“A house I want to show you.”
“In this neighborhood?”
Tackle reached over and took my hand. “Keep an open mind.”
“Houses in Chestnut Hill go for millions of dollars.”
He laughed. “Not all of them.” He slowed the car. “Close your eyes.”
“No.”
“Pretend you’re naked, Sloane.”
“What?”
“Just do it.”
“Oh my God. Okay, I’m naked.”
“Now, close your eyes.”
As much as it had been a joke a few seconds ago, when Tackle used his growly, gravelly voice, his wish was my command.
The car kept moving, but slowly, then stopped. “Eyes still closed?”
“Yes.”
“Do not open them.”
“Yes, sir,” I joked.
His door closed, and seconds later, mine opened.
“Closed,” he whispered as something soft covered my eyes. Whatever it was, felt like silk, and he tied it at the back of my head. “Give me your hand.”
Tackle helped me from the car and, with one arm around my back and the other holding my hand, led me a few feet from it. “We’ll be going up ten steps. Ready?”
I nodded.
“A few feet more.”
“I don’t like this.”
“Trust me, Sloane.”
We stopped, and he removed the silk covering my eyes. “Okay, open.”
I gasped. “You remembered,” I said so quietly I almost couldn’t hear myself speak.
“When my dad asked me to meet him here a few weeks ago, I couldn’t believe it.”
Back when our family first moved to Newton, Tackle and my brother used to come to the park on the other side of the street and play football. It was where Knox broke his neck.
One day, they brought me with them; I couldn’t remember why. My parents had probably asked my brother to babysit.
Instead of watching whatever they were doing, I sat on a bench and stared across the street at the house I now stood under the portico of.
It was dilapidated then, and now it was worse, but when I looked at it, all I could see was its former grandeur.