I smiled as I leaned down to check out the view from the window above the desk. This side of the house faced the neighbor’s next door, as I’d noticed from the outside. The window afforded a generous view of the porch area and another “For Lease” sign, this one discarded on the porch. “Is someone renting that house, as well?” I inquired, curious to know if I’d be having a neighbor.
“Oh, yes, a very nice-looking young man moved in not too long ago. I think it was around Thanksgiving.”
I put my hand on the desk and leaned in closer. I wasn’t looking for the “nice-looking young man,” but I was curious about the house itself, and how it differed from Mrs. Heider’s. This style of architecture had always fascinated me.
The Victorian next door was larger than some of the other houses on the street, certainly bigger than the one I was currently standing in. But it lacked many of the details of Mrs. Heider’s lovely home. It was painted a pretty blue color, but there was no turret, no slate roof, no gingerbread trim. Even so, it was still a great-looking structure. All of the houses around here were.
Mrs. Heider was prattling on about her neighbors, and I picked up at “It’s such a shame, nothing stays the same. Mr. Breen in an assisted-living facility, Margie with the Alzheimer’s.” She sighed.
At a loss as to what to say, I offered a sad smile and said, “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Heider pshawed. “No need to apologize for something you have nothing to do with, dear. It’s just the way of life.” She shook her head ruefully. “Enjoy your youth, young lady. It’s gone before you know it.”
Well, now that was just depressing, but I managed an acknowledging smile.
Suddenly Mrs. Heider’s eyes lit up. Uh-oh, I’d seen that look before. The one where someone, usually of the elderly persuasion, is about to offer some sort of sage advice.
I braced myself, but it wasn’t advice Mrs. Heider offered. It was this, “Oh, honey, maybe you and that nice young man next door will hit it off.” She pointed at the window. Did I detect a blush?
“He’s very, very handsome,” she added. Yep, she was definitely blushing. “If I were forty years younger…” She sighed wistfully. “But you”—she eyed me up and down—“now you might have a chance.” Oh no, not the matchmaking spiel.
I hurriedly interrupted, telling her I already had someone special in my life. She glanced at my ring finger accusingly, and I covered my left hand with my right.
Chuckling, she said, “Well, you’re not married, now are you? Keep your options open, dear. You might change your mind once you see your new neighbor.” Mrs. Heider blushed again. Oh, boy. “His name is Stowe, by the way.”
I glanced once again at the house next door; it appeared no one was home. I had to admit my curiosity was piqued. Not that I had any interest in this Stowe character. I loved Adam with all my heart. But I had to wonder just how good-looking this guy could be, seeing that he seemed to have charmed a seventy-year-old lady to the point of blushing.
***
When I returned to Fade Island, I drove straight to Adam’s place, dread in my heart. I needed to talk to him as soon as possible, though I knew he wasn’t going to like what I had to say. I certainly sensed the outcome wouldn’t be good.
When I arrived, I looked everywhere, but Adam was nowhere to be found. I checked the study. The desk lamp burned bright, but the room was empty. I hurried up the curved staircase to the second floor and made my way down the long hallway to the bedroom suite. No Adam. I headed back down to the kitchen, nothing. Just as I was about to give up, I noticed the dark wood door that led to the wine cellar—in the short hallway that separated the kitchen from the dining room—was slightly ajar. I walked closer. A light from below created a yellow wedge in the darkness.
I opened the door and called down the steps, “Adam, are you down there?”
A fisherman’s tiny house had once stood where Adam had built his impressive wood and stone contemporary. The original basement of that house now housed the wine cellar. Adam had told me that when he discovered the thick stone underground room was naturally suited for storing wine, he’d made a few adjustments and had the old basement converted into a state-of-the-art wine cellar.
“Yeah,” Adam called back from the chamber downstairs. “I’m here, just cataloging a new shipment of wine. Come on down.”
I started down the rough and narrow steps, my hand trailing along the cool surface of the stone wall beside them. I reached the landing, then passed under a stone archway, and, finally, stepped into a cavernous room.
Rows and rows of mahogany wine racks lined the walls. The wine cellar was a maze of old-world stone and low doorways. Sconces designed to look like gas lanterns flickered along the sides. It didn’t matter how many times I came down here, it never failed to remind me of a medieval dungeon, albeit a very clean and temperature-controlled one.
Adam’s back was to me. A case of wine with the flaps open lay perched on a wooden table to his right. I watched him for a few moments, wishing to savor this calm before the inevitable storm. Every time he retrieved a bottle and placed it in the rack above him, the material of the black sweater he wore strained along his back. He looked so good from this angle that I suddenly didn’t want to have the conversation I could no longer avoid.
Perhaps sensing something wasn’t right, Adam slowly turned to face me. “What’s up?” he asked, his tone tentative.
I moved to stand next to him and pulled a bottle of red from the case. As I turned it in my
