Free Snake in the Glass by Sarah Atwell Page B

small deck nestled in the L between the kitchen and the bedroom hallway.
    I stepped out and heard the unexpected sound of running water. “What the heck?”
    He pointed toward the back of the small lot. “There’s a small pond there, with a little waterfall.” He looked as pleased as a kid about it.
    I made my way to the end of the deck and stepped onto the tiny lawn—real grass was a luxury in Tucson, but this patch could have taken up no more than twenty square feet. “It’s wonderful.” The trickling water drowned out what little sound of traffic drifted this far into the neighborhood. What a delightful kind of white noise.
    “It came with the place—that was one of the reasons I really wanted this house. I’m glad you like it.”
    Dangerous ground, Em. In another universe, an ordinary female would be sketching out an entire future based on a comment like that. Would you like to live here, my darling? But Matt and I didn’t do anything by the book, and I wasn’t ready to go in that direction.
    “I can see why you like it. It fits you—efficient but with some unexpected surprises. How about that dinner you promised?” Nothing like changing the subject.
    “All set. Would you care for wine or a beer?”
    Somehow beer didn’t seem to fit the mood. “Wine sounds nice.”
    He disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a minute later with a chilled glass of white wine. “Here. Give me five and I’ll have everything on the table.”
    I took my wine and drifted through the living room and dining room. The furniture was plain and sturdy, but I caught a hint of designer lines. What decoration there was, was spare and clean—masculine without being pathetic. It looked a whole lot better than my place, no question. And, I was happy to note, I didn’t see anything that could be remotely construed as a feminine touch. Unless the bedroom was filled with white ruffles. Somehow I doubted that.
    Matt escorted me to my seat, held out the chair for me. I half-expected him to unfold my napkin (cloth, not paper!) and lay it on my lap. I looked at the plate in front of me. “This looks great. Did you make it?”
    “Are you worried? Yes, I made it all with my own hands, and I’ve survived on my own cooking for a while. Just taste it, will you?”
    I did. I tasted again, just in case I’d been wrong the first time. Damn, the man could cook! “It’s great. Remind me to come up with some more adjectives, will you? And you are full of surprises, Matt Lundgren.”
    I smiled. He smiled. We ate. We finished a bottle of wine, and another one miraculously appeared. “I’m not sure I should drive home,” I said, after I’d lost count of glasses.
    “Did you expect to?”
    Well, no, I hadn’t. Not really. If I had found the house full of tasteful designer touches—in other words, still reeking of Lorena—maybe I would have turned tail and run. But the house was so Matt, I had to admit I felt at ease. “I wasn’t sure. But I am now.”
    “So you’re staying?”
    “I’d like that. Although I kind of feel like we should have some sort of ceremony, like an exorcism.”
    “To banish Lorena forever?”
    “That’s what I was thinking.”
    “I think I have an idea about that,” he said. He stood up and held out a hand, and I accepted it and followed him to the bedroom.
     
     
    Sometime later, I lay in the unfamiliar dark, listen ing to the trickle of water outside the screened window, and Matt’s steady breathing. I liked this house, I decided. It was Matt’s house, and Lorena had done no more than pass through it. The exorcism had been a resounding success, and, wonder of wonders, we hadn’t even been interrupted by some police crisis. Maybe this would all work out just fine, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.
    I woke again about three in the morning and remembered the dogs. I sat up quietly. Good—there were no lingering effects of the wine. I could be home in ten minutes, through the deserted streets.
    Matt