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Dare I say, perhaps the transition had occurred while she was text-flirting in my presence?
Once we arrived at the town house, I waited while she disarmed the alarm, then offered to bring her bag in along with mine.
“What are you doing?” she asked as I peered into the various rooms off the foyer, anticipating an animal of some sort might launch itself at me.
“Do you have any pets?”
Her eyes scrunched. “Pets?” She put her hand on my arm. “Brand, you’re delirious. Let’s pick out your room, then you need to sleep.”
“No pets, then?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Come on, I’ll show you around. Just leave those here.” She motioned to the two bags I still held.
“This is the main floor, obviously. Kitchen, breakfast nook, formal dining room, and gathering area, as my grandmother used to call it.”
There was an ostentatious—in my opinion—fireplace, a grand piano, and several places to sit. If I closed my eyes, I could envision someone like Penelope’s grandmother, a pillar of society at the time, endlessly entertaining eclectic groups made up of artists, actors, writers, politicians, perhaps even the current president, in such a place.
“This opens to the garden, which is my favorite part.”
The area we were in was known as Turtle Bay Gardens, a community developed in the 1920s. Rumor was Katherine Hepburn, Bob Dylan, and Stephen Sondheim had all resided at some time or another in one of the twenty original townhomes. As an artist, I used to love to sneak into the gated area and either sketch or paint. There were few places like it in the city. When I moved to Italy, so many of the intimate gardens I came upon reminded me of Turtle Bay.
“It’s beautifully maintained,” I commented, leaning down to smell the rose’s scent.
“I wish I could take credit for it, but even when I am in town, I don’t have much of a green thumb.”
“Who cares for it?”
“A gardener. Someone a few of the other residents use.”
“I could pitch in,” I offered.
Penelope brought a petal from another rose to her cheek. “They’re so soft, and yet there are also thorns.” She looked up at me. “Do you enjoy gardening?”
“I love painting in a garden, so, yes, I enjoy caring for one as well.” Like the night before we left for California, a loud clap of thunder sent us racing inside before getting doused by a deluge of rain. “The windows are amazing,” I commented as she closed the door behind us. They spanned the height of the room, which had to be more than twenty feet. The floors above this one were set back to allow for an angle like a gable to connect with the ceiling.
While the space appeared grand, it was noticeably narrow. The room’s width seemed to be equal to the ceiling height.
“We can put the bags on the elevator or carry them up,” said Pen, motioning to a lift.
My eyes opened wide.
“My grandmother was over ninety when she passed away. I’m sure she would’ve been forced to move if she’d had to take the stairs,” she explained.
“Good point.” I peered inside. “Did she have it installed?”
Penelope shook her head. “They were included in all the townhomes in Turtle Bay when the residences were built.” She motioned to the lift and to the stairs.
“I’ll follow your lead.”
Unsurprisingly, she took the latter.
11
BUTTERFLY
Brand’s eyes lit up with each new space I showed him. The second floor was dedicated to the library and had a gas-burning fireplace, big comfy chairs to sit in and read, and a breathtaking view of the gardens.
I waited while he perused the shelves of books. “These are all yours, then?” he asked.