The Girl Next Door
. . .
I'm standing on the balcony of my grandfather's house—well, it's my house now, but I still think of it as his.
I never thought I would be back here in my hometown, the city where I grew up.
When I left L.A, I went as far away as I could—to the other side of the country, to be exact.
I settled in New York, and I haven’t looked back.
It's not that I have anything against the place where I grew up, per se. There was just nothing keeping me here.
There's not much love lost between me and the grandfather who raised me. We didn't necessarily have a contentious relationship, but he was no substitute for a much-needed father figure. Rather, he was just an old man doing his duty. And I suppose I'm grateful for that now.
I don't know why I was surprised when he left his house to me. He didn't have anyone else to leave it to.
I still have my apartment in New York but there's nothing keeping me there either. My business ventures have been so successful I can live anywhere I want now.
I honestly don't know if I'm going to sell this house or not. I figured I needed to come back and see the old place before making my decision. I don’t have particularly fond memories of my youth here, but I don’t have traumatic ones either.
It's simply the place where I grew up.
I look out over the ocean, watching as the last of the sun's rays glisten over the waves of the Pacific in a glorious display of pinks, purples, and oranges.
How did I forget this beautiful view? It might be worth keeping for that alone.
Of course, this view will also be a major selling point if I decide to list it.
Love it or list it. Isn’t that the name of some HGTV show? I don’t watch much TV, preferring to keep my mind occupied with work, but it sounds familiar.
My eyes are drawn to the mansion next door.
My grandfather's house is nothing to sniff at, but it doesn’t compare to the luxury that sits next door.
I remember it from growing up here, though I've never been over there.
As far as I know, a widower lives there all alone—at least that's what I've always heard.
Several of the rooms are lit up, but my gaze is pulled to the glow at the top of the house. The house has a turret like a medieval castle, although the style is anything but outdated. It's modern and tastefully done, a feat in contemporary architecture.
I can see right inside the window. There's an easel with a canvas propped up on it. Huh. Who'd have thought the old widower was a painter? I wonder if he's any good or if he's just one of those who dabbles in it just to give himself something to do.
As I turn to go back inside the comfort of the house, a movement catches my eye in the window.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart thunders in my ears when I see a girl's figure move into sight.
I don’t know why I’m so arrested by her, but it’s as if my world has imploded right in front of my eyes. Something about her captivates me, making it impossible to look away from her.
She's breathtakingly gorgeous. And Christ Almighty, all she has on is a white bra and panty set, though it's thinly veiled with a white button-up shirt that she's left to hang open like a robe.
She's thin, but I can see the gentle curves of her body. Light brown hair cascades down her back to her waist. She's turned toward the canvas, so I'm looking at her profile. It keeps me from seeing her eyes, and I'm suddenly desperate to know what color they are.
She picks up a brush and a paint palette and starts to paint.
I watch the gentle sway of her body as she holds the palette in one hand and strokes the canvas with the other. She paints swiftly, her brush frequently mixing the paints squirted on the palette she’s holding in her hand.
Who is she? Somehow, I can't see her being the old man's wife. She looks too young. His daughter, perhaps? But if he has a daughter, how come I never saw her at school? Was she homeschooled? I know I've never seen her before because there's no way I'd forget the vision standing in that window.
I stare at her in fascination. I'm not sure how long I stand there, but by the time her shoulders finally sag in exhaustion, and she lays down her brush and palette, the sun has descended over the ocean.
She finally turns and looks out the window.
And directly into my eyes.