CHAPTER ONE #3
The entrance hall smelled faintly of beeswax and lemon.
Sunlight spilled through stained glass above the door, scattering muted colors across a floor of tiny black-and-white tiles.
The staircase curved upward beside a polished walnut banister.
Nat had lived in buildings with less charm than the coat closet.
Mrs. Gable led them to the second floor and unlocked a paneled door. The moment Nat stepped inside, every sensible thought she possessed abandoned her.
The apartment was beautiful.
Morning light poured through three tall windows into a living room with honey-colored floors, a marble fireplace, and built-in bookshelves.
An arched doorway opened into a dining room large enough for a table that seated more than four people.
Beyond it was the kitchen from the photographs, only better: cream cabinets, a deep farmhouse sink, broad counters, and an old six-burner stove that looked capable of understanding ambition.
Nat walked toward it as if summoned.
“It was restored five years ago,” Mrs. Gable said. “The previous tenants remained until they purchased a house. They had their first child while living here.”
“How lovely,” Nat murmured, running her fingers over the smooth stone counter.
“Soapstone,” Michael said behind her.
She turned. “You know counters?”
“I read the listing.”
“Of course you did.”
He ignored that and opened a cabinet, inspecting the hinges.
Nat watched him test a drawer, check beneath the sink, and study the windows for signs of water damage.
She should have disliked him on principle.
Instead, she found herself reassured by his thoroughness.
If the ceiling had intended to fall, Michael Conroy would have identified the projected date and prepared a contingency plan.
The apartment had two bedrooms separated by a tiled bathroom, enough closet space to prevent seasonal clothing from becoming furniture, and a narrow balcony overlooking a courtyard garden.
Nat imagined writing at a small table beside the kitchen windows.
She imagined photographing food in the clean morning light and inviting Lena over for dinners that didn’t require folding chairs.
She imagined unpacking her grandmother’s recipe notebook instead of sealing it in a box for an indefinite succession of temporary rooms.
Then she remembered she was homeless, single, and competing against a man with tabbed financial documents.
Michael stood at the living-room window, looking down at the quiet street.
Something in his face had changed. The careful reserve remained, but beneath it Nat caught a glimpse of exhaustion.
He needed this place too. Perhaps not for the kitchen or the light, but with the same sharp urgency that had brought her there wearing an undersized ring and borrowed confidence.
Mrs. Gable clasped her hands. “You have seen the apartment. I’m sorry the circumstances were not made sufficiently clear, but I will wait for applicants whose relationship suits the character of the building.”
Michael turned from the window. “You’re willing to leave it vacant rather than rent to a qualified single tenant?”
“I am willing to wait for the right tenants.”
“I can pay six months in advance.”
Nat looked at him. “You can?”
His jaw tightened, as if he regretted revealing the extent of his desperation. “Yes.”
Mrs. Gable remained unmoved. “Money is not the principal consideration.”
“It generally ranks rather high in rental transactions.”
“This is my home, Mr. Conroy. I live downstairs. The people above me become part of its life.”
Nat understood then. Mrs. Gable was not merely eccentric or traditional.
She was lonely, protective, and determined to fill the rooms above her with the kind of happiness she wanted the building to contain.
Her method was intrusive, unreasonable, and possibly several other words Michael was already arranging alphabetically, but the longing beneath it was real.
Mrs. Gable moved toward the door. “I wish you both well.”
Nat followed slowly, looking back once at the sunlit kitchen.
Six hours from now, she would be standing on a sidewalk with three boxes of cookware and nowhere permanent to take them.
Michael would be leaving his own apartment by Friday, armed with a perfect credit score that apparently could not compete with Mrs. Gable’s faith in enduring romance.
Michael reached the doorway ahead of her. Mrs. Gable waited in the hall.
Nat looked at the cheap silver ring on her finger. Then she looked at Michael—orderly, infuriating, financially solvent Michael, who needed the apartment as urgently as she did.
The idea arrived fully formed, reckless and impossible.
In other words, it felt familiar.
She slipped her hand through Michael’s arm. His entire body went rigid.
Mrs. Gable blinked.
Michael looked down at Nat’s hand and then at her face. “What are you doing?”
Nat smiled up at him with every ounce of warmth she could manufacture on no rehearsal whatsoever.
“We’re engaged.”