8

Heather

Gingerbread and Goosebumps

I go to church with Oma and Grandpa the next morning. It’s a cute Presbyterian chapel on the outskirts of Richmond Hill. Unfortunately, I’m unable to focus on the sermon. I’m pretty sure the pastor is talking about King David and Bathsheba, how Israel’s king longed for another man’s wife. A fine lesson, and needed, if I’m being honest.

Because, if I’m being honest, my thoughts are very much focused on another woman’s fiancé.

I wish we had confession in our church, like the Catholics. I could really use a priest and a fine dose of holy water about now. I don’t know why or how, but McKenzie’s wink clung to me all last night and into this morning. Funny how such a simple gesture can mean the world to someone. You’d have thought the man had gotten down on one knee and professed his undying love to me with how warm I’ve been all throughout church.

Sorry, God.

And Narcissa.

Grandpa is too tired to go out to eat. I bring him and Oma home and change clothes.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken this long picking out an outfit.

I try and convince myself it’s because I want to look stylish for Narcissa. She always dresses so nicely, and I am helping her prepare an engagement party. I should try and look good, right?

Except that I’m not dressing for Narcissa.

Or me.

I’m dressing for him.

I look in my full-length mirror and wonder at my own stupidity.

I’m in a sweater dress. It’s dark green (my favorite color, not because of McKenzie’s eyes), with gold embroidery and buttons. I’m wearing black leggings and knee-high boots. I feel somewhat stylish, but I can’t stand my glasses.

I squint at myself, then swap out the glasses for contacts.

My eyes immediately feel tired and dry, but there are prices to be paid for beauty.

I braid portions of my hair back, apply a faint bit of makeup, and convince myself that I’m presentable.

Oma says I look pretty as I hurry out the door, grabbing a scarf, gloves, and jacket along the way. She always thinks I’m pretty. One of the reasons she’s amazing.

Sunlight streams through Spanish moss as I drive to Forsyth. I purposefully drive the perimeter of the park, trying to clear my head as I drive past the water fountain. I roll my window down and breathe in the fresh air, listening to the fountain gurgle merrily, entirely unaffected by the sudden anxiety I feel.

McKenzie is in Charleston, according to Narcissa. He left last night for a business trip. I won’t even see him today, and yet I’m nervous. I have no idea why. Even if he was home, there isn’t a reason for me to be nervous, especially not about seeing him. I see him almost every day at work.

But I’ve never seen his house. I’ve never seen how he lives normally, how he decorates, what his home smells like. I know he’s not the biggest fan of coffee, though he pretends to be. With the way he dresses, I assume his house is modern and has the latest and greatest technology.

I assume incorrectly.

I pull into the driveway of a massive Victorian manor.

The gate slides shut behind me, leaving me in a narrow drive, hardly noticeable, snuggled in the center of a row of trees. I don’t drive all the way to the back of the house, where a coach house stands waiting. Instead, I exit my car, mouth open, and walk across the green to look at the front of the house.

I’ve passed this house frequently, and yet, standing here so close to it, I get to experience the full size and beauty of it.

The architecture is profound.

The house is made of cream paneling with blush pink shutters, railings, gingerbread designs, and columns. Most of the windows are bay windows, rounded and huge, letting light in from all sides of the house. Vast triangular eaves tower high above the ground, nestled between gorgeous chimneys and balconies.

I can just imagine wisteria growing wild through the eaves in the spring. I can envision women in elegant gowns, their hair twisted up in gorgeous chignons, standing on the porches and balconies in summer, cool glasses of lemonade in hand. This house…this house is a dream.

“Heather? You ready to come in?” Narcissa asks from the porch.

I nod, having completely missed that she’s standing there.

I walk up to the front door, listening as wind chimes sing from the high porch ceilings.

The front door is made almost entirely of stained glass, etched and colored in the shapes of tulips and roses.

“This house,” I breathe, letting Narcissa usher me inside. “This house…”

I can’t even finish my thought.

I’m standing in what was once the reception room, round and beautiful, the floor covered in a colorful rug. To my left is a large dining room, decorated with a mahogany table and cushioned dark wood chairs. Above me is a massive chandelier of multiple colors, sending a rainbow of light reflecting off the walls.

Narcissa leads me further into the house, into a gorgeous room that was once a ballroom.

“McKenzie tried to keep the authenticity of the house,” Narcissa says, guiding me into a small living room. “We get into the basement through here.” She points at a brick wall, and I feel a ripple of excitement shiver through me.

There is nothing in the wall to indicate that there is a door.

A beautiful painting of the Savannah River rests against the white brick, but that’s all.

Narcissa is almost jumping up and down, twin dimples showing in her cheeks.

“Well?” she asks, her voice bubbling over with excitement.

“It’s hidden,” I whisper, running my hands over the bricks and then leaning forward to study the painting.

“Uh huh! McKenzie told me there used to be a speakeasy right here, in this house!” Narcissa exclaims. “There’s an entrance to the basement from outside, too, but I wanted you to see if you can figure out how to get in!”

Her phone rings, and she pulls it out of her pocket.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Heather, but I have to take this. Please feel free to look around! Explore! I can just see the wonder in your eyes. There’s a massive sleeping porch upstairs that I think you should look at. Go back through the ballroom to the stairwell and follow it up. Then go left and you’ll see light spilling in from the porch. I think you’ll love it, and you can see the back gardens from there. I’ll only be a few minutes!”

She answers her phone and disappears, leaving me standing at the invisible door.

I don’t want to try and open it while she isn’t here. It feels a bit shady.

So I follow her instructions and make my way back into the ballroom.

It’s a stunning room. Crystal chandeliers glitter in the sunlight, sending sparkles across the wood floor and the gorgeous grand piano resting in a corner of the room. The staircase is remarkable, looming at the room’s center. I glide my hand over its rich brown railing as I walk up the marble stairs, pretending, for a moment, that I’m a high-class lady in a fine dress, the train of my gown sweeping over each individual step as a man in a tuxedo plays the piano.

I reach the landing at the top and turn left.

There are so many doors. There must be seven or eight of them bordering a long hallway.

Light spills out of one of the doorways on my right.

I can see dust particles dancing in the sunbeams and assume this door must lead to the sleeping porch.

I put my hand to the door, open it fully, and step inside.

I find myself in a gorgeous fitting room.

Windows line the right side of the room, full-sized and showing my figure fully. Massive drawers and cabinets rest along the left side, all custom-designed and elegant. There’s a closet hidden within the installed wardrobe, and I wonder if it leads to a secret stairway. There’s a leather settee in the center of the room, perfect for sitting on, fitting in with the originality and craftsmanship of this luxurious room. French doors are open across from me, and I walk to them and peek out to find myself looking at a sleeping porch that runs the full length of the house.

I’m not entirely sure I should step out onto it. I know Narcissa told me to explore, but this porch has access to the upstairs bedrooms, and I don’t want to impose. I wouldn’t want to find myself staring into McKenzie’s room or Narcissa’s room. They might share a room, actually. That would make sense. Just because this house is Victorian doesn’t mean they are.

No. I’ll wait for her before I step outside.

I turn, meaning to find my way back downstairs, and step into a broad, masculine form. Startled, I jump, and my hands land on a bare, solid, absolutely stunning pair of pectorals.

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

He wasn’t supposed to be home.

He’s in Charleston, remember?

He certainly isn’t standing here, with my hands on his naked chest, dressed in nothing but a towel around his waist.

No. Please no.

I force myself to look up. I can feel my flight instinct kicking in as my eyes land on a perfect pair of emerald irises.

Oh. My. Gosh.