Chapter 7
Riva knocked three times on the ensuite door. She’d need to start referring to this space as “Laurel’s room.” When the door opened, she was greeted with a big smile.
“Come in, come in,” her new housemate said jovially.
Riva paused in the doorway, gazing about. “Oh, Laurel, it’s lovely. Your patchwork quilt with these pale blue walls is beautiful. And those old curtains look as good as new. They’re still white.”
“They just needed a careful washing.”
Riva ran a hand over the comfy-looking recliner. “And this fits in here just fine.”
“It all fits just fine.” Laurel beamed at her. “What didn’t fit is now in Windy’s storage unit, thanks to Marcus and Max.”
Riva admired the art and photos on the walls. “It’s just perfect. Cozy and inviting and pretty.” She hugged Laurel. “I hope you’ll be happy here.” She bent down to pet the black-and-white cat sunning himself on the wood floor. “And Fred too.”
“We’re already happy.”
“To celebrate my new roommates, I’m fixing dinner tonight.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t go to that trouble for us.”
“No trouble. Just spaghetti. But it feels festive to have people in the house again. I want to celebrate, and I’m sure you gals must be tired from a long moving day.
I hope you’re hungry.” She checked her watch.
“Dinner should be ready around seven. But come down sooner if you like. I plan to put out some appetizers. And I invited Marcus to join us as a thank-you for all his help.”
“Wonderful. I was about to take a shower and clean up.”
“Great. I’m going to check out Windy’s space before I start dinner.”
“It looks really great up there. I was almost envious until I remembered she’ll have to go up and down those steep stairs whenever she needs to use the bathroom.”
Riva considered this. “I hope that’s not too much for her.”
“I mentioned it, but she just laughed and said she needs the exercise.”
“To each her own.” Riva gave Laurel’s room a last glance. “I really do love what you’ve done to this space. Feels good to see it pretty and occupied again. I think you’ve made the room happy.”
Laurel chuckled. “Well, the feeling’s mutual.”
As Riva went up the attic stairs, she hoped that Windy was as spry as she sounded. Then she reminded herself that Windy was younger. Only a few years, but perhaps it made a difference.
“Hello?” Riva called through the opened door.
“Come on in,” Windy yelled back. “Check out my cool pad.”
“Pad?” Riva laughed as she went in. “That’s a blast from the past.” She looked around the room, surprised to see how much Windy had moved up here.
Not that it looked overly stuffed. It was actually quite stylish and eclectic.
Oriental carpets, oversized leafy green plants, interesting lamps, colorful upholstered furnishings with lots of interesting throw pillows.
There was even an antique armoire and several other old wood pieces.
“Wow.” Riva nodded with approval. “This is very cool.”
“And thanks to the AC, it’s getting cooler,” Windy told her.
Marcus closed a toolbox with a snap. “Just finishing up.”
“I can’t believe you had so much stuff in your apartment.” Riva sat down in the bentwood rocker.
“Most of this was in storage,” Windy said.
“Windy has been a treasure hunter in garage and estate sales for years now,” Marcus said. “Squirreling away pieces.”
“Well, I lost most of my stuff when I lost the house,” Windy explained to Riva, “so I began to dream of the day I’d get a place of my own again. Unfortunately, that began to seem like an impossible dream.” Windy’s eyes sparkled with what looked like joyful tears. “Until now. Thank you.”
Riva stood and patted her on the back. “You’re welcome. And I’m really glad you’re here, Windy. This feels like a new beginning for me.”
“For me too.” Windy looked around her room. “I just love this space.”
“And your decor is such fun. It hearkens back to the seventies.”
“To my hippie roots.” Windy laughed.
“You know what they say about the apple not falling far from the tree,” Marcus teased.
“Then what happened to you, August Storm?” Riva teased him back.
“You told her your real name?” Windy’s brows arched.
He bristled. “My legal name is Marcus.”
“Whatever you say, Stormy.” Windy poked him in the arm.
“That’s the thanks I get for all my help today?”
“Sorry, bro. Accept my humble gratitude, Marcus.”
