The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(60)
“Oh? Buying a house?”
“Afraid not,” he laughed, “just here to inspect the property.”
Abigail was not usually one to pry into people’s business – when someone wanted information of one kind or another, she’d point to the appropriate reference section and that was that, no questions asked – this was different, she wasn’t ready to let this dark-haired stranger walk away. Were it possible, she would have nailed his shoes to the floor, locked the library door and kept him prisoner. “Why?” she asked.
He tilted his head quizzically, “Why am I inspecting the property?”
Abigail nodded, and then leaned across the circulation desk as if she needed to be close to the source of sound to hear his answer. She marveled at how perfectly the curve of his neck nestled into the starched collar, how on this particular day he had chosen to wear a red necktie – red, her favorite color, the color of a heart shaped valentine, the color of roses. He told her, that he was a property inspector working for the Emigrant Savings Bank in New York City; but he could have been reciting the Pledge of Allegiance for as far as she was concerned the words didn’t matter, what mattered was the rush of warmth heating up her body, making her toes curl and her fingers itch to reach out and touch his face. She’d already started imagining him standing before a preacher in a groom’s morning suit when she said, “you’ll need help finding Oak Tree Road, it’s way across town.”
He smiled and having noticed the way Abigail had flung her body at him, asked, “I don’t suppose you’d be – ” Before he’d finished the question, she answered, saying that it would only take a few minutes for her to close up the library. “This early in the afternoon?” he asked, but by that time Abigail had already turned off the lights.
“I’m John Langley,” he offered as they stepped out onto the street.
“Abigail Lannigan,” she answered and hooked her arm through his.
His car was parked at the corner of the block; he unlocked the door and she slid halfway across the seat to a spot that was closer to the driver than the door. When he climbed in and sat beside her, she could feel the rightness of it and started trying out the sound of Abigail Langley in her head.
“Which way?” he asked.
Perhaps she wasn’t concentrating or perhaps it was because Abigail wanted to stretch this moment out for eternity, whichever, she directed him through every side street and roundabout route possible, and only after they’d circled through town twice, did they happen upon the spot. “This is it,” John said when he saw the sign that read: Hanerman Homes – Better living at an affordable price.
The only thing Abigail saw was an endless stretch of wooden framework structures. “This is it?”
“It will be. This is the first stage.” He parked the car on the side of a dirt road, got out, and started walking. She scrambled out behind him and followed along. “You may want to wait in the car,” he said, “it’s pretty messy back here.”
“I was raised on a farm,” she answered, not wanting him to think her a limp lily, “Why, I’m capable of climbing the side of a mountain.”
He laughed out loud, then reached back and took hold of her hand. “I didn’t mean to infer that you couldn’t, I was just thinking you might not want to get your shoes dirty.”
As they walked, he counted the structures, one hundred and twelve in all. Three times he climbed up onto the flooring platform of a particular house and each time she went along. “See,” he’d say, pointing to a strip of framework, “that’s the living room wall and this here will be the bedroom.” Or, when they were standing in what would someday be the hallway he’d point out a tiny closet or the kitchen. Abigail thought for certain he was leading up to the part where one day they’d be living in one of these houses, which would be fine to start, but she was planning on three maybe four little ones, which meant they would eventually need a bigger house.
Once he’d finished writing up his notes, John asked if he might take Abigail to dinner to repay her kindness. “Why, of course,” she answered but told him that they’d have to first stop by her apartment so she could change her muddy shoes.
That evening they went to the Tivoli, a restaurant so fine the waiters were required to dress in silk tuxedos and carry dainty linen towels across their arm to scoop away a droplet of wine if it lingered on the lip of the bottle. The moment Abigail stepped across the threshold, she wished she’d taken the time to polish her fingernails, maybe freshen her make up and change her dress as well – it would have taken half-a-minute at most, yet she’d rushed out the door wearing a cotton frock that now seemed downright dowdy. “Oh dear,” she sighed.
The waiter seated them side by side on a banquette, then brought a bottle of champagne and filled both glasses. Abigail had not had champagne since the close of Club Lucky, so it spiraled to her head and caused her to flirt in the most outrageous manner. While John was explaining how the Emigrant Bank lent money to developers all along the eastern seaboard, she hooked her foot around his ankle and as he elaborated on how this building of moderately priced homes was the wave of the future, she pressed her thigh against his. At the mere mention of the fact that he expected to be in Richmond on a regular basis, she smiled and tilted her face upward in such a way that it appeared a heartbeat shy of an invitation to press his lips to hers.