Grand Avenue (52 page)

A long sigh escaped her full lips. “It’s even more beautiful than I thought it was going to be. It’s like … magic.” Alison danced around the tiny room in small, graceful circles, head arched back, reddish-blond curls cascading down her back, arms outstretched, as if she could somehow capture the magic, draw it to her. She doesn’t realize she
is
the magic, I thought,
suddenly aware of how much I’d wanted her to like it, how much I wanted her to stay. “I’m so glad you kept the same colors as the main house,” she was saying, alighting briefly on the small love seat, the large chair, the bentwood rocker in the corner, fluttering across the floor like a giant butterfly. She admired the rug—mauve and white flowers woven into a pale pink background—and the framed prints on the wall: a group of Degas dancers preening backstage before a recital, Monet’s cathedral at sunset, Mary Cassat’s loving portrait of a mother and her child.

“The other rooms are back here.” I opened the double set of French doors to reveal a tidy arrangement of galley kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom.

“It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect.” She bounced up and down on the double bed, running eager palms across the antique white bedspread, before catching her reflection in the mirror above the white wicker dresser, and instantly assuming a more ladylike demeanor. “I love everything. It’s exactly the way I would have decorated it. Exactly.”

“I used to live here,” I told her, not sure why. I hadn’t confided anything of the sort to my last tenant. “My mother lived in the main house. I lived back here.”

A little half-smile played nervously with the corners of Alison’s lips. “Does this mean we have a deal?”

“You can move in whenever you’re ready.”

She jumped to her feet. “I’m ready right now. All
I have to do is go back to the motel and pack my suitcase. I can be back within the hour.”

I nodded, only now becoming aware of the speed at which things had progressed. There was so much I didn’t know about her. There were so many things we had yet to discuss. “We probably should talk about a few of the rules…,” I sidestepped.

“Rules?”

“No smoking, no loud parties, no roommates.”

“No problem,” she said eagerly. “I don’t smoke, I don’t party, I don’t know anyone.”

I dropped the key into her waiting palm, watched her fingers fold tightly over it.

“Thank you so much.” Still clutching the key, she reached into her purse and counted out twelve crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, proudly handing them over. “Printed them fresh this morning,” she said with a self-conscious smile.

I tried not to look shocked by the unexpected display of cash. “Would you like to come over for dinner after you get settled?” I heard myself ask, the invitation probably surprising me more than it did her.

“I’d like that very much.”

After she was gone, I sat in the living room of the main house, marveling at my actions. I, Terry Painter, supposedly mature adult, who had spent my entire forty years being sensible and organized and anything but impulsive, had just rented out the small cottage behind my house to a virtual stranger, a young woman with no references beyond an ingratiating manner and a goofy smile, with no job and a purse full of cash.
What, really, did I know about her? Nothing. Not where she came from. Not what had brought her to Delray. Not how long she was planning to stay. Not even what she’d been doing at the hospital when she saw my notice. Nothing really except her name.

She said her name was Alison Simms.

At the time, of course, I had no reason to doubt her.