Chapter 18 #2
They watched the minivan drive away and eventually, Tim said, ‘How’s about we get this lot inside and I’ll give y’all the southern welcome?’
‘Grilled croc?’ Frankie asked.
Tim laughed. ‘Let’s start with wings, Tim’s famous hot sauce and a fine Tennessee whisky. It’ll put hairs on your chest.’
He patted Seth’s shoulder affectionately and the group lugged their gear indoors. Rosalie took off her soggy sandals at the door and put on the pair of spa slippers she’d brought with her, in case hotels in the south didn’t provide them.
The house was big and bright, which surprised Rosalie.
Where she would have expected old, dark furniture, maybe even a musty smell of a home lived in by only a man, she found high ceilings, beams in place of walls, slate tiled floors, a large modern log fire, cosy yet bright and clean cream sofas, a brand-spanking-new farmhouse-style kitchen.
It was like a home from a magazine and one Rosalie would have been proud to have decorated.
One corner of the living space had floor-to-ceiling shelving, packed full of vinyl records, and in front of them was an upright piano and two six-string guitars set in stands.
As she looked around the space, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, tears came to her eyes.
Perhaps it was the beauty of the home. That it felt warm and welcoming.
She had never lived in a place that felt this way and, oddly, she felt soothed by it.
As if the home were wrapping its arms around her and saying, Within these four walls, you’ll never walk alone.
Or perhaps that was the words of Elvis singing in the background.
Rosalie cleared her throat and fiddled with the rose-gold chain around her neck until she had composed herself. ‘You have a lovely home, Tim,’ she said.
‘Not much to do with me, darlin’, but thank you. Now, there’re two bedrooms down here going spare and two upstairs.’
Frankie and Billy volunteered for the downstairs rooms and made their way through the kitchen with their gear. Tim took Rosalie’s luggage from her, ignoring her protests, and led Seth and her upstairs.
She held on to the stair rail to steady herself as she walked through Seth’s jet wash – that scent that had thrown her in the van.
For some reason, Seth seemed to abhor Rosalie and, frankly, she wasn’t fond of his crabby attitude.
Nevertheless, as she walked behind him, his triceps were taut, and his muscles contracted as he lugged his guitar in its case in one hand and his holdall in the other.
He had discarded his lumberjack shirt now and wore only his white T-shirt and stonewash denim pants.
He had kicked off his boots and socks on coming into the house and now he walked barefoot up the stairs.
She loved how he slipped into the home as if he’d never been away, how his southern drawl had ramped up a notch in his dad’s presence and, most of all, how that fine ass of his flexed as they mounted the stairs.
She gripped the stair rail just a little bit harder.
Window shopping never hurt anyone’s credit card.
Tim nudged open the door to the first bedroom they came to at the top of the staircase and Rosalie followed him inside.
The smell of outdoors blew in from the open window that looked out across the paddock.
A large oak bedframe commandeered most of the space in the room and was covered by white cotton sheets.
‘There’s a wardrobe there and a chest of drawers,’ Tim said. ‘The sheets are fresh on; I pressed them myself.’
Rosalie turned from the view across the thriving green fields and smiled. ‘By all accounts you make a mean grill. If that vinyl collection downstairs is anything to go by, you have great taste in music. And you’re domesticated? Tim, where do I find one of you and how on earth are you single?’
Tim chuckled. ‘Well, now, I do have certain lady friends from time to time.’
Rosalie laughed, more at Seth shaking his head and saying, ‘All right, Casanova, let’s leave her to it.’
Tim nodded. ‘Bathroom’s down the hall, and the vinyl collection is much bigger in the music library.’
‘You have a music library?’ Rosalie asked.
Tim shrugged. ‘For want of a better name for it. Help yourself to a look around, it’s the next room from yours.’
‘Thank you, Tim. For the room, the food, for having us.’ And thank the lord this home was so much better than she had expected.
‘Nonsense. Thank you for bringing my boy home. I thought he was going to re-enlist for a time there.’
Re-enlist? In the military? Rosalie looked at Seth leaning against the door frame, his guitar case still in hand, his hair rugged from where he had pulled his fingers through it out on the porch. The thought of him ever risking his life seemed as brave as it was terrifying.
