Chapter 52
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Cleo
The Jitney ground to a halt next to a bus shelter behind a parking lot. The last stop on the line. It was all blue skies in Montauk, and I was feeling cautiously optimistic as I stepped off the coach.
“What the hell, Cleo? You should have let me pick you up,” Gabriel said when I dumped a large cardboard box and a duffel bag at his feet then dashed back inside to grab my other bag.
So much for travelling light.
“What have you got in here? Bricks?” he asked, picking up the box after he’d shouldered both duffel bags, leaving me empty-handed.
“Power tools.” I gave him an exaggerated wink.
He groaned like this was all too much for him.
His gaze travelled from the top of my head to my cropped tank top and flowy cotton pants I bought in Bali all the way down to the flip-flops on my feet. Annika and I got pedicures yesterday, so I’d be beach-ready.
I returned the favor as we crossed the parking lot. Today he looked like a surfer dude in a faded blue T-shirt, board shorts and Old Skool Vans. No laces, of course.
The many faces of Gabriel Francis.
We stopped next to an older model black Jeep Wrangler with the top down, and he stowed my things in the back.
“Cool Jeep,” I said when we hopped in and donned our sunglasses.
There was sand in the footwell. Sand on the seat. Sand everywhere. Like he’d gone to the ocean and brought half the beach with him. When he turned the key in the ignition, Ray Charles’ “Don’t Let The Sun Catch You Cryin’” poured from the speakers.
Gabriel glanced over. “Have you ever been out here?”
“Nope. Never made it out this far.”
“It’s called The End. I love that. It’s not as much of a scene as the rest of The Hamptons.” He gave me a brief history of Montauk. Brief because it was only a five-minute drive.
Gabriel’s house was hidden behind tall bushes at the end of a dirt road.
Nestled in a grove of oaks, the two-story house wasn’t grand or flashy—the cedar shingles were weathered and the robin’s-egg blue paint on the front door was peeling. I loved it immediately.
I wrestled one of the duffel bags out of his hand and followed him up a flagstone path onto the front porch that housed two bikes, a surfboard, and an assortment of floral-cushioned wicker furniture left behind by the previous owner, Gabriel told me.
I heard a dog barking on the other side of the door and shrank back. I’d conveniently forgotten that I’d also be sharing a house with a chocolate Lab with big, sad eyes.
That dog did not sound sad. He sounded hungry.
“What if your dog doesn’t like me?”
“Otis loves everyone.” Gabriel’s brows knitted together. “Why wouldn’t he like you?”
I told him about Jackie O’s poodle that always growled and bared its teeth at me for no apparent reason. “Xavi said it’s because I give off a lot of black cat energy.”
Gabriel found that hilarious.
After he got done laughing, he nodded sagely. “I can see that about you. Black cats don’t chase. Good thing Otis and I are both cat fans.”
On that note, he flung open the door and strode right in. Otis ran circles around him, his tail swishing against my shins when I ventured inside.
“Otis. Down!” Otis sat and looked up at Gabriel, waiting for his next command. “This is my friend, Cleo,” he said, making the introductions as if Otis were a human and not a canine.
Otis approached me cautiously, sniffing my feet and the hems of my pants and the ground I stood on until finally making up his mind about me. He sat at my feet and cocked his head, tail swishing like he was happy to see me.
I leaned over and stroked the top of his head and behind his ears, letting him know I came as friend not foe, which prompted him to drop to the ground and roll over, thumping his tail as I stroked his belly.
I think Otis liked me.
“See that? Big fan already,” Gabriel said then pointed to the box and the bags we’d dropped to the floor to give Otis a proper greeting. “Where do you want all this? In your room or in the art studio?”
I pointed to the bag that needed to go to my room, not to be confused with our room. The rest was for my art.
“I’ll show you your room first,” he said, shouldering the bag.
Which was when I took my first good look at the timber-panelled living room. A bit on the shabby side and lived-in, but cool. So very him. So very me .
It had a 1970s Laurel Canyon slash Malibu surf shack vibe with a low-slung burnt orange velvet sofa and leather chairs. Potted palms. A wall of driftwood shelves held his stereo, CDs and vinyls, books and burnished gold incense holders.
A green ceramic bowl that looked like a sea anemone filled with shells and sea glass sat on the coffee table. I ran my hand over the grooves and cracks in the wood table and pocketed a piece of sea glass as if I could absorb his energy and spirit just by touching his things.