“Mine too.” Riva turned to Windy. “By the way, you’re both invited for dinner at seven as an expression of my gratitude.” She gave the attic one last glance. “I really do love what you’ve done up here, Windy. I never dreamed it could look this great.”
“Windy’s always had a creative streak.” Marcus grinned at his baby sister. “Even if she is an overgrown hippie child.”
Windy socked him in the arm and he feigned pain, grabbed his toolbox, and made for the door. “I’m getting outta here before baby sis gets really rough.” He winked at Riva with mischievous gray eyes. “No appreciation for my good help.”
“Come down and help me with dinner, and I’ll show you some appreciation,” Riva told him.
“You got it.” He nodded eagerly.
“Hope you like chopping produce.”
“I’m a natural sous-chef.”
“Perfect.” She grinned at Windy. “I like a guy who can take orders.”
Windy laughed. “Good luck with that!”
It turned out that Marcus could take orders—and he was good at chopping veggies. Before long, the meat sauce was simmering and the salad was tossed. Riva even had time to arrange an impromptu appetizer spread of crackers, cheese, olives, nuts, and smoked salmon. And it was only six o’clock.
“That looks good enough to eat.” Marcus snuck an olive. “But your charcuterie board needs a good bottle of wine.”
Riva opened the pantry where she and Paul used to keep a small assortment of bottles but only found red wine vinegar and olive oil. “Slim pickings here.”
“Want me to make a run to the market?”
“Do you know much about wines?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I know enough to pick a decent bottle.”
She crossed to the door that led to the basement. “Are you afraid of dark basements with lots of spiderwebs?”
He tilted his head to one side. “Any torture racks, skeletons, prison cells, or poisonous snakes down there?”
“Not that I know of. But I hate going down there myself,” she explained. “The house has been in my family for generations, and my father was a connoisseur of fine wines. At least, he claimed he was. So when he and Mom moved to Arizona, they left the wine and a bunch of other things here with us.”
His brows arched. “So you have a wine cellar?”
“I’m not sure you’d call it that, but yes, there are a couple of dusty old racks in the cellar.
Paul and I rarely ventured down, and we kept the door locked when the kids lived at home.
” She opened the door and flipped on the light.
“But if you’re game and can tell whether a bottle is good or not, you’re welcome to try. ”
“Your dad won’t mind?”
She shook her head. “He passed about twenty years ago.” She reached for a tea towel. “Take this to swipe away the cobwebs and dust.”
“All right.” He took the towel.
“And be careful on the stairs,” she warned as he went down. “Holler if you need help. I’ll leave the door open.”
“If I’m not back by dinnertime, call in the troops.”
Riva checked the kitchen clock. If he wasn’t back by seven, she would be calling 911. Keeping her ears tuned to the stairs, she filled a large pot with water and salt and oil and set it on the stove, then she went over to yell down the stairs, “You okay?”
“I’m okay.” He was already coming up. “And I think I hit the mother lode.”
She stepped back as he came through the door with three bottles in his arms.
“Wow, you think those are any good?” she asked. “Paul and I were afraid to touch any of them after my dad died. How do you know if they’ve spoiled?”
“All these reds, and the others down there, get better with age. Some of the ports and merlots are more than forty years old. That could produce a lovely full-bodied wine.”
“Or give us food poisoning?” She stared at the dusty bottles he set on the counter.
“We can tell by the aroma when we open them. I brought up three choices just in case some have turned to vinegar. Want to start with a merlot?”
She shrugged, presenting him with a corkscrew. “Whatever you think is best. You’re the expert.”
He took the bottles to the sink where he washed and dried them, then proceeded to open one. He held it out to her to sniff, but she just wrinkled her nose. He took a whiff, then smiled. “Smells just fine.”
She got out four wineglasses, then sat down on an island stool, watching as he poured a sample before swirling it. “It needs to aerate,” he explained, holding it up to the light and studying the liquid going around the glass. “But it looks and smells good.”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.” She munched on a cheese cracker, waiting for him to quit playing with his wine and take a test swig. Hopefully he wouldn’t immediately crumple to the floor from poisoning.
Finally, he brought the glass to his lips and tried the old wine. “This is perfectly lovely.” His victorious smile crinkled the edges of his eyes. “Not too full-bodied, but smooth and sweet. Fruity traces of berries or maybe cherries.” He took another sip. “And chocolate notes.”
