Page 87 of I'll Keep Her Safe

“Yes.”

“I believe you’re a friend of Martin Somerville?”

“Martin…” I echo, frowning. “Oh, Marty?” Goosebumps rise on my arms. “Yes…”

“I’m Martin’s attorney,” the voice says again, tone solemn. “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Mathers, but Martin has passed away.”

30

Wyatt

Marty Somerville died in his sleep on a warm evening in August, and while no one has actually said as much, I’m convinced he died of a broken heart.

The first thing Poppy said to me, when I told her the news after taking the call that would change the trajectory of both our lives, was, “At least he’s with Joyce now.”

There was no funeral. Marty was a quiet man with few friends and no next of kin. Which probably explains why he left his five-story brownstone at number seven Fruit Street, to me.

Well, according to his attorney, it was to “my boy, Wyatt Mathers, and that lovely redhead, Poppy Spencer, as soon as Wyatt gets his act together and tells her how he feels.”

I laughed through my tears as Marty’s lawyer read me his last wishes, both in shock and disbelief at his generosity, and in amusement at his sense of humor, still as alive as ever. I never did tell Marty that Poppy and I were together, but he clearly saw the connection between us, even before either of us would admit it.

And when Marty’s attorney added, “He also wanted me to remind you that ‘life is too short to miss out on love,’ whatever that means,” I broke down. Then Poppy and I held each other in the kitchen, both of us in tears as we thought about that wonderful man, his kind heart, the full life he lived.

We went to see the house the next day, only a few doors away from ours across the street. There was a cleaning crew working to clear it out when we got there, donating a lot of their things to Goodwill. Apparently he also made a sizable donation to the upkeep of the Fruit Street Community Garden, as well as other public gardens in Brooklyn Heights.

But the house, he’d insisted, was for us. It’s a nineteenth century Italianate brownstone in a row of three, with arched windows and doorways, cast iron railings on the steps, and most of its original historical features throughout. From what I can tell, Marty mostly used the lower two floors in his last months there, as several rooms are closed off. I didn’t realize he’d lived in such a massive place, but I’ve always remembered his words from the garden that day, telling me he and Joyce had bought a big house to fill with children. Children they never got to have.

What I don’t understand is why he left the house tous. My first thought was that we should sell it and donate the money to a worthy cause, but that didn’t quite feel right. Instead, I spent hours roaming the many floors, thinking.

It wasn’t until I was alone in the basement one evening, watching the light fade over Marty’s bountiful vegetable garden, that what to do with it hit me. I phoned a contractor the next day.

It’s three weeks later and the project is finally ready. I take Poppy across the street from our place on a Saturday morning, with a scarf covering her eyes as a makeshift blindfold.

“Something about crossing the street while blindfolded feels incredibly unsafe,” she mutters as I help her onto the sidewalk in front of Marty’s old place.

“You’re fine, baby.” I squeeze her hand as I guide her down the steps to the basement entrance of the brownstone. “You know you’re safe with me.”

She sighs in the kind of way that says she does. That she trusts me. It’s an honor I don’t take lightly.

Once inside the basement, I take a deep breath, flick the lights on for the full effect, then remove the blindfold. Poppy blinks as she looks around the space, taking in what I’ve done. It’s been three busy weeks, juggling work and checking in here, making sure things were coming along as I wanted. Thankfully, Poppy has kept busy supplying the food to the crew, even though she’s refused to take on more orders until she finds the commercial kitchen she needs. I went with her to look at a couple, but only to keep up the ruse. She’s put together a business plan and gotten the licenses she needs, but the cost of renting a commercial kitchen has proven prohibitive. Lucky for me.

Because she doesn’t need to rent one, not when I’ve built her the perfect kitchen right here.

I look around the basement, trying to see it through Poppy’s eyes. Huge, gleaming chrome countertops, with plenty of prep space. Two large sinks. Eight-burner stove and two massive ovens. A wall lined with fridges and a walk-in pantry. An industrial dishwasher. And all this leads out to Marty’s backyard, bursting with vegetables and fruit trees, most of which I’m sure Poppy can utilize in her dishes.

She turns back to me, her jaw open in disbelief. “What is this?”

“It’s your kitchen.”

She blinks rapidly. “What?”

I can’t help but beam. “For your new business.”

“My new…” She steps forward, running a hand across the chrome countertop. “I can’t…”

“It’s already passed its health inspection,” I say, handing over the paperwork. “So you can start right away.”

Poppy turns back to me slowly, eyes wide. “Wyatt… I don’t know what to say.” She shakes her head. “I can’t accept this.”

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