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But even to Mom, Finn was a mystery. What did he mean by taking care of things in Portland? If he knew Denver, who else did he know? Why had I spotted a guitar case in the back of the car when I threw my bag in?
Why did I want to know any of this?
Why hadn’t I forgotten about him for thirteen years?
His house was in the countryside, in an enclave of big homes set far apart on acres of uncultivated land. We drove up a long drive with an overhang of huge trees and stopped in front of a covered porch.
I stepped out of the car, stretching and feeling the cold wind sting my cheeks. The silence, except for the calling of far-off birds, was absolute.
Finn hurried up the front steps, unlocked the door, swung it open, and stepped back. A dog came out—a mutt with a graying muzzle and soft brown eyes. Gary gazed adoringly at Finn, his tail wagging so hard it made his body twist back and forth. He hobbled as he tried to jump up. I could practically hear the dog’s bones creaking as he did his excited dance.
Finn dropped his sunglasses and knelt on both knees. He hugged Gary without an ounce of reserve, stroking his ears and crooning to him softly. “Hello, good boy. I’m right here. Yes, you’re a good boy. The best boy, aren’t you?” In response, Gary gave a low whine, pressing his face into Finn’s neck.
I stood watching, feeling something big and heavy fill my chest. How was I getting choked up, watching Finn hug his dog?
Finn glanced up at me with a half-apologetic smile. “Go on inside, if you want,” he said. “I’ve been away a while. This will take a minute.”
I did need to use the bathroom, so I nodded and walked past him into the house. It was spacious and clean, with a hall leading to an open-concept living room that looked out behind the house. I took off my sneakers and walked in slowly, taking in the big windows, the deep sofa, the TV, the fireplace, the dark wood floors. A bookshelf stretched from floor to ceiling against one wall. Outside, the clouds were moving in to cover the sun. I had the urge to drop onto that sofa, cover myself with a blanket, and close my eyes.
Shaking my head, I wandered down the hall, past the kitchen—I didn’t bother to pretend I wasn’t staring at everything I passed—and found a bathroom, which had a granite counter and gleaming tiles. When I had finished my business, I looked in the drawers and the medicine cabinet before leaving. Soap, aspirin, an unopened toothbrush—just typical stuff you’d find in a spare bathroom.
Finn was in the kitchen, sitting in one of the kitchen chairs with Gary at his feet. He was giving treats to the dog. He looked up at me with a grin. “Find anything interesting?” he asked.
“Just your cocaine stash and your anal lube,” I said.
“Damn, I thought I hid them better. If you want something to eat, help yourself. The kitchen is stocked.” He gestured to the dog. “This is Gary.”
“I guessed.” I lowered a hand to Gary, who sniffed it, then moved over to me, doing his wagging dance, this time slower and with more caution. He gazed up at me with those sad brown eyes.
“He thinks you might have a treat,” Finn said. The dog’s ears swiveled at the sound of that word. Finn extended his hand to me, a treat in his palm.
I took the treat and gave it to Gary, who inhaled it and sat on my foot. I stroked the top of his head.
“He likes you,” Finn said.
I had the feeling that Gary liked everyone who gave him treats, but I said, “I’ve never had a dog.”
“Want one? He’s free.”
I smiled, stroking Gary’s head, then his soft ears. It had only been a few minutes, but I already knew that Finn would die before he gave away this old dog.
Finn stood up. “I’ll just get my stuff.” He paused. “Mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Go ahead.”
After he went upstairs, I searched Finn’s huge fridge and found some fresh pita bread, some cheese, and some orange juice. Finn must pay someone to stock the kitchen. I thought of my sad fridge at home, shared with Amara. I could get used to this.
On the counter next to the fridge was a day planner, sitting open with a stack of unopened mail on top of it. It crossed my mind to read the planner and go through the mail, but even I had boundaries. Besides, I didn’t care about Finn’s dentist appointments or his cell phone bill. I couldn’t have named what I was after, but it wasn’t that.
I finished my snack and put two apples in my bag for later. Finn hadn’t come back, and I could hear the shower running somewhere upstairs. I patted Gary, who was lying on the kitchen floor, looking content, and left the room.
I’d leave the mail untouched, but the rest of the house was fair game. If Finn didn’t want me snooping, he shouldn’t have left me alone.
I had already seen the living room. I found a set of stairs going down to a lower level and followed them to an enormous, finished walk-out with a view behind the house. I stood staring for a long moment, taking it in. This was Finn’s music room.
A multi-level console was set up in the corner, cluttered with a computer, mixing board, and multiple screens. A sofa was pushed against one wall, and there were instruments everywhere—a keyboard, a drum set, microphones, amps, pedals, speakers. There was a beautiful acoustic guitar on a stand, and stowed along a wall were two electric guitars and—I actually gasped out loud—a bass.
I picked it up from its rack and ran my hands over it. It was a Yamaha—not the most expensive bass on the market, but not the cheapest, either. Why did Finn own a bass? Was it a rich-guy thing, to add to his collection of instruments? Rich people bought more houses than they could live in, more cars than they could drive, and more handbags than they could carry. Who knew why they did what they did?
