I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(48)

Kay and I start down the hall. I point out the living room to the right and the dining room on the left. There’s a powder room and an empty room farther down the hall, but there’s not much to see in either so I lead the way through the dining room, past the hutch, and into the kitchen.

As we step in, Kay gushes, “Oh, I love these old farmhouse sinks.”

She walks over and runs her hand along the porcelain surface of the sink that’s been there for years. She glances up at the copper pots hanging above the center island, takes in the small table and chairs over by the oven, and allows her gaze to travel to the window above the sink.

The view is of the land behind the house, and since there’s a lot of it I’m hardly surprised when Kay’s eyes widen. “Wow, Chase, all this property is yours?” she asks.

“Yeah, it’s all mine, all the way down to the creek.” It feels weird saying that, like it’s not yet set in these many acres now belong to me.

“Did your family used to farm?” she asks as she continues to gaze out the window. “That’s lot of land for just a big yard.”

I chuckle. A big yard is exactly what it is nowadays. But that wasn’t always the case. “Yeah, my grandparents farmed, a long time ago, back when my grandfather was still alive. That was before I was born.” I gesture to the window, to the gentle slope of land on the other side of the glass. “My grandmother gave up farming after my grandfather died. I think she hoped my dad would someday take over, but he never had any interest. His heart was always in building houses.”

“Well, it’s really pretty back here,” Kay muses, still seemingly enthralled by the sea of green.

I decide we’ve seen enough of the downstairs and lead Kay upstairs. I start to show her the bedrooms along the long hall, opening doors along the way.

The room that was my grandmother’s is just about cleared out. I went through and boxed up most of her things after I first moved back. I put away her keepsakes, and gave a bunch of her stuff to the church for the next rummage sale. That’s what she always said she wanted whoever was left to do with her stuff when she passed, so that’s what I did. But there are still a few pieces of furniture in her room.

Kay glances around and gives me a couple of “oh, very nice” responses, but otherwise doesn’t say much.

Things are the same—mostly cleared out—in the next bedroom we come to, the one that belonged to my father when he was growing up. It’s also the bedroom my parents used when we lived back here when I was a little kid. Cleaning out that room was tough. There were things in there from when my parents were first married. One of the keepsakes I found was a small wedding album, the cover all lacy and white. In the photos, Mom is showing. She must have been about five months along, pregnant with me. I always knew I was unplanned. But, damn, my parents still looked happy. Guess I was a surprise, but never unwanted.

I also found ticket stubs from a bunch of movies my parents went to, and mushy cards they’d given to one another. I just boxed that stuff up and put it up in the attic next to my Gram’s keepsakes.

I give Kay a peek into my father’s room of f*cking memories, then close that door real fast.

“Which one is your bedroom?” Kay asks when we’re left standing in the hall.

“Oh, it’s down there.” I gesture to the other end of the hall.

I lead the way past the bathroom and my grandmother’s old sewing room. My bedroom is simple and basic, not much to see. I got used to living spartanly in prison. There’s nothing on the light-colored walls, no paintings or art, not even my own, though my sketchbooks, filled with my art, rest over on the dresser. There’s a double bed with a pine headboard up against one wall, a bedside table with a clock, and a closet.

That’s about it.

The only bright colors in the room are the blues and greens on the quilt, made for me years ago by Gram, and now folded at the foot of my bed. There’s color in my sketches, lots and lots, but those books are closed.

I watch as Kay takes it all in, the plain wood floor, the bare walls, the complete lack of décor.

“Well,” she says at last, brow crinkled, “you kind of have a minimalist vibe going here, but everything is very tidy.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, you should have seen it before. I cleaned before you got here.”

“So, you’re secretly messy?” There’s a twinkle in her caramels as she asks.

I shrug one shoulder. “Maybe a little—not too bad though.”

Kay continues to glance about, her gaze eventually falling to the sketchbooks on the dresser.

“Are those your drawings?” she asks, all cute-like, her voice excited. “Can I see them?”

I wince. The sketchbooks she’s asking to see contain my sketches from prison, and, unfortunately, I don’t feel quite ready to share them with her just yet. Bad enough Father Maridale flipped through one of them that day at the courthouse.

“Maybe not those books…” My voice trails off.

My girl’s expression gives away her disappointment, so I backtrack. “I mean…you can see them, just not right now.” I run my fingers through my hair. How do I put this? “The sketches in those books are a little harsh, Kay. I’ll let you see them, I promise, just some other day. If you really want to see some of the things I’ve drawn, there’s a better sketchbook in the dining room. There’s a bunch of stuff in there, all recent, and much…nicer.”