Deck the Halls

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong?” she echoed shrilly. “It’s your house!”

“You expected me to take you to someone else’s house?”

“I expected you to take me to your business, one of your garages!”

He stared at her, realization dawning.

“You thought I’d put a washer and dryer in one of my shops?”

“Of course I did!”

He stroked his chin, thinking. Guess he hadn’t ever said that the appliances were at his house, and he had mentioned uniforms and shop rags and dirty garages.

“Never thought about putting a laundry room into the shop,” he mumbled. “Might not be a bad idea. I’ll have to look into that.”

She threw up her hands, clearly exasperated.

“And in the meantime?”

He shrugged. “In the meantime we’ve got what we’ve got, don’t we?”

She dropped her jaw, trying to see, apparently, just how far it could go without dislocating. He clamped his back teeth together and mentally counted to ten before drawing a calming breath and reaching way down deep for a reasonable tone.

“Look, I didn’t mean to mislead you. The thought of putting a laundry room in the shop itself never even occurred to me.”

“And you assumed that I understood you were taking me to your house?”

“Yeah, actually, I did.”

She rolled her eyes at that.

“If you prefer,” he offered grimly, “you can take the stuff to a commercial laundry somewhere.”

“And who’s going to pay for that?” she demanded.

“I will,” he gritted out, hanging onto the wispy tail end of his patience, “but first you really ought to take a look at what my laundry room has to offer and what you’ll have to haul around town if you decide that you just can’t stand working here.”

She turned her head to stare out the passenger window, drumming her fingers on the armrest attached to the door. He didn’t know what else to say, what she expected him to say now, so he just waited her out. After some time she abruptly yanked the handle and popped up out of the car. Vince breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know if his relief stemmed from her cooperation or the possibility that her disapproval was not directed at his home after all.

He killed the engine as she moved around the car toward the walkway. He got out, tossed her car keys to her and followed her along the curving walk to the front door. He didn’t usually go in this way, preferring to park in the garage at the side of the house and enter through the back hall and kitchen, but he’d always admired the professional landscaping. In the summertime the flower beds beneath the front windows would blaze with purple lantana. Now he looked at it all with an especially critical eye, wondering what she thought of it, though why he should care was beyond him.

To put it bluntly, the girl was a charity case, and as prickly as a cactus. What difference did it make whether or not she approved of his house? Or him, for that matter? And yet it did. He couldn’t help wondering why, but when it came right down to it, he was almost afraid to know.

Chapter Four

Jolie tried not to be impressed by the sprawling structure sitting proudly atop the gentle hill, but that wasn’t easy. It rose up gleaming and perfect, like something out of a storybook, with its rock and brick exterior and shining metal roof. The walkway underfoot was constructed of the same red brick and brown stone as the house and was flanked by billowing hillocks of greenery and clumps of a spiky plant that looked like a big, spiny artichoke to her. She didn’t know one plant from another, but she knew money on the ground when she saw it.

She couldn’t wait to see the inside of the place, even if the hair had stood up on the back of her neck when she’d first realized where he’d brought her.

His house, for pity’s sake!

What’d he think, that she would be so impressed she’d just fall all over him?

Not likely. No way. Uh-uh. She had better sense than that, thank you very much.

But, oh man, what a place.

Vince slipped past her on the brick porch, which was deeply inset beneath a tall arch, and jammed a key into the lock, giving it a quick twist. The tall, honey-colored wood plank door, inlaid with artistically rusted nail-heads and iron bands, swung open soundlessly, revealing stone floors and smooth walls plastered in pinkish-tan adobe. The tall narrow windows flanking the door were made of stained glass depicting two spiny cacti in a delicate green with blossoms of rose red.

He stepped back to let her pass, and she’d have wiped her feet before entering if there had been a mat of any sort. As it was, she wiped her hands surreptitiously on the seat of her worn jeans, just in case they were dirty, then tugged on the hem of her T-shirt to cover the self-conscious action. She tilted her head back in the foyer, looking up at least twenty feet to the ceiling, past an elegantly rustic wrought-iron chandelier with cut-glass shades.

To her left was a hallway. To her right stretched a huge room set off by tall arches. It was completely empty except for a pair of light fixtures, larger versions of the one hanging over her head, and a leafy fern that sat on the floor in front of a window covered by a faded bed sheet. Straight ahead Jolie spied the back of a nondescript sofa and the overhang of a bar topped in polished granite.

“This way,” he said, leading her through the foyer and into what was obviously a den.

The sofa sat in front of a massive stone fireplace. Flanking the fireplace was an equally massive built-in unit which could easily contain a television set as large as a dining table. Upon it were a small framed photo of several kids with mischievous grins and a pile of paperback books. The only other furnishings in the room were a low, battered table and a utilitarian floor lamp. At least here the windows were covered with expensive pleated shades in a dark red.

The bar, she saw, opened onto a large kitchen, as did the arched doorways on each end. Louvered, bat-wing doors stood open to reveal an island containing a deep stone sink. Behind it rose enough cabinets to stash away all the cookware usually offered for sale in a small department store.

The brushed-steel fronts of the appliances announced that no expense had been spared in outfitting the space, but the countertops were bare except for a small toaster and a coffeemaker. At the end of the kitchen, surrounded by oriel windows and two doors, one that opened to a hallway and another leading outside, was a dining area large enough to dwarf the small round table and two chairs situated beneath another unique light fixture.

“Who lives here?” she wanted to know.

“I do.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Besides you.”

“No one.”

Bringing her hands to her hips, she stared at him in disbelief.

“You’ve got how many bedrooms in this place, two, three?”

“Four, actually.”

“And you live here all by yourself?”

“That’s right.”

She looked around her, dumbfounded.

“It’s a little bare,” he said sheepishly, and that was putting it mildly. “I really need to get somebody in here to help me do it up right. Just can’t figure out who.”

Good golly, Miss Molly, what she could do with a place like this!

She couldn’t imagine living here, but it was practically empty, almost a blank slate, and she could see just what ought to go where, starting with a pair of big, leather-upholstered, wrought-iron bar stools so company could sit there at the counter enjoying a cold drink while the host prepared dinner. And that island just begged for a big old pot rack, something sturdy and solid, not that the place lacked storage.