“Where did you get everything for your house?” It wasn’t just a house. He’d created a home. It even smelled like him. His incense and woodsy, spicy scent.
“Estate sales. Flea markets. Yard sales. I love buying stuff that has a history.”
Textbook irony.
Upstairs, there was one bathroom and three bedrooms. The same wood-panelled walls and incense and cedar scent. The door at the opposite end of the hall was closed and I assumed it was Gabriel’s bedroom.
My room faced the front with a view of the ocean in the distance.
If we’d ever bought a beach house together, this was exactly what I would have chosen. The vintage décor and furniture. Our books and our music. An oasis away from the city for winding down after the pressure of being on the road.
Except that this wasn’t a life we shared.
My chest got tight, and I had a knot in my stomach that made it hard to breathe.
If I looked at him, I would burst into tears, so I focused on everything except for him.
A stack of paperbacks with tattered covers and a red Anglepoise reading light on the bedside table.
A milky white ceramic vase filled with wildflowers on the distressed wood dresser.
A handmade quilt on the bed under a skylight that would make it feel like sleeping under the stars.
All the little touches to make me feel at home.
In the home he’d created without me.
“Cleo,” he said softly, an apology in his tone like he knew what I was thinking.
I schooled my expression before turning to face him with a smile that threatened to slip.
He filled up the doorway. Made the room suddenly feel too small.
His shoulders had gotten broader, his muscles more sculpted in our years apart.
Jaw squarer. Cheekbones sharper. A few new lines around his eyes.
But those eyes, a deep rich chocolate brown, and those full lips that softened his features, remained unchanged.
“I’m happy you’re here,” he said softly.
“Me too.” Although I wasn’t entirely sure that was true. I pointed to the vase. A distraction from the intensity of his gaze. “Did you pick those flowers yourself?”
He smiled. “I did. From my wild garden. Come on. I’ll show you,” he said, eager to go now. “I get all this wildlife,” he said as we jogged down the stairs. “You’re going to love it.”
“I’m a city girl. What kind of wildlife are we talking about?” I asked when he picked up the rest of my things from the living room and then insisted on carrying everything, despite my protests.
“Birds. Butterflies. Native bees. It’s so fucking cool.” He sounded like a little kid on Christmas Eve, so I was determined to appreciate this natural wonder, too.
We made our way through the kitchen with cream Smeg appliances and an orange laminate counter and through doors that looked like shoji screens that opened onto the deck. Down a few steps, a stone patio led to a kidney-shaped swimming pool with rock features.
Beyond all that was his wild garden.
“This is incredible,” I said sincerely, trailing my hand over the tall grasses as we followed a sandy path through the garden. I wouldn’t be surprised to see fairies flitting among the flora and fauna.
Along the way, Gabriel pointed out blue irises and grey goldenrod and white heath asters, identifying them all by name as if he’d suddenly become a renowned botanist in his spare time.
“What are those for?” I asked, pointing at the jewel-toned glass spheres hanging from the branches of a tree, which he identified as a variety of magnolia known as “Sweet Thing.”
Which of course sent me reeling back in time to when we’d listened to Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks when he still belonged to Annika, and I was already enamored with him.
“I fill them with sugar water for the hummingbirds. They’re the coolest birds. Like little helicopters. They can fly in all directions, even upside down and backward.”
Right now, I felt like a hummingbird, flying backward, forward, and upside down at a dizzying speed.
“And here’s your art studio,” he said, flinging open the door of a timber-framed studio at the bottom of the garden. Ceiling fans hung from the vaulted ceiling and creamy light flooded the room from tall windows.
On closer inspection, this wasn’t an art studio at all. It was his rehearsal space. His guitars hung on the wall and there was a drum set in the far corner. “I don’t want to take your space. I can work in the house or?—”
“This space is all for you. I want you to have it. And don’t worry. I won’t bother you when you’re working.”
My gaze landed on an easel. Not just any easel. A studio easel. I ran my hand over the solid wood. “You bought me an easel?”
He shrugged like it was no big deal that he’d dropped a few grand on an easel.
“I wanted you to have everything you needed.” He ran his hand through his hair and looked around. A stool and a drafting table. His old stereo and speakers with a selection of CDs. There was even a mini fridge. He’d thought of everything. “If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”
“This is more than enough. I’m only here for a few weeks,” I reminded him.
He scowled like he didn’t appreciate the reminder. “Come on. Let’s walk to the beach.”