installed here may have been faulty. If it is alright with you, I would like to replace them. Free of charge, of course.”
Winston nudged the door a little wider and stared down at the box of sprinkler heads under Holden’s arm. Gradually, his eyes rose to mark Holden’s face with a deep, inquisitive gaze. “You couldn’t come back another day?”
“The structure I installed was a dry system which means that the water only discharges when a fire is present. If you would allow me to do this today, I could be finished before lunch.”
Winston scratched the bushel of white hair atop his head, realizing that he was losing whatever game was being played. “Well then, it appears as if I do not have a choice. The protection of this home is paramount to me.” Before his next words, a grin tipped from the corners of his mouth and stretched like a stain across the contours of his face. He took Holden by the eyes, skewed his head to the left and said, “I was wondering how long it would take you to come back.”
Before a response could come, the elderly man stepped aside and allowed the door to open on the weight of its own hinges. Holden had once more been invited into the perspective of Winston Pratt.
The interior of the immense estate was exactly the same as when Holden had completed the job. The smell of leather and pipe tobacco hung in swags from the heights of darkened rafters; not an off-putting smell, but something that just didn’t seem to agree with Holden’s nose. The simple decoration, subtle furniture and clean environment were that of someone who had everything and had nothing. It was depressing, yes – but comfortable.
By the time Holden closed the door, Winston was halfway to the kitchen. “I was in the midst of brewing a pot of coffee, if you would like some.”
“Nope. I’m good,” Holden replied, turning his eyes toward the cellar door. “If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna jump right in. Get started downstairs.”
The man rose a tired hand and waved it flippantly with his back turned, marching his walker toward the kitchen.
Be my guest , it said.
Exactly what Holden wanted to hear.
His greedy footfalls echoed off the crown molding, harmonizing with the creaking tones from uneven floorboards as he moved through the sitting room, foyer and dining room before tracing the narrow runner toward the singular door that he had been envisioning throughout the night. It was positioned to the left of a wide, curving staircase and beckoned for him to open it. He approached the door like a man to a mirage, envisioning everything that could take place the moment he reached it. The dull brass handle was cold and it turned with an unrelenting shuffle to expose a wall of darkness beyond that smelled of something biting and unidentifiable. Holden set that aside for the moment and recalled the light switch to the right of the door before allowing his finger to unearth it in the evocative darkness. It snapped on with little effort and a crackle of electricity released before the cellar stairwell was coated with incandescent splendor.
Holden ground his teeth and turned the corner. Staring down at the unvarnished wood steps, he was almost frightened by the uncertainty of the place in which he was about to enter. Light traced gracefully down the hand rail and the wall to the left guarded Holden’s view from what he remembered to be a very open and cavernous cellar. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the view that met his eyes and the smell that reached his nostrils were altogether astounding. The rows of shelving he had once seen empty were now lined with hundreds upon hundreds of books. Lanes of story and fact along a city of so much unrecycled paper. The stripes of tattered bindings stretched along each shelf like a rectangular horizon of dull rainbows. A potent, almost minty, smell caught itself in his nose and it made him want to simultaneously cough and breath deeper. The absolute quiet of the
Winston nudged the door a little wider and stared down at the box of sprinkler heads under Holden’s arm. Gradually, his eyes rose to mark Holden’s face with a deep, inquisitive gaze. “You couldn’t come back another day?”
“The structure I installed was a dry system which means that the water only discharges when a fire is present. If you would allow me to do this today, I could be finished before lunch.”
Winston scratched the bushel of white hair atop his head, realizing that he was losing whatever game was being played. “Well then, it appears as if I do not have a choice. The protection of this home is paramount to me.” Before his next words, a grin tipped from the corners of his mouth and stretched like a stain across the contours of his face. He took Holden by the eyes, skewed his head to the left and said, “I was wondering how long it would take you to come back.”
Before a response could come, the elderly man stepped aside and allowed the door to open on the weight of its own hinges. Holden had once more been invited into the perspective of Winston Pratt.
The interior of the immense estate was exactly the same as when Holden had completed the job. The smell of leather and pipe tobacco hung in swags from the heights of darkened rafters; not an off-putting smell, but something that just didn’t seem to agree with Holden’s nose. The simple decoration, subtle furniture and clean environment were that of someone who had everything and had nothing. It was depressing, yes – but comfortable.
By the time Holden closed the door, Winston was halfway to the kitchen. “I was in the midst of brewing a pot of coffee, if you would like some.”
“Nope. I’m good,” Holden replied, turning his eyes toward the cellar door. “If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna jump right in. Get started downstairs.”
The man rose a tired hand and waved it flippantly with his back turned, marching his walker toward the kitchen.
Be my guest , it said.
Exactly what Holden wanted to hear.
His greedy footfalls echoed off the crown molding, harmonizing with the creaking tones from uneven floorboards as he moved through the sitting room, foyer and dining room before tracing the narrow runner toward the singular door that he had been envisioning throughout the night. It was positioned to the left of a wide, curving staircase and beckoned for him to open it. He approached the door like a man to a mirage, envisioning everything that could take place the moment he reached it. The dull brass handle was cold and it turned with an unrelenting shuffle to expose a wall of darkness beyond that smelled of something biting and unidentifiable. Holden set that aside for the moment and recalled the light switch to the right of the door before allowing his finger to unearth it in the evocative darkness. It snapped on with little effort and a crackle of electricity released before the cellar stairwell was coated with incandescent splendor.
Holden ground his teeth and turned the corner. Staring down at the unvarnished wood steps, he was almost frightened by the uncertainty of the place in which he was about to enter. Light traced gracefully down the hand rail and the wall to the left guarded Holden’s view from what he remembered to be a very open and cavernous cellar. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the view that met his eyes and the smell that reached his nostrils were altogether astounding. The rows of shelving he had once seen empty were now lined with hundreds upon hundreds of books. Lanes of story and fact along a city of so much unrecycled paper. The stripes of tattered bindings stretched along each shelf like a rectangular horizon of dull rainbows. A potent, almost minty, smell caught itself in his nose and it made him want to simultaneously cough and breath deeper. The absolute quiet of the
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