Me too, I almost want to say. But I’m sure he’s not aware of this little tidbit of info.
“Congratulations,” I offer, a little stunned. Edward is no spring chicken.
“Thanks,” he says. “It’s been a while. Second marriage,” he explains. “My older girls are twenty-one and seventeen.”
There’s so much I never knew about him. I am a bad, bad person. “It’s perfect. They can babysit.”
He laughs. “Well, that’s the plan.”
I fiddle with the hem of my yellow summer dress, still nervous. I had no clue what to wear because I have no idea what’s waiting for me.
We dart across town and head toward familiar territory — Gwen’s posh neighborhood. I want to tell Edward I was just here today, but I keep my mouth shut, in complete shock. Is he bringing me to Gwen’s? Makes no sense.
I first became familiar with this area ages ago when Gabe and I drove through it to check out the beautiful houses. As soon as we entered the serene community, we knew we were in rich-people territory; perfectly manicured lawns, luxury cars, three-car garages. The homes in this enclave are so grand and exquisite, but I still love my house just as much.
It may not be as big, but it has charm. I still remember the day we first saw it, I fell in love. It was perfect, with its Tudor inspired design, dark wooden beams and sleek hardwood floors. The cozy country-inspired kitchen and the large trees in the backyard sealed the deal. But there was a hitch — it was way over our budget. Nevertheless, Gabe and I decided to live for the moment. We told ourselves we would work hard and save. This was our home. But that left us house-poor, like many other people. No extra money for trips, fancy clothes, restaurants, or luxuries.
I wrack my brain trying to figure out what is going on.
Edward rounds the bend, just past a pristine park, and drives up a stone driveway. The house is beautiful; traditional, a colonial style covered in light brown brick with soft yellow accents. A small oval window over the red front door catches my eye. The picture is perfect, complete with a white picket fence and gorgeous landscaping.
Where am I?
Edward walks me to the door. And I want to ask him a million questions, but I don’t say a word, too stunned to speak. I’m sure all will reveal itself eventually.
“Bye, Miss Mirella,” he says as he swings the old-fashioned door-knocker. “I’ll be back later to drive you home.”
Weston answers the door, all smiles. I step in with caution as I take in the space around me. A sleek console table and funky chrome mirror sit by the entry. A cool orange lamp sits on top of the console. As my gaze travels further, I notice the walls are bare.
“Come in,” he urges, his smile already affecting me.
Be strong. You will not crumble. No matter how cute he looks in his perfectly fitted dark wash jeans and vintage Pepsi t-shirt.
I follow him to the kitchen, a huge gorgeous gourmet kitchen with one of those giant industrial looking gas stoves and ridiculously tall funky faucets.
“Is this your house?” I ask, getting right to business.
He nods and smiles. “A recent purchase. Can I get you something to drink? An iced tea?”
What?
Why would he buy a house out here? To be closer to me? To be closer to the baby perhaps? An investment? I realize his obsession with me has taken on a whole different dimension, and it’s a little unsettling.
“Sure,” I say as I cautiously take a seat on one of the sleek curvy stools at the island.
“My friend Gwen lives just around the corner.”
He cocks a brow in surprise. “Oh, interesting. I didn’t realize that.”
“Nice place.”
“You like it?”
“What’s not to like?”
He smiles at me and fetches a pitcher of iced tea from the gigantic stainless-steel refrigerator.
He fills the glass with ice from the refrigerator door, the sound echoes loudly through the kitchen. “So how is Manny treating you?”
I smile. “He’s great. Really good food. Thank you. I think Gwen has a little crush on him.”
He laughs. “Yes, I bet she does.”
“He made us pork roast tonight,” I tell him, looking out the window at the pretty backyard — a modern day English garden.
“Sounds good.”
“It was.”
I sit up straight, willing myself to get right to it — no sense wasting time. “Why am I here, Weston?”