A Different Blue(56)

“See? He's brilliant. No harm done.” Wilson marched out of the house. Colby slumped down into

the recliner and closed his eyes. The fun was all over. I pulled the basement door shut behind

me and ran after Wilson. He lifted his cello out of the back of Mason's truck.

“His keys are on the dash, but I've locked the doors. It will serve him right if he doesn't

have another set. I'm hoping it will slow him down if he and his chum decide to rescue anyone

else tonight, or, even better, come looking for you.” He glowered at me briefly and transferred

his cello into my truck. He climbed in the passenger side, and I slid behind the wheel, angry

because he was angry. I peeled out of Mason's driveway, my temper flaring with the squeal of my

wheels.

“It's not my fault you locked YOUR keys in YOUR car. That had nothing to do with me.”

“Please, just take me home. I smell like beer and pizza vomit. #16 – Blue has horrible taste

in mates.”

“Are all Brits this miserable around midnight, or is it just you? And what did you do back

there anyway? You are a school teacher and you play the cello! You are the biggest nerd I know.

You are not supposed to know Kung Fu.”

Wilson scowled at me, apparently not appreciating the nerd comment.

“I honestly don't know what I did. It was pure luck. I just popped him in the jaw. He went

down.” We were both silent, contemplating the odds. “It felt bloody amazing.”

Startled by his admission, my head snapped around and my eyes found his. I don't know who

started laughing first. Maybe it was me, maybe it was him, but within seconds we were wheezing

and howling with laughter. I could barely drive, I was laughing so hard. And it felt bloody

amazing.

I ended up taking Wilson to his house to retrieve his keys and then running him back to the

school to get his car. He lived in a big old monstrosity that he was remodeling. Most of the

newer homes in the Vegas area were stucco, and you would be hard pressed to find a handful of

homes that were bricked. But in Boulder City there was less rhyme and reason, more old than new,

and less community planning.

Some older structures still dominated Buchanan Street, where Wilson's house was located.

Wilson's home had been listed with the historical society until lack of funds made it impossible

to maintain. Wilson told me it was a heap when he had purchased it a year before. I informed him

it still was, smiling to take the sting out of my words. But I could see the appeal.

It was an enormous red brick, done up in a style that seemed more suited to a college campus

back East than a neighborhood in a small desert town. Wilson said everything in England was old,

and not just seventy years old, like this house, but hundreds and hundreds of years old. He

didn't want to live in a home where there wasn't any history, and his home had as much history

as you were going to find in a Western town. I should have known.

As we walked up the front steps, I noticed he had placed a small plaque by the door, the kind

with gold lettering that usually states the home's address. It said Pemberley. That was all.

“You named your house Pemberley?” The name was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

“It's a bit of a joke,” he sighed. “My sisters thought it would be funny. They had it made

and Tiffa surprised me on my birthday. I keep telling myself I'll take it down, but . . .” His