Chapter 36
CHAPTER
“That’s quite the security system,” I say and follow him inside. “Are the crown jewels kept here?”
He chuckles. “It was the original vault door from the first bank in San Francisco. I got it at an auction.”
I shiver harder as the door swings closed behind us with a rush of cold air. “You collect vault doors?”
“Just this one. I mentioned that for a while, I thought life was about acquiring things.”
“I thought you meant watches or fast cars.”
“I had a few of those, too.”
We’re standing in what looks like a locker room, except the vestibules on either side are made from exotic wood and filled with mountain and road bikes, helmets, cycling shoes, SUP boards and paddles, and even a few kayaks.
“Collecting is a hard habit to break,” Luc admits. “But now it’s only things I can use to have fun.”
“This isn’t an apartment building?”
“Nope.”
Sally follows Frank into the elevator at the end of the room. We join them in the clear glass box and Luc pushes a button for the second floor. As the elevator rises, I watch the gears and metal building supports go by.
“It used to be a firepole,” Luc says, “but Frank couldn’t get up or down it.”
“So, this is Frank’s elevator?”
“Exactly.”
The doors open onto a spacious combined living room and kitchen with floor-to-ceiling glass on the far wall that has an unobstructed view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay.
My soggy sneakers squeak on the concrete floors.
I take them off before stepping onto thick cream-colored rugs. “Did you decorate this place yourself?”
“It was important to me that everything be comfortable.”
Luc has impeccable taste—plush sofas in blues and browns, a fireplace along one wall made of thinly stacked silver-gray limestone.
Framed photographs of mountains, wildflower fields, and waterfalls hang from the walls.
“Did you take all of them?” I ask, nodding at a striking underwater shot of a coral reef alive with brightly colored fish.
“Yes. After leaving my last company, I spent time traveling, mostly by bike, trying to get back in touch with what made me happy. I went to some epic places. But it was lonely not seeing them with someone else.”
The admission sprinkles down like a sun shower. Sally and Frank settle on a bed much like the one I bought my dog—a sage-green orthopedic couch that easily fits two. Tired from their swim and all the excitement, both nod off.
“This was once the firehouse’s bunkroom,” Luc explains.
I wander into the gourmet kitchen. It has every appliance a cook might dream of, including a gorgeous French range and matching oven, plus a coffee machine like the one I left behind in Pacific Heights. “Shame you don’t cook,” I say.
“I planned to learn,” Luc says.
“Like swimming?” I manage to joke, then shiver.
He gestures to a steel staircase in the corner that bends up to the next floor. “Bathroom is at the top of the stairs then to the right. I’ll set some dry clothes outside the door.”
My hands are so cold that I can’t feel them. He must be cold, too. But I don’t know if there’s only one bathroom upstairs, and it feels awkward to ask if he wants to shower, too, or first, or whatever? Do I want him to join me? Heat spirals between my legs. “Thanks,” I finally say.
Once upstairs, it’s clear that there’s more than one bedroom and he’s directed me to the guest suite.
It has an unobstructed view of the Golden Gate Bridge plus a queen-sized bed covered in a pale-gray comforter.
There’s a giant black-and-white photograph of Frank as a puppy hanging on the wall, curled in two hands that are obviously Luc’s.
It’s a touching shot, even more so knowing their story.
The bathroom is large, floors stone, shower glass with multiple showerheads, like a human car wash.
I peel off my clothes, stand beneath the spray, let warmth seep in until I stop shivering.
By the time I get out, there’s soft light-blue sweatshirt and navy sweatpants neatly folded on the bed.
I run fingers through my hair, then stare at my reflection in the mirror—full lips, narrow nose, wide brownish-green eyes.
I’ve been told I resemble the actress Sarah Paulson but have never seen it.
Who am I? “Penn Roberts,” I whisper. But I’m not Penn Stone, or Penn Roberts, either.
Those atoms are being replaced even as I wonder.
“I’m on the path to not here,” I tell my reflection. “And that’s okay.”