That afternoon, Rochelle wrote Michael out a check to cover six months rent. She called the utility company to change the service over to her name, ordered a telephone, hired a security firm to put in the security system, and moved her things from the motel to the house. Michael went back to the bank and stayed until closing to give her time to get used to her new surroundings. Nothing could have made her happier than leaving that tiny motel room.
She toured the house, exploring each room, wanting to become familiar with the total layout. She removed the white sheets from the furniture and was pleasantly surprised at how lovely the furnishings and décor were. Someone had put a lot of love and effort in the decorating of the house, and Rochelle guessed Michael's mother was probably responsible long before his stepmother moved in.
Everything Rochelle would need, right down to vacuum and cleaning chemicals, came with the house. All she would need to shop for was groceries.
When she went through the bedrooms upstairs, her biggest problem was choosing which bedroom to sleep in. The master bedroom was so much more beautiful than the other rooms. Two rooms contained decorations and furnishings specifically for two young men, likely the rooms Michael and his brother had once used.
The guest room was smaller, and the last one showed signs of someone using it as a nursery in the distant past.
Rochelle kept glancing at the closed door to the master bedroom and realized the room would become a nightmare with its door always closed. There was only one-way to overcome the fear, and although Mabel stopped by and advised her against it, she made a decision to sleep in that room. Fortunately, the closets were empty of all clothing and personal items once belonging to Michael's father and stepmother, so at least there were no other reminders to dampen her spirits. In fact, she felt good, her life suddenly taking on anticipation of having her own house. With her car out on the front driveway, she could come and go as she chose without someone to monitor her. She was free—at least she was almost free.
There was still Tobias.
“Sweetpea, what in the world, are you going to do in this big house all by yourself?” Mabel wanted to know.
“I'm going to live in it and feel like a bird in flight for a change.
I like lots of space, Mabel. You will visit me often, won't you?
Maybe you can have lunch with me occasionally, or dinner?”
“I wouldn't miss it for anything. You just let me know when.”
“Michael is going to work on the kitchen after work and on weekends. When it's finished, you'll be my first dinner guest.”
“Has Caroline bothered you anymore?” Mabel asked.
“No, should I expect some problem from her?”
“I don't know, Sweetpea. Caroline has a temper that makes her crazy. I am glad Mikey finally saw the light. She was never right for him, not that he wanted her particularly. She just wouldn't leave him alone.”
“You know him well, don't you?”
“I've known him since he was a little boy. His daddy loved both his boys, but sometimes I thought he loved Mikey the best. He was smart as a whip and his daddy liked to brag that Mikey would be a banker like him. He never considered Mikey might have other plans, but he did, even when he was just a kid.
“He used to draw all the time, made sketches of anything he found interesting. Then he started drawing houses and buildings.
The outsides were like shells without fruits, so he started designing the floor plans. Even before he went away to college, he was already sharp in mathematics, knew how to draw his buildings to scale, and self-trained himself in design. I still have the pictures he used to give me when I would see him on the street sometimes.
“I'd say, 'Mikey, what are you designing today?' He would look at me with those big blue eyes and smile, then say, 'I'm designing you a new house, Mabel.' Then he would rip a sheet from his drawing pad and give me. I came to know him pretty well in all those years, and he is about the nearest I have ever had to a child of my own. I do love him like my own.”
“What was his mother like?”
“She was the most beautiful and gracious lady in Windy Point.
She was gentle and sweet, and in all the years I knew her, I never heard her raise her voice to either of her children. Both her boys loved her, as did their father. They all went a little insane with grief after her death.
“James quit eating, lost weight, began drinking too much, and that's when he met Tina in some bar. He was ripe for just about anything in his life to drive out the melancholy and depression. Tina was never right for him. She was a cheap imitation of what James thought she was, and the only reason she married him was because the man was rich and could give her what she wanted. Both of the boys hated her, and once they were away from home, they rarely came back for a visit. When Michael came for his father's birthday party, just before James and Tina were killed, that was his first time in over a year.”
“How did he fare when they arrested him? Was it hard on him?”
“I should say it was. Not only had he just lost his father, but he also drew blame for his death. The judge refused to give him bail, so he had to stay in jail, and during that time, he knew his business in San Francisco was taking a beating without him to run it. That was hard on him. It was as if everything had fallen out from under him, as if he had lost all control of everything important in his life.
“I don't think he's known real happiness since then. It really messed him up for months, but when he got involved with the bank, it sort of took his mind off things, gave him some purpose on his father's behalf. Mikey is very special, Sweetpea. I don't know from where you come or what your hopes and dreams are, but Mikey seems to think a lot of you. I hope you will be gentle with his heart.
He's had enough pain.”
“So have I, Mabel. Michael and I have that in common.”
