Lineage(64)

After deliberating for over five minutes, he decided he needed a shower, regardless of his destination afterward, and headed to the bathroom upstairs. The hot water washed away the grime of the past twenty-four hours, and with it, his reservations.

As he dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a light T-shirt, he resolved that he would hear what John had to say and glean as much information as he could from the elderly man. He reminded himself that hardly anything was ever what it seemed, as he pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge and slammed the door. He needed only to think of the rough-looking gun-store owner he had met today to verify that intrinsic truth.

The ride to John’s house was quick and lacked the vengeance of his prior visit. As he pulled the Land Rover down the long drive, he noticed how truly beautiful the setting was. The afternoon sun threw shafts of golden light through the thick layers of surrounding forest. Several small birds flitted between branches, recovering bits of food from leaves while keeping an ever-watchful eye on the black vehicle that glided below them.

Lance parked farther away from the garage than he had that morning, and gazed up at the house before he stepped out of the SUV. There was no movement in the windows, but he could see a bit of smoke curling behind the roof, from the deck beyond, he assumed.

After pulling the bottle of wine from the back seat and climbing the stairs for the second time that day, he knocked again on the storm door. He expected a trick of some sort. Perhaps John would come to the door with a scowl and tell him exactly what he thought of the new owner of his beloved estate.

The man who pulled open the door looked like a younger version of the one he had encountered that morning. John’s hair was combed to one side and he had donned a clean set of jeans and a button-up short-sleeved shirt that had an embroidered fish jumping free of a wavy blue line on the left breast pocket. His eyes were soft within their sockets and held no trace of the anger and resentment Lance had seen that morning as well as during their other meetings. John pushed at the storm door and propped it open, looking at Lance.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” Lance echoed, not sure where to go after the initial greeting.

“Please, come in,” John said, stepping back from the entry while holding the door. Lance stepped through the doorway and surveyed the house around him.

The house was cool with the touch of air conditioning, and the layout looked close to what Lance had imagined earlier that day. A modest kitchen sat to the right, a bright oak table holding position near the window that looked out on the front yard. He could see a living room to his left, a weathered couch pushed against one wall. A large rocking chair sat in the far corner of the room at an angle that inhibited it from performing service to its name. Most of the house was dressed in lightly stained wainscoting, and no pictures decorated the walls, whose colors were surprisingly modern and neutral for someone John’s age.

“Thanks for coming,” John said as he closed the door behind Lance.

“Thanks for inviting me after this morning,” Lance returned. John pulled a tight smile onto his lined face and nodded. “I really wanted to apologize—”

John held up a hand. “No need to apologize, son. The sorry is for me to say. We weren’t properly met and that was my fault.”

Lance frowned, thinking back to the last two times he had seen John and how rude his choice of words had been. He began to say so when John strode past him to the fridge, which sat at the far end of the kitchen.

“You a beer man, Lance?” John asked as he bent to inspect the contents of the fridge.

“Every man is on some level, I suspect,” Lance said as he stepped into the kitchen, noticing how clean and orderly the room was. There were no stray dishrags lying on the spotless counters, and not a solitary crumb could be seen on the wide cutting block near the sink.

“Bud Light okay?” John asked, holding up two already-frosted bottles.

“Perfect,” Lance said, taking one of the beers from John’s outstretched hand.

“Let’s go out on the deck,” John said, motioning to the rear of the house. Lance followed the caretaker through a narrow den with wide windows, to a sliding door that opened onto a spacious deck. The platform overlooked a sweeping lawn that fell away from the house and terminated in a dark pond. Cattails leaned in the breeze of the evening and a pair of ducks glided across the surface of the water. A modest gas grill smoked contentedly at the far corner of the deck, giving off a subtle smell of past meals.

“Wow. You have a beautiful place here, John,” Lance said, taking in the view.