Page 18 of Only the Hunter

“Thanks. Bathroom’s this way.”

I follow her through that doorway, past a round table that seats four, and a kitchen. Beyond the galley-style kitchen is the door that must lead to her garden and the pavers where she parks. On the wall next to the door, coats and scarves hang from a row of hooks, and there’s a small table with mail and a bowl with keys.

There’s an open doorway with narrow stairs that go down to the basement. She points to a different door that’s part of a jut-out visually separating her kitchen from the dining area.

“It’s right in there.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like something to drink? I probably should’ve asked you in.”

“Water would be great.”

I enter the bathroom, run the water, and wash my hands, taking in the navy walls and white tile. The small window looks out on the narrow strip between her townhouse and a wooden fence, another narrow strip and her neighbor’s place. From the street level, these townhouses appear attached, and they are, but as the buildings go further back, they separate. I can’t see anything inside her neighbor’s place through the window other than a wall.

When I exit, she’s leaning against the counter, phone in hand, a glass of water sitting on the marble countertop.

“This is a really great place, Evie.”

She looks up from her phone. “Do you want a tour?”

“Absolutely.”

She hands me the glass of water and spins, holding her arm out. “This place is my law school graduation gift from my aunt.”

“Wow. That’s a nice gift.”

“Between you and me, I’m fairly certain my father thought I’d decline it if he gave it to me, so he had his sister gift it.”

“You’d accept it from her?”

“Well, if you met her… She’s the sweetest woman. And she gave my brother comparable jewelry, family jewels I guess, for when he settles down.”

“That’s funny.”

“What is?”

Her defensive edge amuses me—it’s also distinctly different from Scott. “You getting a house, or, a residence, and Scott getting jewelry.”

“It’s about keeping the jewels in the family. My aunt’s an optimist and believes Scott will settle down one day—which is kind of funny since she herself never settled down. Anyway, I’ve owned this place for almost six years. The entire downstairs, redone. The basement…” She talks with a flurry of her hands, gesturing as she leads the way down. “New carpet, paint, furniture, obviously. I debated ripping out this downstairs mini-kitchen but left it and replaced the appliances.”

The finished basement is a smaller footprint than upstairs. Again, gray is the dominant color.

“Did you design it?”

She presses her lips together like she’s fighting a grin, shaking her head. “No. I didn’t have the time. I found this designer, well, she was a friend of a friend from law school and just starting out. I gave her a budget and told her to surprise me.”

I look around. It is a nice space. Even with the muted colors, it’s not cold or sterile. There’s nothing down in the basement that’s particularly personal, but upstairs it felt lived in and somewhat homey.

“You don’t spend much time down here do you?” There’s no television, but it’s set up so a guest could easily stay down here. Along the back wall there’s a narrow row of transom windows close to the ceiling.

“When I found the place, it smelled down here. The new carpet and replacing a section of the wall fixed that, but…I’ve considered moving my home office down here, but without natural light it’s…” Her nose scrunches. I get it.

I follow her back up the stairs. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look back either. I keep my gaze lifted and directed ahead.

We walk through her kitchen, back into the living room, and then up the grand staircase, if one wants to call it that, with the gleaming dark wood banister and painted white steps carpeted in a patterned gray rug up the center.

“This is technically a four bedroom. They count the basement. Upstairs is the master and two smaller bedrooms. One is my office, and the other is a guest room but I’ve debated blowing out the wall and increasing the size of the master. I probably won’t. It’s fine. I’m not a clothes whore.”