The Romeo Arrangement

Goddamn, do I resist the urge to sink my teeth in.

“I’ll take a look after lunch,” I promise.

Tobin kept it simple. He’s a skilled chef, and the kind of lunch he’s assembled probably could’ve been put together in his sleep. Doesn’t mean it’s any less tasty.

We tuck into butternut squash soup and sandwiches piled high with ham, salami, several different cheeses, greens, and a sweet citrusy sauce I can’t pronounce. It doesn’t take us long to eat, and then I invite Grace to join me in my office so we can go over the sketches she’s created.

Tobin already knows to bring an extra meal out to the cabin for Nelson, whenever he wakes up.

At first, I’m impressed by her ability to draw.

At second glance, I’m more awed by what she’s suggesting. The additions and notes she’s included in her drawings are minimal, subtle, but if the real thing looks anything like her drawings, this house is going to pop with color.

She’s taken the flower theme and run with it. It’s thoughtful, vibrant, warm, and makes me think it’ll do a lot to chase away next winter’s blues if she can pull it off.

“I like what I’m seeing,” I tell her. “How long will this take?”

“Well…it’s really just a matter of placing a couple of orders online and waiting for it all to arrive. I know a few vendors that have top-shelf products at reasonable prices. And they even ship to the boonies. They’ll get it right to your door and then it’s just a matter of putting things where they belong.”

“If the damn snow melts so we can get deliveries,” I grind out, still flipping through the sketches she’s made of each room.

Her additions are natural. Rustic.

Not all silky flowers in the less trafficked rooms, but decorative vases of twigs and straw, bowls of pinecones, things to bring the outside in, just like she’s suggested.

Keeping fresh flowers alive is a feat for most people. For me, it’s simple when Tobin won’t let a single ant invade the house, but I appreciate the fact that she kept her plan relatively low-maintenance.

I like it a hell of a lot.

“Supposedly, spring’s right around the corner,” she reminds me.

I snort. “Tell it to my buddy, Faulk. He warned me winters in these parts linger sometimes until damn near early May. It’s about as bad as Alaska.”

“It’s warmer today. I heard something dripping out there earlier. Seems like the sun is already doing a good job on the snow. Maybe we’ll have a thaw after all.”

Hmm, she’s right. I’d noticed the melt earlier, falling off the roofs and widening the areas I shoveled.

“Which brings us to the next issue,” I say. “Mud.”

Her oval face scrunches in.

“That’s the downfall of spring,” she says. Somehow, she still sounds cheerful about frigging mud, which makes me want to laugh. “What’s that smile for? The earth needs the water. Mother Nature has her way of balancing things out.”

“You like nature, don’t you?” I ask, fully aware of the smirk I’m wearing. “It’s evident in all these drawings.”

Her cheeks flush slightly.

“Yes, I do. I prefer to decorate with organic things.”

“Bringing the outside in,” I say, recalling how she’d said that earlier while we were walking the horses and knocking around ideas.

“That’s right. I’m glad you were listening,” she says, returning my smile.

I’ve never really had that.

L.A. is full of manufactured things in all aspects, right down to the manicured palm trees and picture-perfect lawns. Even the organic trends end in plants on leashes. They don’t call Southern California la la land for nothing when you find a scene out of a too-perfect dream just by turning your head.

Flipping to another page, I see faint lines where she’s erased some sketches. She’s across the desk from me, so I spin the book around and push it at her.

“What’d you erase here? In the front entryway?”

She doesn’t look at the page, but flicks her eyes away from me. “I, well…I considered adding a few antiques to that area, an old mirror or clock, but I changed my mind. I was afraid it might take away from…”

I see her throat moving as she swallows.

“You can say it. My mother’s picture. The memorial.” My fingers rap the desk softly.

I see her nod, slowly and carefully.

The painting is huge, rather imposing with the marble half table and a huge vase of yellow roses. It probably does look like some sort of freaky shrine, a mini funeral parlor.

I’d meant to honor her memory, not relive her interment every damn day.

Now I’m wondering if that’s necessary.

That little setup isn’t making me remember things any differently. It’s not preserving happier times, when she’d pull me onto her sets and laugh with the camera crews while they pretended to film me as a boy, chasing other actors around.

Nor is it paying homage to her as I hoped it might.