the bailiwick of the previous tenant, and she was sure she would be able to convince Walker to let her try to restore it.
"Tomatoes," Lindsey said dreamily.
"You have to admit," her dad said to her mom, "the place does seem to suit her."
They followed MB out into the yard to get a closer look at the future home of Lindsey's tomatoes. And, though Lindsey kept this thought to herself, to sneak a peek at the garage-studio behind the overgrown garden.
Walker kicked the mud off his boots as he entered the pass code, then stepped back as the garage door opened. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, but he didn't turn the overheads on. It was sunny out, which was a nice change after a week of rain. He wanted to use the natural light today, and stepped carefully toward the curtains covering the big window. He took another grateful moment to appreciate this weirdly laid-out property, and the peculiarities of the previous owners. Who put big windows in a garage? Besides someone who wanted to convert it to an art studio.
Thank goodness for weirdos.
Before he could completely throw back the curtains, though, a movement in the yard stopped him.
Mary Beth had left him a message saying she was going to show Myron's apartment. He hadn't called her back, but they had already established that if he had a problem, he'd call. If not, assume it was okay.
Which worked great when he didn't forget about appointments.
He didn't need to meet the new tenants, anyway. He trusted Mary Beth's judgment. He trusted her to find someone quiet; beyond that, he didn't really care. He just wanted them to pay their rent and leave him alone.
Mary Beth told him that she was not comfortable with that level of responsibility, so he compromised: if he were home, he'd meet the tenant.
He shut the curtains.
He was not a petulant misanthrope, he reminded himself.
Despite what Myron said.
He just didn't like meeting people, not if he didn't have to. What was the point? These people might not even move in and then he would've wasted precious facial muscles forming a smile he did not mean.
But maybe they would move in. That piqued his curiosity. Not enough to go out and meet them, but enough to peek out the corner of the window.
He recognized MB, wearing those ridiculous high heels of hers, leading a middle-aged couple down the deck stairs to the yard. The woman followed closely behind MB, her mouth pinched in disapproval. Probably at the mess that was left of Myron's garden. So Walker wasn't good with actual plants. What was he going to do, pave over it?
He tried not to picture Myron's reaction to that.
The man of the couple paused on the middle step and jiggled the handrail. Walker knew it was solid—he had reinforced it a few months ago, when he thought Myron would be staying. Apparently, the guy was satisfied because he followed his wife into the yard, all while fiddling with a measuring tape.
He was so distracted by the couple's interaction that he didn't see her come out of the house at first.
She was small. When she got down the steps to stand next to MB, she was the shorter of the two. And she was curvy, which he knew because the wind picked up and pressed her flowy sundress against her body. It also blew her long, brown hair into a tangle, and Walker watched, impressed, as she pulled the mass over her shoulder and twisted it into a quick braid.
Three was kind of a crowd for that apartment. But he trusted MB, so either they were an exceptionally quiet family—unlikely, as the daughter's laugh echoed through the yard—or the parents were helping the daughter pick out housing. Which was kind of weird, since she looked like an adult. Maybe they were one of those families who did everything together, and the daughter's best friend was her mother. As if to confirm that, the daughter put her arm through her mother's and rested her head on her shoulder. The mother's pinched expression relaxed a little.
He was going to be living next to Pollyanna.
He let the curtain drop.
He had never seen so many people at the house before. It was exciting. He could just imagine how interesting all of those feet would smell. The thought set his tail wagging, and it almost set his legs jumping, but he held back. Sometimes people weren't very nice, and they made him stay locked up in a tight spot and he was not going there again. He would just stay hidden beside the little house, let his tail wag free, and bide his time. He could go out again later, when all the people had gone.CHAPTER 2
Maybe it was crazy to sign a lease and move in without seeing the landlord with whom she would be sharing walls. It was almost definitely crazy, but the fact that her mother was telling her that was not helping.
"You still haven't met him? Honey, it's been almost a week."
Lindsey thought about lying, telling her mother that, yes, she had met him and he was very nice and not a serial killer at all. But she was mature enough to tell her mother the truth, and she needed her mother to accept that Lindsey was mature enough to handle her own life.
"Technically, it has only been three days, which is less than half a week and so not really almost a week at all."
Because Lindsey was totally mature.
"I just wonder what kind of guy rents half of his house to a single woman, that's all."
