the mold of a Greek god. “What’s the status of those guys? Did you silently sort out the king of the hill?”
“Of course,” he said over his shoulder without stopping. “It’s always going to be me.”
8
The interior of the restaurant was fashionably elegant, with white linens, flickering candlelight, and red carnations in dainty glass vases. Most of the tables within were taken, couples or families dining quietly. A small bar sat off to my right—room enough for four people, but only one seat was taken, a younger guy with a black collared shirt and rimmed hat.
The memory of my father reminding my brother to take his hat off at the table kept my gaze rooted to him, and in a moment, the attention was obviously noticed. His shoulders tightened and he turned in his seat. But instead of looking around for the source of his creepy-crawlies, he looked directly at me.
I should’ve shifted my gaze—I was the rude one in this scenario, staring at a stranger for no reason—but I couldn’t. He had a fresh face that spoke of a guy in his early twenties, but something in his eyes felt…ancient. I couldn’t see their color, or really any details from this far away in a dimly lit restaurant, but they carried the ennui of someone who’d lived this life three times over and was just waiting around for something different to happen. An old soul, clearly, or maybe just a guy in a small town desperate to get out.
“Can I help you?”
I jumped, not having seen the hostess walk up. After giving my name, I glanced over at the guy again. He was back to looking at his phone, a sweating brown bottle waiting in front of him.
“Right this way,” the hostess said.
I held my breath as she led me into the back, to a table by the window where a man was already seated. He looked to be about my age, with a shaved head and a modest brown beard. His nose was long and straight, and his lips, partially hidden by the beard, were turned up in a large smile.
He stood when the hostess stopped by the table with a menu in hand.
“Hi. I’m Ron.” He held out a hand.
Thankful he hadn’t moved in for a hug, I offered him a relieved smile and shook hello. “I’m Jacinta. My friends call me Jessie.”
“Please, sit.” He gestured to my chair and sat, waiting for me to follow suit, and didn’t speak until the hostess strode away. “Do you live around here?”
“I do, yes. Just down the street, really.”
“Oh yeah? I’ve been to this town a million times for wine festivals and because I have some friends here. Which area?”
“Just…” I pointed in the direction of the house as the waitress showed up to take our drink order. “I haven’t been here long. It’s the court with the creepy house at the end. Usually people know—”
“Ivy House.” The waitress smiled and nodded, ready with her pen and paper. “Right? You’re talking about Ivy House?”
“Yes—”
“Right! I know that house.” Ron paused for me to order a glass of wine before ordering the same for himself. After the waitress left, we started looking at our menus, and he said, “So that’s cool, huh? Living on the street with that house? I heard the owner lives in Europe or something, and there’s an insane old woman next door who throws rocks at people trying to check it out…” He laughed at the insanity of it all and held up his hands. “I’m sure there are a lot of urban legends surrounding that house.”
I shrugged as the waitress came back with the drinks. “I don’t honestly know. I’ve only been there for a couple of months. But the woman at the end…that’s true. She really does that.”
“No!” He laughed, delighted, and I found myself smiling with him. He had a carefree, infectious laugh. “That’s hilarious. I’d go check it out for myself, but I don’t want to get hit by a rock!”
“Yeah, she’s a really good shot.” I chuckled, ready to order when the waitress returned.
When she left again, he said, “So how close do you live? Do you see ghosts or anything at night? I hear it’s really creepy.”
“It is creepy, and…I live in it, actually. I’m now the owner.”
He paused for a moment, his glass half raised to his lips. “Wait…you live…in the house? You own it?”
“Yeah. I recently bought it. I like creepy old houses.”