The Last of the Stanfields(100)

“Still time to stop over at the dep,” he said.

“Depp . . . as in Johnny?” I asked.

“You wish!” he laughed. “Dep as in dépanneur. It’s what we call convenience stores around here. I don’t have a thing in the fridge at home, and they’re open late.”

“I thought we were going to see your mother.”

“We’ll have to head over there tomorrow. It’s too late tonight, so let’s make a pit stop at my place, there’s plenty of room. I’ve had my fill of hotels.”

“Didn’t you say something about your bedroom being tiny?”

“And my studio too big, right you are . . . but I can take a hint. I made sure to tweak the space a little after Melanie left. And don’t worry—even if I am a bear, it’s not like I’m going to drag you off to some cave out in the middle of the woods.”

“I wasn’t worried!”

“Well, maybe a little,” George-Harrison said with a playful grin.

We made a stop at his dépanneur, which was little more than a block of concrete next to a lamppost, with all the charm of a cemetery. George-Harrison seemed like a regular, judging by the firm handshake the guy gave him on the way in and the help we got with our groceries on the way out. I was ravenously hungry, and grabbed items off the shelves without restraint as I walked the narrow aisles. George-Harrison watched all the while, giving me a little side smile that made it clear what was on his mind.

We drove farther into the pitch-black night, until George-Harrison pointed me down a small dirt road. I couldn’t see a cave, but we were definitely heading out to the middle of the woods. Soon we arrived at a clearing at the end of the road, where I could make out George-Harrison’s studio in the moonlight. It was nothing like I had imagined. His ex-girlfriend’s claim that it was “too big” was a gross understatement—it was massive! More of a hangar than a studio, it had a surface punctuated by large windows with metal frames, with a high sloping roof hanging over the sides. George-Harrison grabbed a sleek little garage-door opener out of the glove box. With the push of a button, the entire structure lit up and the garage door opened in front of us.

“Pretty modern, huh?” he said. I pulled into the garage, and the surprises just kept on coming. I realized that George-Harrison’s entire home was actually within the hangar itself. The elegant chalet stood on stilts, with the wooden facade painted a pretty shade of blue. It had a charming deck with a thick railing wrapped all around it, beyond which I could see a table and chairs.

“My bedroom used to be up on the second level of the studio. When she left, I took it apart and built this house in its place.”

“Right. That’s what you mean by ‘tweaked the space a little’? At least now I know you’re not the type to exaggerate.”

“I may have gone a bit overboard. Knowing she was gone for good made me want to keep building the space up more and more every summer, and I guess I never really stopped.”

“What was that, revenge?”

“Something like that. It’s pretty damn stupid considering she’ll never even see it.”

“Well, you definitely didn’t improve your chances by building it inside the hangar. You could at least send her a picture, you know. If I were you, I’m not sure I’d be able to resist.”

“Seriously?”

“We can even do better than that. How about a selfie with me in it? That’d show her.” That made George-Harrison burst out laughing. “It is kind of weird, though,” I admitted, glancing about.

“What’s weird?”

“Most houses are built outside.”

“This way, in winter I don’t have to shovel snow just to get out my front door.”

“And what about taking your dog for a walk?”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Oh, come on, admit it. It’s like paradise for a recluse!”

“Or paradise, period. You don’t think it’s nice?”

“Nice? The fact that you’re a nutcase?”

“The house! You don’t think the house is nice?”

“I do. I also think it’s nice that you’re a nutcase.”

George-Harrison took my bag and ducked into the chalet. When he returned, he set the table for us out on the front porch. We wouldn’t be dining under the stars, but the weather—if you could call it that, since we were inside—was nice enough. The scent of wood wafted through the entire studio, only adding to the feeling that we were out in the middle of nowhere. But not in a bad way.

We were both exhausted from the long drive and decided to call it an early night. George-Harrison set me up in the guest room. It had an understated aesthetic and was decorated in shockingly good taste, far more refined than my place in London. Melanie was an idiot—a man with such style couldn’t possibly be a bear.



The next day, before George-Harrison could stop me, I jumped behind the wheel of the pickup. He did protest that it was his car, but I reminded him that he had done all the driving in Baltimore, and it was only fair. He seemed to get a kick out of my childish and stubborn behavior. We took to the road once more.

After two hours of driving with George-Harrison as my copilot, we passed through a wrought-iron gate and continued down a gravel road toward an elegant residence perched on a hill. The park surrounding the place was empty, the weather far too cold for the residents to venture out for a stroll.