Your Perfect Year(52)
“What?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me feel uncomfortable. Embarrassed.”
“Now you’ve really got me curious.”
“Sor— I didn’t mean to.” A flash of guilt flitted across her face.
“Don’t be sorry, just tell me!”
“Okay,” Lisa said, beaten. “I just remembered how a tarot reader once wanted to tell me the day I’d die. And how dreadful I found it.”
“What?” Hannah looked at her in surprise. “You once went to a tarot reader?”
“Not just once.” Lisa looked uncomfortable. “To be honest, I go regularly.”
25
Jonathan
Wednesday, January 3, 5:46 p.m.
“What a fantastic house!” Leopold stood in the hall and looked around appreciatively. “I’ve seen some digs in my time, but this is a place you could photograph for a lifestyle magazine without having to run around with the vacuum cleaner first.”
“Um, thanks,” Jonathan replied, feeling a mix of pride, embarrassment, and concern.
The pride had the upper hand.
He felt embarrassed because the presence of this man in his worn-out army coat was making Jonathan feel like a repulsive snob. Like a glutton who happily tucks into a ten-course meal in front of a group of starving people, and then throws anything he can’t eat into the trash without a care.
The large vase by the door, in which Henriette Jansen had tastefully arranged the fresh bouquet of amaryllis, as she did every week (a tradition introduced by Tina and retained automatically by Jonathan), had alone cost probably as much as Leopold would need for a month’s comfortable stay in a quality hotel.
The terra-cotta floor tiles were, of course, from a small Italian ceramics factory, and the hand-woven runner adorning the staircase to the second floor had been in Jonathan’s family for generations; he couldn’t begin to guess what it was worth.
He had never been so aware of his wealth as in that moment, standing next to a man he had just accidentally fished out of a dumpster. So unpleasantly aware.
But at the same time, this very circumstance caused Jonathan N. Grief to worry. Had he committed a serious error with his spontaneous invitation, or rather his enforced agreement to the suggestion? Was it not extremely dangerous to allow a stranger, a homeless man to boot, into his own four walls? Sure, Leopold seemed likable. But what good would that be to Jonathan when he ended up in his bed with his throat cut? And what on earth did “I’ve seen some digs in my time” mean? Could Leopold be a crafty character who made a habit of inveigling his way into gullible people’s homes? Someone, God forbid, you could never get rid of?
He feverishly wondered if he could come up with a not-too-flimsy pretext for neatly getting his unwanted visitor back outside.
His gaze wandered to the glazed window in the door. In the glow from the outside light he could see snowflakes dancing. No. He couldn’t in all conscience do such a thing.
And the pages Jonathan was still holding in his right hand reminded him that Leopold had undeniably done him a great service.
He could barricade himself away in his bedroom that night—then the worst that could happen would be that Leopold made off with a few valuables. Better than being murdered, at least.
Or he could lock Leopold in, maybe secretly, after he had gone to sleep. The guest room—formerly Tina’s territory—had its own bathroom, so his visitor would be able to see to his bodily needs. It seemed incredibly unwelcoming, though. Well, it not only seemed unwelcoming, it would be unwelcoming.
Even then, unwelcoming was merely a euphemistic way of describing what could more accurately be termed unlawful imprisonment.
“Let me guess!” he heard Leopold saying.
“What?” He looked in confusion at his guest; he realized he must have been standing in the hallway silently brooding for several long minutes.
“You’re racking your brains trying to think of how to get rid of me.”
“Nonsense!” Jonathan N. Grief countered vehemently as his cheeks turned red.
“You are,” Leopold retorted, not looking the slightest bit annoyed or offended—more amused. “It’s obvious from your face, written in block capitals on your forehead. And I can understand it, too.” He laid a hand on the front doorknob. “So I’d best be—”
“No!” Jonathan cried, his voice all the louder for the embarrassment at how bluntly his expression betrayed his thoughts. “Believe me, you couldn’t be more wrong!” He indicated the coatrack almost obsequiously. “Please, take your coat off and make yourself comfortable!”
Leopold’s look of amusement faded. He hesitated and glanced shyly at the jacket and coats hanging by the door. “Are you sure? I’m afraid mine’s rather dirty and . . .” He looked to the floor without finishing.
“Not a problem,” Jonathan said, a little too calmly to be entirely convincing. “Just hang it on one of the free pegs. Then I’ll show you your room.”
“I’m getting my own room? I’d be quite happy with a sofa. Even the floor would be heaven!”
“Feel free to sleep on the guest-room floor if you prefer.”
“No, of course not—I’d love to sleep in the bed!” Leopold replied quickly as he removed his coat and his heavy boots. The socks that he revealed caused Jonathan to swallow hard, as both of Leopold’s big toes were sticking out. But what did he expect from a vagrant? Luxury men’s socks from Hugo Boss, like the ones he wore? Jonathan opened the left door of the hall closet and got out a pair of felt slippers. “Here.” He pressed them into his guest’s hand. Leopold took them gratefully and immediately slipped into them, visibly eager to hide the holes in his socks. “Let’s go.”