The Lies That Bind(13)

Out of nowhere—or maybe prompted by those pretty planted flowers that seem to be a woman’s touch—I feel a pang of jealousy, imagining other girls here with him. I tell myself it’s absurd to be territorial over a guy I’ve never even kissed, as I follow him up several stone steps to the porch. He bends down, finds a key under the mat, then stands to unlock the door. He pushes it open, motioning for me to go inside first. I do, walking into the darkened room as he follows me and immediately sets about brightening the place. He opens curtains and switches on lights, including an enormous wagon-wheel chandelier hanging from the center beam of the ceiling.

    “Wow,” I say, glancing around. I didn’t think it was possible to love the inside more than the outside, but I do. With vaulted timber ceilings and an open floor plan, the room is larger than I expected, but still cozy. There is a kitchen on one side with vintage appliances and a wood-burning stove. On the other side is a stone fireplace with a single-slab mantel. On it sit a pair of pewter candlesticks, the candles melted nubs, and an antique clock, which he goes to wind. The furniture, including a long sofa and two chairs, is made of rough-hewn logs, the cushions covered with a Native American–inspired print. There is also a large rocking chair woven with rawhide, a green military-style wool blanket folded over one arm. To the left of the fireplace is a nook filled with more wood as well as a ladder leading up to a loft. To the right is a floor-to-ceiling bookcase overflowing with books, old and new, hardcover and paperback. I take a few steps over to it, reading some familiar titles, Angela’s Ashes, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, All the Pretty Horses, Beloved. Running my finger along the spines, I say, “Have you read all of these?”

“Pretty much,” Grant says, coming up behind me.

“Wow,” I say, nodding, still looking, spotting a very worn copy of The Secret History, one of my all-time favorites. I point to it and tell him I love it.

“Me too,” he says. “One of the few books I’ve read more than once.”

Grant’s arms are now moving around me, his large hands running down along my hips, then crossing over my stomach. Goosebumps rise everywhere as I turn to face him, putting my arms up around his neck, breathing him in. “I’m so happy to be here,” I say.

“Me too,” he says, then holds me for a few more seconds before asking if I want to see the rest of the place.

    “Yes,” I say, slowly dropping my arms to my sides, beaming up at him.

He smiles back at me, then takes my hand, leading me around the corner. He points into a small bathroom with a clawed tub, then opens an adjacent door and says, “And this is the bedroom.”

I glance around, taking in the details of the four-poster bed, a jewel-tone oriental rug, and two dark chests of drawers serving as nightstands. The décor isn’t a complete departure from the main room, but is a little more Ralph Lauren than log cabin. On the chest closest to us, I spot an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph of a stunning young woman in an etched pewter frame. Based on her Farrah Fawcett hairstyle, I guess that it was taken in the seventies; I also guess that it’s Grant’s mother. As I search for a resemblance, he catches me staring at it.

“Is that your mother?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

“She’s beautiful.”

He swallows and says, “Thank you.”

“This room is beautiful, too,” I say, noticing an old leather-bound Bible on the far nightstand and wondering whether it’s decorative or functional. I file this question away as something else to discuss. There are so many things I want to talk to him about, and it occurs to me that it wasn’t this way with Matthew in the beginning. It’s not that I didn’t love talking to him, but I distinctly remember having lots of awkward silences during our early dates.

“I’m glad you like it,” Grant says as he leads me back out into the main room and over to the ladder. “I have one more room to show you.”

He motions for me to go first, so I do, climbing the rungs, enraptured when I get to the top and see the small loft, like an alcove with a bed built into the wall. There are drawers beneath the bed and burlap curtains tied back on either side. There isn’t space for much else, other than a sheepskin rug, a trunk covered with faded stickers, and a small desk with a bronze task lamp.

    “So. What do you think?” Grant says. “Do you want to sleep downstairs or up here?”

I don’t know whether he’s asking for me, or both of us. Hoping it’s the latter, I say, “Up here.”

I can tell it’s the right answer—and that he meant both of us—by the way he smiles at me and says, “Really?”

“Definitely,” I say. “It’s perfect.”



* * *



—

After we get unpacked and situated, Grant takes me into town for pizza and beer and a game of pool that I badly lose. I’m surprised he doesn’t go easier on me, until he admits he just wants the game to end so we can be alone again. We appear to be the only ones in the smoky bar who aren’t local or over the age of forty—the exact opposite vibe of the Hamptons, which no part of me misses.

On the drive home, we listen to Tom Petty as Grant holds my hand, letting go only when the road gets really windy. Then we are back in the cabin. Home, he calls it. I ask if I can take a shower, and he says of course, giving me a fluffy white towel and a bar of Irish Spring soap, still in the box. Although I hear Jasmine telling me to be quick and low maintenance, I take my time, even washing my hair. When I step out of the shower, I dry off and put on new black lingerie and a pink velour Juicy Couture sweat suit. As a final touch, I spritz my new scent—Clinique Happy—on the insides of my wrists and my neck.