Page 44 of Married in Michigan
“She made a point of being unavailable. A mental recharge, she called it.”
“Recharge, or retard?” Paxton mutters.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know sir,” John says, but his tone is openly disapproving.
I whack Paxton’s arm. “Not cool, Paxton.”
He grumbles. “Whatever. I was joking.”
“Yeah, well, some things aren’t funny,” I say.
He waves a hand in that dismissive way he has. “Whatever. Let’s go.”
John nods. “A moment, sir, and I’ll bring the car around front.” He takes my duffel bag. “There’s coffee on, if you’d like some, sir, ma’am.”
“Ooh, coffee!” I say, excited, and then glance at Paxton with a glare. “SOMEONE helped himself to mine.”
“Shall I set out cream and sugar for you ma’am?” John asks.
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I like it strong and black, like me.”
He smirks. “Certainly, ma’am.” With a short bow of his upper body, he turns and heads into the house, and Paxton and I follow him.
By the time we’re in the kitchen, John is nowhere to be seen, but two insulated travel mugs bearing the logo of Beach by deBraun wait on the counter, full of steaming black coffee, the lids beside each one. Paxton screws the lid on one, hands it to me, and does the same for the other. I sip, and the coffee is as much better than mine as the house is—that is to say, the coffee I buy makes Folger’s look expensive, and this coffee is some kind of gourmet, designer stuff.
“Wow,” I say, after the first sip. “Best coffee I’ve ever had.”
Paxton nods. “Mom takes coffeeveryseriously. She bought several coffee farms in Indonesia, South America, and Africa, hired a master roaster, and started a distribution company, all for the sole purpose of getting the best, freshest beans possible. Each twelve-ounce bag costs at minimum fifty dollars. Some of the bags can go for upward of a hundred.”
I snicker. “Forcoffee?”
Paxton gestures at the mug I’m sipping from. “You did say it was the best coffee you’ve ever had.”
I shrug, nod. “Very true. It does taste…expensive.”
I marvel, as I sip. This family goes far out of their way, sometimes to ridiculous extremes, to get the absolute best of literally everything. It’s almost funny.
Apropos of nothing, Paxton heads for the front door. “I’m guessing John will have the car around, now.” A glance at me. “You ready?”
I shake my head negative. “Not at all.” I laugh, and follow him. “But here we go anyway, right?”
Last time I was here, I saw the garage, the kitchen, and the deck—this time, I get more of a tour as Paxton leads me to the front door. Miles of marble, clean white walls, pops of color here and there in the form of knickknacks and statues and wall hangings and paintings; I see one painting on the wall near the front door that looks, to my uneducated eye, like a Picasso. I stop to look at it more closely, and Paxton stands beside me.
“That’s an original,” he says.
“Of course it is,” I mutter. “I mean, who doesn’t have an original Picasso.”
“If I told you how much Dad paid for it at the auction, you’d probably faint.”
I nod. “Yeah, I don’t think I need to know. I couldn’t fathom the amount anyway.”
“An original by a master like this is actually considered an investment, though,” Paxton says. “It retains its value. It’s insured to an absolutely eye-watering amount, even for us.” He gestures at the glass case surrounding the painting. “The case is fireproof, waterproof, and crushproof. The house could burn down around it, and this painting would be intact.”
I shake my head, sighing. “Incredible.” I just look at the painting a while longer, because who gets to see an original Picasso in person, outside a museum?
Paxton is looking at me, rather than the painting, I notice. “You like art, huh?”
I shrug. “I mean, sure. Who doesn’t? And plus, it’s just a cool opportunity, you know? A real, original Picasso, without paying to go into a museum and fighting the crowds? It’s just cool.”