30. Wyatt
30
Wyatt
M arty 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 to us . 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.”
“Of course you can.” I step forward, sliding my arms around her waist.
“How much did this cost?”
“Don’t worry about that,” I say, brushing a kiss on her hair. “You’ll more than make it back with your food.”
“But—”
“If it helps, you can think of me like an investor,” I suggest. “Or… a silent business partner.”
She opens her mouth to protest again, and I silence her with a finger to her lips. “Marty left this house to both of us, Poppy.”
“I know—” She pushes my hand away. “And I think it’s too much. I only met him once.”
“Sure.” I shrug. “But he saw what I’ve always seen in you. How lovely you are.”
She frowns. “How could he—”
“And he knew there was something between us. He could tell, even before we knew it. He wanted us to be happy. Which means we get to use this space however we want, and I think this is the best use for it.”
She looks around again, her eyes moving from one place to another, as if she can’t drink it all in quickly enough. As if she doesn’t dare let herself believe it’s real.
“It’s all yours,” I murmur, squeezing her waist. “You can run your catering business for real.”
And then, to my horror, she bursts into tears.
“Shit,” I mutter, my brows slamming down, but she shakes her head.
“This is… this is my dream come true.”
I wipe my thumb over her cheek, searching her espresso-brown eyes. “Are you sure? Because if it’s not right—”
“It’s perfect.” She laughs through her tears. “It’s… everything I could ever want. Thank you.”
Warmth spills through my chest. I breathe out, watching as she wanders around the spacious kitchen, touching everything, marveling at the appliances, the countertops, the pantry. My heart is so full that I could do this for her, to show her how important her cooking is, to give her the support and encouragement she never got from Kurt. The support and encouragement I will never stop giving her, as long as there is still breath in my lungs.
“What will you do with the rest of the house?” Poppy asks as I wander to her side, where she’s looking out into the vegetable garden.
“Well, it’s ours ,” I remind her. “And I don’t know. Rent it out, I guess?”
She nods thoughtfully, gazing out into the yard. “Look at all those vegetables.”
I chuckle. “I know. Honestly, I don’t understand why he spent so much time at the community garden when he had this.”
Poppy looks at me warmly. “I do. It was because of you, Wyatt. I think… I think you were like the son he never had.”
My heart softens. I’d never considered it like that, but she might be right. The way he’d listen to me, give advice, check in about Bailey, ask about my life. The way he always called me “my boy” so affectionately. He wanted someone to mentor, to guide, to love.
And in truth, I’d wanted the same. I’ve never known my father, something I’ve always tried to be matter-of-fact about. He’s never been in my life, that’s just how it is. But Marty filled that void in a way I never realized. He became that father figure for me. We leaned on each other in much the same way.
And suddenly I realize exactly why he left this house to me. To me and Poppy. He didn’t get to fill this house with kids like he and Joyce wanted…
But we can.
It’s never too late to be happy .
My heart is full as I gaze at Poppy, remembering her words, and how Marty said the same thing to me—that it’s not too late and we still have a lifetime.
I can see that lifetime, I can imagine that future with her, right here. And I realize I don’t just want to give her the kitchen. I want to live here with her, to raise a family here with her. There are four floors above us which would make a lovely family home. A home where we can live, and Poppy can work, where I can grow vegetables in Marty’s garden, keeping the memory of him alive, carrying that memory into the next generation, using it to fuel my new business idea.
And when I notice the maple tree at the end of the yard, its leaves turning gold with the approach of fall, I know this is exactly where I am meant to be.
Poppy pushes up onto her toes to kiss me softly. “You are the most wonderful man I’ve ever met,” she says, echoing what she told me in the limo, what feels like a lifetime ago. “I love you, Wyatt.”
“I love you, too,” I reply roughly, deepening the kiss. I nudge her back against the counter, tempted to take things further, but catch myself. I’m sure that won’t be in line with the health code.
Besides, if I have sex with her, if I let myself get that close, I’m sure I’ll blurt out everything I’m thinking, and that’s the last thing I should do. I don’t want to scare Poppy, not when she’s young and might not be ready for what I am. And even if she is, we can’t have those things until we talk to Bailey, until we tell her what’s going on.
That’s what scares me the most, actually. That’s why I can’t let myself think about it until I know my daughter is happy about Poppy and me. Until I know I won’t have to choose between my daughter and the woman I love.
A long-forgotten feeling rushes through me, that itch to escape my problems by jumping on my bike and heading out onto the highway. I haven’t felt it for a while, and usually I’d shake it off, but for the first time in forever, I’m going to do it—to get on my bike and let the ride distract me.
Only this time, I won’t be going it alone.