looked as if a giant had stepped on it. The roof sagged, where it was still intact, and few of its decorative wood bits were still attached. The walls remained upright, but the bungalow didn’t resemble the home she’d rented. Yellow police tape encircled the entire heap and much of the yard, as if it was the scene of a particularly gruesome murder.
She’d lived there. And now, too abruptly, she didn’t. The hollow feeling in her stomach intensified. She’d loved that little bungalow.
Ginnie turned her back on the scene, glad she’d gone over and poked around before the officials arrived and the police put up tape to bar her and everyone else from the home “for her own good”. She’d retrieved some clothes and her purse and files and things in the pre-dawn light, listening for any sound of further collapse. There wasn’t any. She’d hoped there wasn’t much more to fall down on her.
The hollowness became a prickly hurt in her throat. The cute little house had represented her dreams, her hopes for a new beginning. A new life.
A happier life.
The final break had come not when Rick had finally raised his hand to her, or when she’d told Rick it was over, or even the awful scene when she’d informed her mother. It had come when her key opened her new, cute, private home’s door.
Nothing but a dangerous shack now.
Of course, it could have been worse. It could have been her tomb.
She got in her Volkswagen and drove the few blocks to Harry’s house, thoughtful. Her hurt receded as she contemplated the mystery of him.
The man was a fascinating combination of contrasts. A strong, tough man who knew how to be tender. Caring, but elusive.
Great for her physical well-being. Dangerous to her emotional well-being.
But just the thought of him made her hurt disappear. All she had to do was close her eyes and she felt his hands on her body, his breath on her skin. Last night she’d even dreamed of him instead of having the usual nightmares.
Ginnie exited her car and walked into Harry’s house. She smiled. Or maybe it was just the pure, spacious beauty of Harry’s house.
Ginnie inhaled, scenting new leather and polished wood. She could get used to this. Exquisite furniture. Lovely rugs over gleaming hardwood. It really was a privilege to be surrounded by such a tasteful, color-balanced, beautiful…
Ginnie frowned, her gaze snagged on something. That painting. The one she’d noticed the evening before.
She walked to where it dominated the room despite its medium size and awkward, off-center placement near the teak armoire. An ugly oil painting. The colors, clear and cheerful primaries juxtaposed with muddy browns that may or may not have been intentional, combined to create a polo scene. The illegible signature was a proud black slash across the lower right corner.
But the odd thing, aside from such a clearly amateurish picture encircled by an elaborate gilded frame, was that she could see numbers through the paint. The number four where the tan of a bamboo mallet thinned. A barely visible seven on the Velcro strap on a rider’s leather knee guard.
It was a paint-by-numbers picture.
Someone had finished it with sloppy disregard for staying within the lines and then framed it. And Harry hung it where it’d be the first thing anyone saw.
“Huh.” Ginnie wondered what she was missing. Was it a child’s effort? The large, aggressive signature seemed to suggest otherwise. The overall effect struck her as modern and even daring, as if it was a sly mocking of art by virtue of sheer ugliness. Ginnie hated it.
It really did dominate the room horribly. What a waste of a gorgeous frame. She wondered if Harry would mind if she moved the picture. Just to a less conspicuous place. Like a closet.
No, that would be rude. She’d just see how the room looked without the atrocious thing, then put it back.
Before she could change her mind, she’d pulled a chair over to stand on. She lifted the picture slowly from
She’d lived there. And now, too abruptly, she didn’t. The hollow feeling in her stomach intensified. She’d loved that little bungalow.
Ginnie turned her back on the scene, glad she’d gone over and poked around before the officials arrived and the police put up tape to bar her and everyone else from the home “for her own good”. She’d retrieved some clothes and her purse and files and things in the pre-dawn light, listening for any sound of further collapse. There wasn’t any. She’d hoped there wasn’t much more to fall down on her.
The hollowness became a prickly hurt in her throat. The cute little house had represented her dreams, her hopes for a new beginning. A new life.
A happier life.
The final break had come not when Rick had finally raised his hand to her, or when she’d told Rick it was over, or even the awful scene when she’d informed her mother. It had come when her key opened her new, cute, private home’s door.
Nothing but a dangerous shack now.
Of course, it could have been worse. It could have been her tomb.
She got in her Volkswagen and drove the few blocks to Harry’s house, thoughtful. Her hurt receded as she contemplated the mystery of him.
The man was a fascinating combination of contrasts. A strong, tough man who knew how to be tender. Caring, but elusive.
Great for her physical well-being. Dangerous to her emotional well-being.
But just the thought of him made her hurt disappear. All she had to do was close her eyes and she felt his hands on her body, his breath on her skin. Last night she’d even dreamed of him instead of having the usual nightmares.
Ginnie exited her car and walked into Harry’s house. She smiled. Or maybe it was just the pure, spacious beauty of Harry’s house.
Ginnie inhaled, scenting new leather and polished wood. She could get used to this. Exquisite furniture. Lovely rugs over gleaming hardwood. It really was a privilege to be surrounded by such a tasteful, color-balanced, beautiful…
Ginnie frowned, her gaze snagged on something. That painting. The one she’d noticed the evening before.
She walked to where it dominated the room despite its medium size and awkward, off-center placement near the teak armoire. An ugly oil painting. The colors, clear and cheerful primaries juxtaposed with muddy browns that may or may not have been intentional, combined to create a polo scene. The illegible signature was a proud black slash across the lower right corner.
But the odd thing, aside from such a clearly amateurish picture encircled by an elaborate gilded frame, was that she could see numbers through the paint. The number four where the tan of a bamboo mallet thinned. A barely visible seven on the Velcro strap on a rider’s leather knee guard.
It was a paint-by-numbers picture.
Someone had finished it with sloppy disregard for staying within the lines and then framed it. And Harry hung it where it’d be the first thing anyone saw.
“Huh.” Ginnie wondered what she was missing. Was it a child’s effort? The large, aggressive signature seemed to suggest otherwise. The overall effect struck her as modern and even daring, as if it was a sly mocking of art by virtue of sheer ugliness. Ginnie hated it.
It really did dominate the room horribly. What a waste of a gorgeous frame. She wondered if Harry would mind if she moved the picture. Just to a less conspicuous place. Like a closet.
No, that would be rude. She’d just see how the room looked without the atrocious thing, then put it back.
Before she could change her mind, she’d pulled a chair over to stand on. She lifted the picture slowly from
Similar Books
