Page 48 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Hmm. I hope it’s okay.”
“Why? You planning on leaving if it isn’t?” He reaches over and lightly touches my arm, a signal that this time, he really is joking. “I’ll make you up a bed.”
“You don’t have to.” All at once, I’m embarrassed to be here. Embarrassed that I intruded on this man I barely know in the middle of the night. Or rather, morning. Because by now it must be past midnight. “I can take this to go”—I hold up the sandwich—“and head home. I’m good now, honest.”
“Nah, you’re here. You may as well stay.”
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. I can’t guarantee a good night’s sleep, but I can guarantee a good breakfast in the morning. I make a hell of a chicken-fried steak. Country gravy, biscuits, the whole nine yards.”
“Well in that case, I’ll stay. I mean, who can pass up chicken-fried steak?” I’m so relieved I could cry. I don’t think after the night I’ve had I could get back on the road and return to an empty house.
And I think Knox’s hospitality is genuine and not made because of any false sense of obligation. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who stands on ceremony.
I finish my soup and sandwich and clean up while Knox makes me up a bed. It’s a big house, and I presume there is more than one bedroom. When he doesn’t return, I go in search of him. Mainly it’s an excuse to have a look around, because on my previous visit I only saw the front rooms.
The main floor is a bit of a warren, a lot of chopped up spaces with no rhyme or reason. But there is a certain charm to it. A certain symmetry. I can see kids growing up here, a family. It’s so much different than the house Lolly and I grew up in. Not the first one with my parents, which was a tidy ranch in a leafy neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley, where kids rode their bikes on the street and played hopscotch on the sidewalk. Where neighbors looked out for one another, and everyone gathered for barbecues at the one house on the block with a swimming pool.
Not that one.
The house where Lolly and I spent our formative years was not really a house at all. It was a penthouse in the tallest building in Century City with sweeping views of Los Angeles. It was three times the size of our plain-Jane ranch, yet there was no place to play, no place to ride a bike, and no place for hopscotch on the sidewalk. A communal roof deck with an Olympic-size pool was our substitute for a backyard. Occasionally, our babysitter would succumb to our pleading requests to take us swimming. Then she would withstand the withering glares from the other residents, who didn’t want splashing kids to get in the way of their rigorous aquatic workouts.
It’s hard, even beyond privileged, to call the lap of luxury hell. But to Lolly and me, it felt that way. It felt like a gilded cage, even though we were lucky to have a roof over our heads.
This house, Knox’s house, would’ve been heaven. Large and lived-in, like Mom’s secondhand sofa. I can just imagine all the places we would’ve played hide-and-seek or built pillow forts on the floor. All the outside space we would’ve had to run and play.
I take the stairs to the second floor, peeking in the open doors. There’s a big den up here, which looks as if it’s used as a TV room with overstuffed couches, a couple of recliners, and a huge flat-screen. There’s a wall of windows that probably showcases a view of the mountains. It’s too hard to tell in the dark.
Down the hall is an office. Judging by the messy desk, it’s where Knox writes. I go in and study the spines of all the books on the shelves, most of them academic tomes about science, biophysics, and agriculture. But plenty of fiction, too. There’s also a collection of wooden mallard duck decoys, some that appear to be fairly old. Despite the clutter, it’s a handsome room. Cozy, yet spacious, and like the rest of the house, has a warmth about it. It hugs you like a strong embrace is the best way to describe it.
Knox comes in to find me thumbing through one of the books. “I gave you Katie’s room and put fresh sheets on the bed. You can have the bathroom next to it.”
“This is a great house.” I nudge my head at the decoys. “Are you a duck hunter?”
“Nope. Those were my dad’s.”
I’m secretly relieved. Shooting cute little ducks seems medieval.
“When did your parents pass?”
“My dad six years ago. My mom a year after my dad. He had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma but put up a good fight. Lasted two years longer than the doctors said he would. My mom, on the other hand, was in good health. But after Dad died, she just seemed to deteriorate. I figure she didn’t want to go on without him.”
“That’s sad. I’m sorry.”
“It’s the cycle of life,” he says, hitching his shoulders. “Let me show you your digs for the night.”
Katie’s room is unexpected and completely the opposite of the tattooed bartender with the flaming red hair. It’s ultra girly and old-fashioned, with yellowed cabbage rose wallpaper, a pink canopy bed, and matching dresser and desk. I can’t see her picking out this stuff, though tastes change as people get older.
“This okay?” Knox asks.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Feel free to scrounge through Katie’s drawers for a nightshirt or whatever.”
“I hope she doesn’t mind.”
“Nah,” he says, and jams his hands in his pockets. “Help yourself.”
