Finally I can’t take the silence anymore. “You have a Bentley?”
He chuckles. He’s si
tting on the other side of the seat with his cane between us. The car is so spacious it almost feels like I should be yelling so he can hear me.
“I haven't had it long. I found that driving on this leg some days is painful." He looks at me speculatively. "I don’t remember you being into cars.”
“I wasn’t but you were. I paid attention some of the time.” Our eyes meet and there’s this strangely soft expression on his face, like he’s remembering.
“You always noticed everything. You always seemed to know when I was upset about something.” He looks away, out the window to the traffic rushing past.
Thinking about the past doesn’t help us, it only mires us in all the things we did wrong. I cough and bring us back to the reason why we’re here.
“Okay so you need stuff.”
“I do. House stuff.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything. What kind of stuff do you need? Couches, chairs, dining table. What?”
“Honestly I don’t know. The place came partially furnished and I haven’t cared to do much since then. I’ve been recuperating.”
His hand lands on top of the head of the cane. He toys with it absently as he talks. I’m struck again with the intense desire to know what happened to him. To hear him talk about his life after we parted, as if knowing can somehow erase all the time and distance between us.
“It looks great already just a little empty. There’s no artwork on the walls and the dining area is empty. It feels like a model home, not a place where someone actually lives.”
“That’s what we’re going to fix.”
The scenery outside has changed to a more rural landscape. We pass through an area with large, stately homes and well-manicured lawns. We’re not in Norfolk anymore or at least not any part that I’ve ever seen. The car finally slows and turns on a narrow lane. A large Victorian style home appears at the end of the drive. It looks like a dollhouse.
“Where are we?”
“In West Haven. There’s an artisan furniture store here that my lawyer recommended. One of the things I like to do is buy local. If at all possible, I use local craftsmen and workers for anything I do.”
The scary guy who has been driving us opens my door and I scramble out. There are large oak trees bordering the drive and the air is soft and cool as a kiss beneath their shade. I follow Finn up the drive. A soft bell tinkles overhead as we open the front door.
As soon as I step over the threshold, I feel like I've been transported back in time.
"Wow. This looks like the set of some historical film about the antebellum south."
Heavy drapes, currently tied back with rope tiebacks, adorn the windows. The hardwood floor shines beneath faded rugs that look like they cost as much as the Bentley sitting in the driveway.
The proprietor, a friendly older man who introduces himself as Franklin, takes me on a tour of the main showroom, explaining the significance behind some of the pieces. They deal in antique restoration and they also carry originals crafted by local artists. I wander around lost in fantasy. When I look up, Finn is standing in the same spot by the door. He's not looking at the furniture.
His eyes are all for me.
Finally he makes his way over to where I'm standing. “What do you think?"
I answer honestly. "I think this place is fantastic."
"Now that you've had a chance to look around, has anything caught your eye?"
"Just the entire store!"
He laughs at my exaggerated sigh of pleasure. "If you could have anything in this store you wanted, what would you choose?”
I look around the store, all the choices suddenly three times as tempting now. “What’s my budget?”
“There is no budget. Whatever you want. Just pick out what you think would look good in my place.”