‘I’m pleased he didn’t do that,’ she found herself saying, all the while looking at Seth.
‘Do you have everything you need?’ he asked.
Everything. She had air in her lungs, warmth in her heart, a beautiful home full of love and music.
She nodded and watched Seth walk away with Tim, listening to the father and son banter as they walked down the hall.
As Rosalie took in the enticing view from her bedroom window again, the breeze cooling her skin, she realised she had never been in a home quite like this before. Not her childhood home. Not her own home.
Here, she could imagine homecooked meals, children riding the two brown horses outside, helping her little girls with their homework, family nights eating s’mores by a fire in the yard. What a different life that would be to her own.
After unpacking a few bits and pieces to cover her for the three nights she would be staying at the ranch, Rosalie put on an untarnished pair of Louboutin sandals and took her toiletries in search of the bathroom to freshen up.
Walking to the end of the hall, as Tim had directed her to do, she reached out for what she suspected was the knob of the bathroom door, then jumped back in shock as it was pulled open from the inside.
As the bellow of steam cleared, she was faced with a sight that dried her lips and made her mouth open as she ogled shamelessly. Seth was naked but for the white towel tied around his waist and the dog tags that always hung around his neck.
Her gaze went first to the spot where the towel was tied, then to the cut of his muscles just above his hips.
She followed the light trail of hair up his navel and his chiselled abdomen, to where the hair spread across his toned chest. His jaw flexed as he swallowed, then her hungry eyes met his and the yearning she felt was unmistakable.
‘Oh my goodness. I was… Me, I… You’re wet.’
‘I showered,’ he said, stating the obvious, his eyes still fixed to hers.
‘Right. Me too. I mean, not yet. I’m going to. Freshen up, I mean.’
He nodded. ‘Bathroom’s all yours. Don’t take hours, grub’s up.’
And just like that, his attractiveness was gone. As if she would take hours , she thought, rolling her eyes as his very nice back walked away from her.
* * *
Rosalie could smell Tim’s smoking grill as it wafted in through the bedroom window. She could hear the guys outside – Frankie, Billy, Tim and Seth. Whilst she would have preferred a colourful salad ordinarily, she had to admit to herself that she was positively salivating.
Tottering in her heels to prevent any indentations in the hardwood floor of the hallway, Rosalie was making her way outside when she remembered the music room Tim had invited her to look around.
It was the size of the bedroom she was staying in. Tim hadn’t been exaggerating. Two walls were full of vinyl records. The kind of collection it would take years to amass, even for a true lover of music.
The flooring, like in her guest room, was wood but a large square rug lay in the middle and on it sat two high-back leather chairs.
Between the chairs was an old record player in the style of the fifties, with its lid open, ready to accept music.
Five guitars – acoustic, electric and bass – hung on a third wall and around them were black and white prints of Randy and his band Armstrung playing live.
She moved closer, inspecting them, so intricately she could see the beads of sweat on Randy’s brow.
Tim was clearly a very proud father, as he should be.
Then she noticed on the wall behind her more family photographs of Tim, Randy, presumably their mother, and a young Seth.
He was cute as heck – all full cheeks, not like the streamline structured face he had now, a mop of dark hair and striking brown eyes, even then.
He had most resemblance to Tim, where Randy had more of a look of their mom; softer eyes and a more pronounced nose.
Next to the family pictures was a large portrait of Seth in his full military uniform – formal breasted jacket and standard issue hat. He was clean-shaven and looked strapping and proud. In truth, she was in awe of Seth and men like him, who would knowingly go into danger to serve their country.
Beside his portrait was a picture of Seth with a group of other soldiers, sitting around on crates and folded out chairs, at what looked like an operating base. He had one knee bent up as he perched on a tower of crates with a guitar in his hands.
Moving to the shelves, she realised the music had been arranged in alphabetical order by artist. Someone had lovingly worked through the collection and sorted it this way. It must have taken hours and hours of time.
She slipped out a few records – Bob Dylan, Dean Martin, Dolly Parton, Frank Sinatra, Guns N’ Roses. It was quite a collection. Whilst she was hovering in the ‘G’s area of the shelves, she came across a record that stole her breath. Grace , a self-named title.