Chapter 5: The Door on the Left

The house sat on the edge of Mount Washington.

Old red brick, three stories, a slate roof, a gate that stuck.

From the front steps you could see the whole Point.

The rivers coming together. The fountain. Strahan Tower standing over downtown with its open steel crown black against the evening.

You could see it from every window on this side of the house.

He'd been looking at it for seven years.

"You can have a room on the back," Anson said behind me. "It faces the trees."

"I'm an ironworker. I like a view."

My crew had carried in nine boxes and a mattress and left with a lot of eyebrows.

Then it was just us.

Downstairs, a dining room nobody used sat under white sheets.

I opened the fridge.

A jar of mustard. Half a lemon. Six bottles of sparkling water. And a jar of olives that looked older than my truck.

"Okay," I said.

"I eat out."

"Every night?"

"Most nights I forget."

I closed the fridge. "You're a billionaire who lives on olives."

"I didn't say I eat the olives."

That surprised a laugh out of me.

He leaned against the counter with his sleeves rolled and the washer still on his finger.

He hadn't taken it off. I'd been watching for that.

"Where's the nearest grocery store?" I said.

"I have no idea."

He drove. I shopped.

He pushed the cart and read every label.

When I put a bag of potatoes in, he asked what they were for.

"Eating," I said. "Have you ever seen a potato, Mr. Strahan?"

"Not in person."

The only pan in the house still had the price sticker on the bottom.

I made what my grandmother used to make on Fridays.

Chicken thighs browned in butter, onions, potatoes, a lot of black pepper, all in one pan.

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