Second First Impressions

Teddy keeps pace easily with me as I almost run up the path. “What’s with the wildlife situation?”

We come across two golden bonnet tortoises. They are mating. I mean, I’m happy for the species, but, sheesh. In my effort to give them some privacy, I knock into Teddy and pinball into a hedge. He puts his hand on my arm to steady me. We stop and face each other.

“Careful,” he chides, like I’m the clueless visitor. Like I haven’t been here, working my ass off preserving his family’s investment. Now I’m steaming mad. Providence was under the radar. We were forgotten. Now Jerry Prescott is on the other side of the lake right there, taking photographs, delegating, and making new plans.

“Maybe they’re playing a game,” Teddy says, gesturing down at the path where the tortoises are rocking each other’s worlds. “Maybe it’s not what we think.” He wants me to be playful with him.

“The ones with yellow on the shell are endangered golden bonnet tortoises. Please don’t step on any, or I’ll have to scrape them up and fill out a form.”

You wouldn’t even know where to locate that particular clipboard, buddy.

Teddy blows out a breath, looking back down at the office. “That was probably the most humiliating thing I’ve ever sat through. ‘Little baby bear,’” he groans, remembering afresh. “Hey, is that the faintest ghost of a smile at my expense?” He’s still holding my arm and squeezes me gently.

I’m sort of . . . gently panicking? Is that what this flutter-sensation inside is?

He notices my reaction and folds his arms slowly across his chest like I’m a spooked critter. The knuckles peek out—his right hand has GIVE across the knuckles. GIVE and TAKE, oh gosh, why is that making it hard for me to find actual normal words to say out loud?

“I know you’ve been put in a real difficult spot by my dad. Sorry about that. I promise I’ll be out of here as soon as I’ve saved enough. Just a couple of months. This place is kind of something, huh?”

“This place is really special. Come on, let’s get going.”

“Yeah, wait,” Teddy says, in no rush like always. “Let me take it all in.”

Providence is built around a natural lake, fed by streams running down from the steep hill to our right. The dark, scribbly-looking forest isn’t good for hiking or picnic-blanket daydreaming; I’ve tried both. It’s nothing but mosquitoes and Bigfoot manure in those trees. Tortoises slowly graze the banks of the lake, and in the spring the banks have nodding drifts of bluebells and white tulips that I planted myself.

But Teddy’s not taking in the view—he’s looking at the town houses.

“Looking at these houses makes me feel like I’ve got something on

the tip of my tongue. Like déjà vu.” He steps over the copulating tortoises and begins to stroll, looking troubled. “Maybe I dreamed this place.” He looks at the glasses hanging against my chest. “I’ve been having a lot of dreams lately.”

“I’m sure you have.” The dryer I am, the wider he grins. I gesture up at the houses. “Once I tell you, you won’t un-see it.”

Teddy stands in front of the first town house, number 1, home to Mrs. Allison Tuckmire, and he tucks a fist under his chin. He looks cute when he’s thinking. He should do it more often. “Give me a clue. The architectural style.”

“You’re into architecture?”

Shrug. “I like design.” I suppose. He’s completely covered in them.

“Colonial Revival. The double pillars on either side of the doors, the arch motifs over the windows. The shutters and the slate roof. I already gave you a hint earlier, in my brochure spiel. This place was built in the late 1960s.”

Teddy twists his body back to me with a groan. “I can’t take it. Tell me.”

I say, “Graceland,” and he looks at me like the ground has dropped out from under him.

“Graceland,” he repeats with genuine wonder. “Graceland had a litter of kittens.”

I laugh at his perfect description. “The architect who designed Providence was Herbert St. Ives and he was a big Elvis fan. There’s a total of forty kittens here.” I sweep my arm at the huge square of houses surrounding the lake. “This was, once upon a time, extremely modern and glamorous. Now it’s just . . .” I try to think of how to spin it. “Preserved to the best of our ability.”

He rubs his neck and looks contrite. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings at the gas station. I have an incurable case of verbal diarrhea. I get really carried away and you just sparked my imagination too much. But that’s my fault, not yours. I’m sorry.”

I’m speechless that I could spark anything in him at all. We stare at each other, and I realize the part I’d hoped for the most is not coming. The bit where he says, You really don’t look old at all.

The silence becomes too much for him to bear. “I’m guessing everyone here is super rich.”

I’ve heard a variation of this statement from many, many candidates. Resident Protection Shields Up. I walk off. “This way.”

I’m learning that some guys can make you intensely aware of their . . . maleness. I feel like I’m being followed by a T. rex. The pavers make audible granite squeaks underneath his boots. His shadow stretches out in front of us, eclipsing mine. And I don’t know how it’s possible to feel someone’s interest, but the hair tie holding my bun feels loose and my tights roll down my waist a few inches.