A Different Blue(57)

voice faded away and I let it go. I would have to google Pemberley when I had a chance, just to

let myself in on the joke.

[page]A great deal of work had been done on the interior. The front doors opened up into a foyer

dominated by a wide set of stairs that curved up to the second floor. It was beautiful, but I

think it was the dark, heavy wood that won me over. The floors matched the enormous mahogany

banister that swept gracefully up to the second level, where it became a thick railing that made

a wide circle beneath the vaulted ceiling.

There were two apartments completely finished, one on the second floor and one on the main

level. Another was still under construction, due to be finished shortly, according to Wilson.

The ground floor apartment was occupied by an old lady whom Wilson seemed rather fond of. I

didn't meet her. It was past midnight, after all. Wilson lived in the other. I was curious to

see what his digs looked like but hung back, wondering if he would want me to stay out. He was

my teacher, and almost everything that had happened that night could cost him his job, or at

least get him in trouble, though he had been an innocent victim to circumstance.

He seemed relieved that I didn't come inside but left the door open. I could see that the dark

wood floors extended into his apartment, which he called his “flat.” The walls were painted a

pale green. Two framed prints of African women carrying bowls on their heads hung in the long

hallway leading into the rest of the space. Nice. I didn't know what I'd expected. Maybe shelves

and shelves of books and a high backed velvet chair where Wilson could smoke a pipe, wearing a

red smoking jacket while reading big dusty books.

Wilson exchanged his cello for a second set of keys and a clean shirt and jeans. He hadn't been

splattered by vomit, but he insisted he reeked of it. I had never seen him in anything but

slacks and dress-shirts. The T-shirt was a snug soft blue, and his jeans were worn, though they

looked expensive. He hadn't bought them at Hot Topic. Why is it that you can see money even when

it comes wrapped in a T-shirt and jeans?

“Nice pants,” I commented as he approached me at the door.

“H-huh?” Wilson stammered. And then he smiled. “Oh, uh. Thanks. You mean my trousers.”

“Trousers?”

“Yes. Pants are underwear, see. I thought . . . um. Never mind.”

“Underwear? You call underwear pants?”

“Let's go, shall we?” He grimaced, ignoring the question and pulling the door closed behind

him. He looked so different, and I tried not stare. He was . . . hot. Ugh! I rolled my eyes at

myself and stomped back out to my truck, feeling suddenly morose. I spent the ride back to

Wilson's car in quiet contemplation which Wilson did not intrude upon until we reached the

school.

Before he climbed out, Wilson gazed at me seriously, grey eyes tired in the paltry dome light

triggered by his open door. Then he extended his hand and clasped mine, giving it a brief shake.

“Here's to redemption. See you on Monday, Blue.” And he climbed out of my truck and loped to

his Subaru. He unlocked it easily and gave a little wave.

“Here's to redemption,” I repeated to myself, hopeful that such a thing existed.





Chapter Eleven





Beverly's Cafe was located on Arizona Street in the center of Boulder City, a refurbished