Free Timothy by Greg Herren Page B

the flight down and had decided that actually all of Miami was at fault. Once she’d hung up, Carlo called—he was downstairs.
    When I opened the convertible’s passenger door, he handed me a single long-stemmed red rose, and I could feel myself coloring again.
    â€œI hope you never stop blushing,” he smiled at me as I buckled my seat belt. “It’s adorable.”
    We spent the morning driving from island to island, being led by a real estate agent named Ethel Goldstein through incredibly beautiful houses with landscaped lawns, sparkling blue swimming pools, and towering palm trees, valued at such amazing out-of-my-league prices that I was almost afraid to breathe the air inside of them.
    Ethel was a short, round woman with jet-black hair that had to be dyed and a thick Jersey accent. She was impeccably dressed in a dusky rose business suit with a white blouse underneath. I liked her—she seemed to have a good sense of humor but wasn’t pushy in any way, and she was quite knowledgeable about the amazing palazzos she was showing us through.
    Carlo was completely at ease with her, just as he had been in the shops and galleries the day before, asking questions about things that were complete mysteries to me. I wandered about the houses in awe, stunned by the size of the rooms and the views of the ocean or the Intracoastal Waterway. Carlo didn’t seem to like any of them, though, and every time we got back into the car to drive to the next one, he would dissect all the things he’d found wrong with them—and would ask me for my opinion—and of course, I would try to say something intelligent but usually wound up just saying something like “it seemed more like a museum than a house.”
    At the last house, a huge place made of stone surrounded by lush vegetation, palm trees, and elephant ferns, I wandered out onto a wide gallery that opened off the master bedroom suite, with a stunning view of the green-blue ocean. I leaned on the railing, watching sailboats and yachts cut through the low waves. The sky was a stunning shade of blue, and it was getting hotter the later it got.
    â€œImagining what it would be like to live here?” Carlo asked, leaning on the railing next to me. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.
    â€œI can’t imagine what that would be like,” I answered honestly.
    â€œIf you had to pick any of these houses, which would you choose?”
    â€œNone of them,” I replied quickly.
    â€œYou didn’t like any of them?”
    â€œThey were all beautiful,” I said without looking at him. “But none of them felt like a home. Maybe it’s because they’re empty, but they all felt kind of sterile to me.”
    â€œInteresting,” he said, turning and leaning back against the railing. “I wonder if you would think Spindrift feels sterile?”
    â€œI—”
    â€œYou should come to Spindrift sometime,” he said, a shadow crossing his face. “You would be the perfect antidote for whatever ails the place.” He shook his head. “I can barely stand to be there anymore.” He lit a cigarette—even though the agent had earlier warned us not to smoke on the property. “In the last year, I’ve spent so much time traveling—going anywhere to get away from the house and all the memories.” He shook his head. Hr looked at me, an eyebrow going up. “Yes, you just might be what the house needs, Mouse. What do you say? Will you come be my guest there?”
    I wanted to say yes, but stopped myself.
    â€œWell?” he prompted.
    My fears seemed too foolish to say out loud.
    â€œI don’t have much free time,” I finally blurted out, my face reddening. “Valerie keeps me pretty busy.”
    â€œOh, surely even she has to allow you to take a holiday now and then? A long weekend?” He smiled. “Or are you afraid I might take advantage of