"First of all, Mom, this house is a duplex. It's two apartments. It has separate entrances. I can't even hear him through the walls. Anyway, the previous tenant was an old man, not a hot and vulnerable idiot woman like me."
"I know, I know. You trust my judgment. Despite all evidence to the contrary."
Her mother sighed. "What happened to the old man?" she asked, and Lindsey was impressed with how deftly she changed the subject.
"He had some health problems and moved in with his daughter in Ohio."
"And how did you get to the bottom of that situation?"
"I just asked Mary Beth."
"So conventional. You're losing your touch, Linds."
"Well, I thought about pulling up the floors to make sure there wasn't a body buried underneath the house, but asking seemed more efficient."
"You really are growing up, aren't you?"
"I just think it's odd that you haven't met this Walker fellow, that's all."
"He's just quiet. And he's busy. He's an artist. He probably has a show coming up."
"And you're not the least bit curious? You?"
Lindsey knew her mother was teasing, but also that she was not. She would be uneasy until she had confirmation that her daughter was not living next to a convicted serial killer, and this wouldn't be the first time she'd used Lindsey's nosiness to get the scoop for herself.
It was bad enough that, the night before her parents left to fly back to Phoenix, they sat her down and had a Serious Conversation about how they were proud of her and they knew she wanted to spread her wings a little, but wouldn't she prefer if they put a down payment on a condo in Phoenix to tide her over until she could find a job a little closer to home?
She didn't. She expressed her gratitude—again—after they helped her unload all the stuff stuffed in her hatchback into her new, cute apartment, and she got them safely to the airport. Then she went home to the fireplace and the shabby garden and the mysterious neighbor.
It wasn't that Lindsey wasn't curious. That was why she had Googled Walker Smith before she had even unpacked her underwear. And, of course, went right to the images.
There were a lot of Walker Smiths, none of whom fit the criteria she got from Mary Beth. So Lindsey used skills honed by years of insatiable curiosity (not stalking) and searched for "Walker Smith, Kentucky." The search results didn't include any people at all. Instead, there were pictures of metal sculptures, harsh-looking landscapes jutting from gallery walls. Kind of cool. But not really an insight into the guy next door.
"I don't know about this, Linds ..."
Lindsey could sense that her mother was about to go into one of her here's-how-I'd-handle-the-situation speeches, which were really this-is-what-I-expect-you-to-do speeches. Logic was no match for her mother's well-meaning paranoia, as Lindsey knew. She tried for redirection.
"Hey, remember that church across the street?"
"Are they snake handlers? I knew it."
Oh my god, Lindsey thought. I am never letting her back to Kentucky. She'll offend everyone.
Or she should come here more often to get rid of some of those ridiculous stereotypes she was harboring.
No, probably better just to keep her out of the state.
"It's not a church at all. It's an antique store."
That was a little generous, but "junk shop" didn't sound like the kind of thing that would calm her mother down.
"I found the cutest couch. It's blue! Blue velvet!"
"What? Lindsey! We told you we would buy you furniture!"
"Okay, well, you can send me fifty bucks."
Her mother sighed. Again. "Well, at least it was a bargain."
"That's big of them. Across the street. Are you sure you can trust those delivery people?"
"Fine. I just worry about you being murdered in your sleep."
The thought had crossed Lindsey's mind—however much she did not want to admit it, she was her mother's daughter. But Lindsey had checked and double checked the locks, used the chains on both the front and the back doors, and even went over the shared wall, looking for holes.
She was definitely her mother's daughter.
But she was confident that this place was safe, and that if it wasn't, she could take care of herself. She had mace, she knew self-defense, and she had the wife of the chief of police on speed dial.
"Anyway, I called to tell you about my first day at work."
"Oh, yes!" her mother said with suspicious nonchalance. "I forgot that was today! How did it go? What did you wear?"
Lindsey laughed. "It was great. I wore scrubs."
"I hope nobody there is too old."
"Well, Mom, it's a nursing home, so there are a few senior citizens."
"I don't know how you can work in a place like that. It's so depressing."
"This place is nice. There are only about two dozen residents, and the two nurses I'm overseeing have a lot of experience. Besides, when you're old and decrepit, don't you want someone like me taking care of you?"
"I better have you taking care of me when I'm old and decrepit. And you better not move me to Kentucky."
Excerpted from Two Family Home by SARAH TITLE. Copyright © 2015 Sarah Title. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
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