“Chocolate notes?” She picked up the bottle and sniffed.
He held out his empty glass. “Please, sir, may I have some more?”
Amused at his Oliver Twist impression, she refilled his glass and then filled one for herself, taking a tiny sip.
Not bad. She took another sip, this time letting it roll around in her mouth to really taste it.
“Wow, this really is good. Who would’ve thought anything drinkable was in these dusty old bottles? ”
“You know what they say.” He raised his glass. “Wine and women . . . both get better with age.”
Too embarrassed to respond, she took yet another sip, then pointed at him. “What about for men? What’s their saying for getting older? What gets better with aging men?”
He seemed to consider this. “Old pickups?”
She chuckled. “Well, I’ll admit I was admiring your old pickup today. Reminds me of one that Paul had.” She set her glass down. “I do think I taste a smidgeon of chocolate,” she told him. “And there’s kind of a spicy taste too. What’s that?”
“That is the sign of a very good wine.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to new beginnings in an old house . . . and to wine and women improving with age.”
“And to helpful old dudes with cool pickups,” she added.
They both laughed.
“Looks like the party is starting,” Laurel said, joining them.
“Come have a glass of this wonderful merlot.” Marcus shared about unearthing bottles in the cellar. “Very nicely aged.”
“This house is just full of surprises.” Laurel took the glass he offered. “I’m not usually a merlot fan, but I’ll try it.”
“I better get my pasta water boiling.” Riva went over to the stove, listening as Laurel and Marcus discussed the merits of the merlot as well as other wines.
It sounded like Laurel was a bit of a wine expert too.
As Riva covered the pot, she noticed Laurel’s attire.
Sleek black pants and a silky turquoise top. For Laurel, this was very dressed up.
“You look nice,” Riva told her as she returned to her stool.
“Well, you said we were celebrating.” Laurel picked up a piece of cheese. “I thought I should dress for the occasion.”
Riva glanced down at her own T-shirt and khakis.
Both were a bit rumpled from her day of errands.
And her hair was still in its original ponytail from this morning.
But there was no time to spruce up now. She needed to get the pasta cooked and the table set.
“I thought we should eat in the dining room,” she told them while she removed plates from a cabinet and silverware from a drawer. “Since we’re being festive.”
“Need help?” Laurel offered.
“Nah, I got this. You stay and visit with Marcus and make sure my pasta water doesn’t boil over.
” Riva carried the place settings out to the dining room, then hunted down matching placemats and napkins and got it all set.
She even added a pair of half-used candlesticks to the table.
She returned to the kitchen for matches and put some of the blooms from her arrangement in a smaller vase before returning to the dining room.
Okay, it wasn’t exactly elegant, but it was cheerful.
And the first time since losing Paul she’d set up a meal in here. Baby steps, right?
She lit the candles, then lingered in the dining room for a long moment, fighting back tears as she remembered the last time she and Paul had dined in here over candlelight.
It had been wintertime. There was a dusting of snow outside, and it had been just the two of them.
He’d just gotten his diagnosis, and she’d fixed his favorite rib-eye roast with roasted vegetables.
His awful treatments hadn’t begun yet, but neither of them had much appetite anyway.
And thanks to his new restricted diet, enjoyable dining experiences soon fell by the wayside.
Laughter from the kitchen brought her back to the present and, using the napkin from her place setting, she wiped her tears, then refolded it.
It sounded like her guests were enjoying themselves.
Riva was amused by how Laurel appeared somewhat smitten with Marcus.
She couldn’t remember ever seeing her usually serious and somewhat cynical friend acting so light and flirty.
And she’d obviously taken great care to dress up tonight.
Even her short gray hair looked more styled than normal.
Really, if true love was brewing, Riva was happy for Laurel. She’d been through a rough divorce and more than ten years of being single. Marcus could do a lot worse than a kindhearted, straightforward person like Laurel.
As she returned to the kitchen with dry eyes, Riva reminded herself she had no romantic aspirations. Although . . . if she wanted a relationship . . . a fellow like Marcus didn’t seem half bad.