Something About Sam

Chapter 3

"Give Sam a tour while I get this kitchen cleaned up," my mom gave me a light pat on the shoulder which was clear mom language for put your damn cell phone away. I offered her a cheeky smile, sliding my phone into the pocket of my gym shorts.

"Alright, Sam."

Marley's ability to make Sam smile and genuinely laugh turned my harsh judgment of him into something slightly softer. I wasn't as bothered by him as I was ten minutes ago, so I decided to try my best to ignore the voice in the back of my head that warned me to be wary of him.

A sweeping gesture of an extended arm towards my mother followed by the words "The Jefferson kitchen," summed up the first stop on the tour. He followed quite close to me as I took him through French doors to the sitting room he met earlier. "And, you've seen the sitting room," I told him, barely even pausing for him to take a second look.

He followed me out into the hallway towards the front of the house, seeing the foyer (home to my sister's Baby Grand Piano, an eight-foot-wide staircase, and the antiques of ancient relatives), the library (home to my sister's signed copies of all three Fifty Shades of Grey books), and through the doors of my father's office (home to stacks of paper and a portrait of the family circa 2004).

"Oh you're kidding," Sam spoke for the first time since my information session began. I turned back around to face him, stunned. He wasn't hiding the laugh on his lips. "Your hair!"

The portrait had been taken in prime Marshmallow Head era when my hair was as white as snow and we were certain it was going to stay that way. It was such a stark contrast to the dark black of my father's, that my mom used to call the two of us salt and pepper. Now, age had allowed my hair to assume a gold instead of white, and a career in politics had the strange effect of turning my father's hair silver. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Marshmallow head. I've heard it a thousand times."

Still laughing, Sam stepped past my father's desk to get a better look at it. His fingers reached out to touch the oil painting, landing right on the edge of seven-year-old me's cheeks. "Adorable," I heard him say quietly, barely loud enough for me to hear. His fingers still on the painting, he turned back to me. "This is adorable, Taite."

For some reason, I was red in the face. "No, it's unfortunate." I corrected him, turning back to the door so he wouldn't see the heat on my cheeks. "C'mon. We're not even done with the first floor."

Reluctantly, he trailed me out of the office and through the library and the foyer, back through the sitting room and towards the hallway that led to the back of the house. I pointed out a formal dining room, the family room, and the bathroom. Then, we took the side staircase upstairs. I paused at the top of them.

"To the right is the family wing, to the left is the guest wing."

"You have a guest wing and a carriage house?"

I looked at him over my shoulder. "This is a 19th-century plantation home, Sam. I didn't build it."

He grumbled something that sounded like "I was just asking," but I ignored it.

I showed him the guest bedroom and bathroom which were currently being redecorated and renovated by my mother's interior design company. Then, I took him upstairs.

"Upstairs," I said, pulling open the door across from the staircase. It revealed another set of stairs, but much slimmer and narrower. He followed me up, his hands gracing the walls for support.