Second First Impressions(14)

“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.

In his man’s voice, all deep and husky, he asks, “Can I ask about my duties?”

“I think it’d be best if you just brought them up in the interview,” I say, sidestepping both the question and a tortoise. “The Parlonis will be your bosses, not me.”

“But I’d do anything you asked me to.” I don’t know why, but the way he says it flusters the absolute hell out of me. When I don’t reply, he continues in his normal voice, “You’re not going to even give me a clue of what’s coming.”

“I want to see how you work under pressure.”

He lengthens his stride to fall into step beside me. “Don’t worry. My specialty is walking into rooms and making people love me.”

“And do you have a hundred percent success rate?” I expect a grin and an outrageous claim in return, but instead he just looks rattled. I see that his confident mask has slipped. Maybe he’s thinking about his father.

He notices my attention. “You do fine under pressure, too. I know it must have been stressful to have Dad barging in.”

I straighten up my clothes before I ring the Parlonis’ doorbell. “Your dad’s asking your sister Rose to conduct a site review.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry. Pack your bags.” He draws in a deep breath and blows it out, and I know for sure he’s nervous. He’s just a good actor.

The door opens, and it’s Aggie, natty in a pewter pantsuit. Only armchairs and wealthy old women can pull off that kind of thick jacquard fabric. “Renata’s selecting a new costume. Hello, young man.”

I take charge of the introduction. “Theodore Prescott, meet Agatha Parloni.”

“Teddy,” he amends with a smile. They shake hands in a brisk, business-like way. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Parloni.”