or Uncle Giovanni to be dispatched to eternal rest. A block short of the garishly lit biker bar that was a local landmark, he hung another right, following Sarah Connelly’s directions with unerring instinct. As a creature of the night, he was accustomed to navigating unfamiliar streets after dark. He found Chestnut Street easily and took a sharp left onto the short dead-end street lined with modest single-family dwellings.
Her house was the last one on the right. The swaybacked single-car garage snugged up close against a chain link fence that separated her property from the tracks where the blue line train ran day and night. He pulled into the driveway, headlights illuminating the Depression-era bungalow painted an alarming, eye-popping blue. He sat for a moment drinking it in, then turned off the ignition and opened his door, spilling vintage Springsteen into the crisp winter darkness.
The wind had died with the sunset, and the night was clear and cold. Stars swirled in a milky trail across the sky. He waded through drifted snow to the front door, illuminated by a single weak lightbulb. The porch steps were spongy, the framework sagging.
He rang the bell and waited. Light streamed from a window onto the plywood flooring, and he fingered a strip of curling blue paint that had peeled from the door frame. Hands in his coat pockets, he leaned back to study the house, admiring its old-fashioned lines and angles, the wide roof overhang that punctuated the upstairs windows. The place was a wreck, but it had potential, a charm and character missing from most new architecture. It wouldn’t take much to restore the house to its former glory. A little paint, a little lumber—
“You think it looks bad now, you should see it in the daylight.”
He fell back to earth with a thud. Sarah Connelly stood in the doorway, soft brown waves spilling over her shoulders as she leaned against the frame. There was something refreshing, something immensely appealing about this woman who was three times divorced but definitely not a floozy. He bit back a smile and cleared his throat. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was admiring it.”
“I thought you said priests weren’t allowed to lie.” In the dim illumination from the overhead light, her eyes were a vivid blue, and right now they sparkled with mischief.
“I’m not lying. This house has marvelous lines. Lovely bone structure. It just needs the right cosmetics to enhance those bones. Right now, it’s just a little… ” He trailed off, looked up at the roofline as words eluded him.
“Blue?” she suggested.
“Tired,” he said. “A coat of paint would take care of most of your problems. A little lumber would fix the rest.”
“That’s what I keep telling Kit, every time she complains. It belonged to my Aunt Helen. The black sheep of the family. She was a political radical who taught English lit at Harvard. After her last stroke, she couldn’t do the upkeep on the place, so she let it go to hell. It doesn’t take long for neglect to do ugly things to a house. When she died, she left it to me.”
“Well. I’m not sure whether to offer you congratulations or condolences.”
When she smiled, a single deep dimple appeared in her left cheek. “Just keep remembering those great lines. I fixed us a thermos of coffee. Let me get my coat.”
He followed her through the snow to his car, held the door for her. As she climbed into the passenger seat, he caught a faint whiff of something—shampoo, perhaps, or perfumesweet and wispy and feminine. Sometimes Carolyn Rafferty, his friend Conor’s wife, smelled that way, like spun sugar, some sweet confection you’d find in a gift box wrapped with a red velvet ribbon. It had been over a decade since he’d buried his face in a woman’s hair just to drink in her honeyed scent. Meg had been the last. Circumstances no longer allowed him to think of women in that way. But he hadn’t forgotten.
He realigned his
Her house was the last one on the right. The swaybacked single-car garage snugged up close against a chain link fence that separated her property from the tracks where the blue line train ran day and night. He pulled into the driveway, headlights illuminating the Depression-era bungalow painted an alarming, eye-popping blue. He sat for a moment drinking it in, then turned off the ignition and opened his door, spilling vintage Springsteen into the crisp winter darkness.
The wind had died with the sunset, and the night was clear and cold. Stars swirled in a milky trail across the sky. He waded through drifted snow to the front door, illuminated by a single weak lightbulb. The porch steps were spongy, the framework sagging.
He rang the bell and waited. Light streamed from a window onto the plywood flooring, and he fingered a strip of curling blue paint that had peeled from the door frame. Hands in his coat pockets, he leaned back to study the house, admiring its old-fashioned lines and angles, the wide roof overhang that punctuated the upstairs windows. The place was a wreck, but it had potential, a charm and character missing from most new architecture. It wouldn’t take much to restore the house to its former glory. A little paint, a little lumber—
“You think it looks bad now, you should see it in the daylight.”
He fell back to earth with a thud. Sarah Connelly stood in the doorway, soft brown waves spilling over her shoulders as she leaned against the frame. There was something refreshing, something immensely appealing about this woman who was three times divorced but definitely not a floozy. He bit back a smile and cleared his throat. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was admiring it.”
“I thought you said priests weren’t allowed to lie.” In the dim illumination from the overhead light, her eyes were a vivid blue, and right now they sparkled with mischief.
“I’m not lying. This house has marvelous lines. Lovely bone structure. It just needs the right cosmetics to enhance those bones. Right now, it’s just a little… ” He trailed off, looked up at the roofline as words eluded him.
“Blue?” she suggested.
“Tired,” he said. “A coat of paint would take care of most of your problems. A little lumber would fix the rest.”
“That’s what I keep telling Kit, every time she complains. It belonged to my Aunt Helen. The black sheep of the family. She was a political radical who taught English lit at Harvard. After her last stroke, she couldn’t do the upkeep on the place, so she let it go to hell. It doesn’t take long for neglect to do ugly things to a house. When she died, she left it to me.”
“Well. I’m not sure whether to offer you congratulations or condolences.”
When she smiled, a single deep dimple appeared in her left cheek. “Just keep remembering those great lines. I fixed us a thermos of coffee. Let me get my coat.”
He followed her through the snow to his car, held the door for her. As she climbed into the passenger seat, he caught a faint whiff of something—shampoo, perhaps, or perfumesweet and wispy and feminine. Sometimes Carolyn Rafferty, his friend Conor’s wife, smelled that way, like spun sugar, some sweet confection you’d find in a gift box wrapped with a red velvet ribbon. It had been over a decade since he’d buried his face in a woman’s hair just to drink in her honeyed scent. Meg had been the last. Circumstances no longer allowed him to think of women in that way. But he hadn’t forgotten.
He realigned his
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