Knowing Michael planned to come by after the bank closed, Rochelle took a quick spin to the market after Mabel left. She picked up everything she needed to make spaghetti and a salad. She bought a bottle of wine, a loaf of French bread so she could make garlic bread, and some fresh strawberries with whipped cream. Then she added coffee, milk, and an assortment of staples and other necessities every kitchen required. She ended up with a shopping cart loaded to overflowing.
At home—oh, how good it felt to think of the house as home—she put on the spaghetti sauce to simmer. She set the table in the breakfast room with plates, cutlery, and candles, praying all the while that everything would turn out well. It had been years since she cooked, but her memory of making spaghetti was still vivid. She tasted the spaghetti sauce frequently, added whatever she thought it needed, then put the lid back on and adjusted the burner. She was really having a good time puttering in the kitchen, doing simple things, and feeling unusually normal now that she had the freedom to do as she chose. She understood how prisoners must feel upon their initial release from confinement.
That thought made her think of Michael. She could just imagine how horrible it was for him, penned up in some awful jail, and blamed for the death of his father.
When Michael came by after work, he had already been home and changed into his jeans and T-shirt. He arrived and started hauling his toolbox into the kitchen, ready to start working. When he smelled the spaghetti sauce, he stopped and sniffed. “I know that didn't come with the house,” he said, his sensual lips curling into a pleasing smile.
“It's a surprise. I'm making dinner for you,” Rochelle stated, smiling in that generous way that showed her perfect white teeth.
He looked at her questioningly. “I'm impressed. I didn't know you could cook.”
She sent him a censoring look. “There are likely many things you don't know that I can do.”
“What are you cooking?”
“Spaghetti, with my own special sauce, too.”
“Why aren't we eating in the dining room?” Michael asked when Rochelle escorted him into the breakfast room.
“I thought this would be more warm and cozy. Dining rooms are very large and cold.” She recalled all the times she sat at Tobias's long dining table, alone, waiting for him, when he never showed.
He cocked a brow and studied her. “Do I hear a hidden message there?”
“Probably, but we aren't going to discuss it and ruin our meal.
Have a seat, and let me serve you.”
“This is bound to be good,” he teased, watching her every movement in the white shorts worn with the sleeveless shirt.
Rochelle served up two plates of spaghetti and loaded it with her delicious homemade sauce. She served the salad and put two kinds of dressing on the table. “I didn't know what kind you liked,” she said, but I hoped you might like blue cheese.”
“That was a good guess,” he praised her.
“Will you pour the wine while I get the bread?” The garlic bread had browned crusty hot in the oven. Rochelle put it in a bowl lined with a white linen napkin and covered it to keep it warm. Then she joined Michael at the table.
She sat there watching him, waiting for him to taste everything.
He returned her gaze, and waited for her to begin the meal.
“Aren't you going to taste it?” she asked.
“Shouldn't I let you taste it first?” he teased.
She lifted her fork and twirled spaghetti around the prongs, finally taking the first bite. She had already tasted it enough to know that it had turned out better than she expected. “There! It didn't burn or kill me. Now, you can taste it.”
Michael smiled and lifted a forkful to his mouth. He licked his lips, chewed and swallowed, then licked his lips again, all the while keeping a blank look on his face.
“Well?” Rochelle demanded.
His face softened with a big smile. “Excellent,” he said. “The sauce is perfect. No way did it come out of one of those jars from the grocery store. I should know because it's the only kind I've ever used.”
“It's a special recipe I use, and you're right, it is better than that stuff from the market. Do you like it?”
“If all of your cooking is this good, then I hope you'll invite me often. There is nothing like a good home-cooked meal. The restaurant we've frequented is okay for breakfast and lunch, but dinner is questionable.”
Michael had two large helpings, and looked as though he wanted more but admitted he was too full. When it came dessert time, they fed each other strawberries dipped in whipped cream, laughing all the while when they purposely dabbed whipped cream on each other's face.
“I thought you were going to work on the kitchen after we ate?”
Rochelle said when he pulled her on his lap, fondling her familiarly.
“I can think of many things I'd rather be doing, but since you gave me such a wonderful dinner, I suppose I have to show my gratitude.”
He whispered something in her ear and she burst out laughing.
“No, absolutely not!”
She gave him a hug then slid off his lap, and started cleaning off the table, putting things away while Michael reluctantly turned to the carpentry in the kitchen. He became serious now, concentrating on his task. Rochelle enjoyed watching him work, so she sneaked glances while she cleaned up and put the dishes in the dishwasher.
“Can I help you with anything?” she asked after she finished.
He stopped what he was doing and glanced up at her, a couple of nails held between his lips. “Not at the moment,” he said from one side of his mouth. He used his measuring tape to measure a piece of wood, only mildly distracted by her question.
“Then I'm going to run the vacuum in the living room.”