Chapter 18
Libby
This can’t be the right house.
As I stare up through the windshield of my Miata that may or may not have a growing crack in it that I’ve back-burnered for months, I take in the three-story house–sorry, make that mansion– and blink a few times just to make sure this isn’t one of those Zillow Gone Wild sort of things.
I kill the engine of my car, losing the comfort of Alanis Morisette in my speakers. I am truly on my own now as I make my way up the cobblestone path towards the giant front French doors. Everything about this place says Money. Status. Class. Translation?
Out of my league.
For a moment, I consider leaving. Just running back down the drive, hopping in my car, and speeding off.
Or even diving into the bushes, praying no one saw me and isn’t going to come looking for me.
Of course, I can’t do that. That’s silly.
And the last thing that I want, that I will allow, is for Dax to think he’s intimidated me.
Even if his house is the size of a strip mall.
I ring the doorbell and wait. I don’t know what possessed him to invite me to dinner.
Before we ran into each other at the book fair, we were hardly on speaking terms. The whole drive here, I wondered if it was some sort of power move.
But the worst part was, I said yes, farthing his play to victory.
I shake my head at the idea of all of it.
My internal monologue– an apparent pessimist these days it seems– needs to take a chill pill, and now.
I am here for the girls. I am here because Poppy and Delilah (the names are so much more poetic when they don’t belong to strippers) invited me over for homemade mac and cheese and their Bambi eyed pouts tell me they would have been heartbroken if I’d said no.
And as the door opens and my eyes trail down to their tiny bright faces, smiling wide and eyes dancing in the late sunlight, I know I made the right call.
“Miss Libby! You’re here!” Poppy exclaims and the door flings the rest of the way open.
“Dad! She’s here!” Delilah sings down the long foyer. Without asking, they take my hands and tug me inside, the giant door sealing behind me.
“This is lovely,” I say, slipping my shoes off next to the pile of shoes by the door.
The first thing I notice as I look around is that it’s not what I expected.
It’s nice, of course. Over the top, sure.
But when I think of Daxton Hemingway, CEO and business tycoon, I think of marble flooring, cold, distant artwork, minimalist furniture, and bright, clean baseboards.
Hell, even the outer shell of the home led me to believe that was what I was walking into.
What I am not expecting, however, is warm wooden flooring. The walls painted a dusty blue. Artwork done by children along with family photos, backpack hooks and even a photo of a cat taken way too close.
And it smells like mac and cheese and fresh bread.
In a word– it’s homey.
“Come on, we will give you a tour!” Poppy says, tugging me through the foyer towards a staircase.
“Shouldn’t we wait for your dad?” I ask, my eyes trailing over the family photos, noticing the smile on his face in each one that is so different from the man I know now.
“He’s busy cooking. He won’t mind,” Delilah insists and before I can have a say in the matter, we are headed up the carpeted stares.
“This is our loft,” Delilah says as we reach the top. “We keep all our extra toys here and there’s a tv for kids only.”
“Your dad isn’t allowed to use it?” I ask with a smile, noticing the brightly colored furniture that is too small for an adult.
“Nope. He has his own TV,” Poppy says. “This one is ours. And if you come this way,” she pulls me down the hall, “This is my room.”
We stop at the first room. The door is painted watermelon pink. And inside the walls are sherbet green. All of them. Even the baseboards.
“This is lovely,” I say again. And it truly is.
From there we move onto a messy bathroom, complete with a floral print shower curtain and piles of girly clothes everywhere. Then Delilah’s room which is blue and lavender and very organized.
“Oh, I like this,” I tell her, making her smile.
“Those were my mom’s favorite colors,” she tells me. Poppy runs into the room, grabbing a framed photo off the white nightstand.
“And this is our mom!”
She rushes back over to me, handing me the frame and I take it, smiling down at the young woman with the blond hair and the blue eyes and the tired but oh so happy smile.
“She was beautiful,” Delilah says, standing on her tip toes to admire the photo with me.
“She was,” I agree sadly before handing the frame back to her.
Delilah walks over to the nightstand to return it to its proper spot.
From there, they show me the master bedroom, though we don’t go inside.
Then we make our way down the stairs. I peek down the hall, looking to see if I can spot Dax.
But between the music playing in the kitchen and the clamor of pots and pans, I don’t think he’s even realized I am here.
“This way!” Poppy says and the girls usher me down the next flight of stairs. “There’s more!”
More? The amount of house I have already explored is bigger than my apartment three-fold. And yet, as we reach the bottom of staircase number two, I realize they are in fact right. There is more.
The lower level of the home is set up like a theater room with comfy couches and chairs, a giant flat screen on the wall and a large table and chairs next to a wall with built-in bookshelves. The shelves, as I get closer, I realize are stacked with board games.
“This is fun!” I say, looking through the different games.
“We play games every Sunday,” Delilah says.
“And order pizza!” Poppy adds.
“Pizza game nights are wonderful,” I smile down at them.
Then, Delilah takes my hand again. “But that’s not even the best part.”
I look at them questioningly and they both just smile at me and then at each other.
As it would happen, under the stairwell is a door.
It’s a small door and my first thought is storage.
But when Delilah opens it, and Poppy crawls inside, I realize it’s something so much more.
Something way cooler that fills my heart with joy.
“It’s…a book nook,” I say. I’m sitting on my knees, peeking inside the tiny entry that feels like something out of the Hobbit.
Inside are blankets and pillows, tiny shelves covering all the walls filled with kids’ books and fairy lights. Overhead, on the slanted ceiling, there’s a painting of Alice in Wonderland, everything from the Cheshire cat to the Caterpillar and all the characters in between.
“This…really is the best,” I agree, and the girls crawl back out.
Suddenly, from upstairs, music starts to play loudly. The song, of all things, is Sweet Caroline. With that, the girls’ faces light up.
“Let’s go!” Delilah says.
I laugh as they once again tug me up the stairs. “Why? What’s happening?”
“That song means it’s time for dinner,” Poppy says.
“He always plays Sweet Caroline when it’s time for food,” Delilah explains as if it makes perfect sense.
It doesn’t, but I love it, and I follow along anyways.
As we skip back through the foyer, past a huge cozy living room that looks like a smaller version of the theatre room, we round a corner straight into the kitchen.
And I stop. While the girls head over to the dining room table, rearranging the plates and cups and debating who should sit where, I find myself just standing there, staring at the man in the kitchen.
His hair is ruffled a bit. Without the styling gel I think he normally uses, it’s scruffier.
Longer than I would have assumed. I thought it just looked that way earlier because he was obviously freshly showered.
But now that it has had time to dry I can see that he isn’t in fact all business and no play.
And damn does it look good on him.
He’s still wearing jeans and a white-cotton t-shirt but no shoes. Honestly, he looks like he’s auditioning for a Hane’s commercial.
But the best part is that he is holding a tray of mac and cheese, fresh from the oven, his hands gloved in brightly colored oven mitts.
His eyes are bright and blue, even from across the room, and he looks surprised that I am here, even though he knew I was coming.
Everything about it, from the messy blonde hair to the bare feet to the mismatched mitts and all the little details of his home are so different from the person he portrays in the outside world.
I’m not sure what to make of it. But I can’t help but feel like I am in trouble.