Fluffy(29)

I’ll be on my deathbed, overtaken by dementia, and while I won’t know the name of the current president, by God, I’ll know the exact time on Tuesday afternoons that Will had to mow the front lawn when they lived on Concordian Road and I got Mom to drive me past his house on the way to the mall. (2:30 p.m., before his lacrosse practice).

I pull up to 29 Maplecure Street and look at the house through new eyes.

Without a porn crew bustling about, it’s got a different feel.

Imposing. Manicured. Polished and sophisticated, this is the home of someone significant. This is a showplace, designed to send signals. Financial signals.

Power signals.

Most people buy a home because it’s what they can afford, or for a specific school district or neighborhood. Most people settle into an environment out of a desire for comfort. We use adjectives and phrases that actually contain the word home to describe emotions:

Homey

Make yourself at home It’s like coming home Home is where the heart is





But houses like 29 Maplecure Street aren’t about comfort.

They’re about prestige.

Homes talk. They might not be able to speak directly, but if you’re fluent in Space like I am, you can pick up what they’re putting down. When I came here last week for the fluffer job, I thought I was staging a television show set. I wasn’t looking at the house through the eyes of a space professional working on selling this place.

Now I am.

I grin.

Will Lotham is going to give up that one percent so, so soon.

At the thought of Will, my body tingles, heat pouring into my arms, legs, chest at the instant memory recall programmed into me. See, this is the problem with Will being back in my world: I’ve spent ten years chasing him out of my head.

I evicted him.

Turns out he’s been squatting in my heart.

Who knew?

Okay, okay–Perky and Fiona knew. But that’s because they’re jerks who think they know me better than I know myself.

But they are wrong—

Shoot.

They’re right.

Will’s parents' house, on careful examination, is more than a showplace. Quiet beige dominates the stonework, but it’s done with such fine taste and superb craftsmanship that it commands attention. Together, the architectural designer and the mason elevated the simplest scheme to an artisanal visual feast, with the stonework itself at the center. If you’ve ever been caught off guard by beauty, you know what I mean. I could look at the walls, the steps, the intersection of paths for hours and never be bored.

And that’s just the beginning.

When I arrived here last week for the fluffer job, I was in a different head space. Head space matters. We think of reality as one monolithic state, but it’s actually a prism. Twist in another direction by a millimeter and the world you thought you knew disappears, replaced by a charmingly different–yet disturbingly familiar–state.

The Mallory who walked up this stone path last week is one twist away from the Mallory I am now.

I like the now better.

Combining an appealing, comfortable feel with an eye for power display is tough to manage. The Lothams have done it. Will said his mother managed interior design for the company, and while her own ideas at the office made me cringe, as I punch the key code into the lock and open the front door, I have to retract my doubts. She obviously hired the best to do this house.

It is, simply put, damn near perfect.

Gone is the garish red ottoman. Gone is the strange sofa. In their place, I see neutrals in tones that someone has assembled with a delicacy that is intriguing. Meant to blend in, the layers are all different shades and textures, with occasional soft blues and greens to bring the outside in. The New Zealand wool carpet isn’t there just for show. It’s meant for bare feet to walk on, for the indulgence of treating your sore tootsies after a long day, for allowing everyday pleasure to be factored into design.

Isn’t that supposed to be the point?

Yet only the best design does that, and few people look for it.

Except me.

And, apparently, whoever designed this home.

I said damn near perfect, mind you. The energy is still off, the unused, stagnant spaces making it pool into frustrated ponds of lifeless potential. This house was not meant to be even partly empty. Energy matters. Just like people.

Just like Will.

I move down the hall to the kitchen on the right, and stop dead in my tracks.

There, on the counter, are three items.

A jar of marshmallow Fluff.

A jar of creamy peanut butter.

A loaf of bread.

A note, with an envelope embossed with the initials WJL (William Joshua Lotham, my mind recites, pulling up data I shouldn’t be able to retrieve so quickly but do), is propped against the Fluff.

Ha.

Ha.

With an eagerness I don’t want to admit, I open the envelope and run my fingertips along the slanted handwriting. In high school, Will wanted to be an architect. His penmanship has a draftsman’s quality to it, almost font-like in its squared uniformity.

In case you have a sudden craving.

W

There’s a house brochure on the honed marble counter behind me, printed on heavy paper with gorgeous, full-color photos. It makes a useful fan. I wave it in front of my face, staring up at the beamed ceiling, willing my pulse to re-center itself where it belongs, at my throat.