Losing Charity

Losing Charity - 9

I get the grand tour.

We hold hands as Peter leads me from room to room.

It's sweet.

Also, it helps me not fall over.

My sense of balance is getting ready to call it a night.

And these stilettos are killing me.

I won't lie. Three inches is slightly more heel than I wear in everyday life.

I have flimsy ankles. It's genetic.

The tour.

Dining room. Big table. Chandelier.

Kitchen. Modern range. Red granite.

I decline another glass of wine. I accept a sparkling water.

Feeling a bit dehydrated really.

He adds a twist of lime without asking. I like that.

Study. Massive desk. Dark panels.

Also, animal heads. Spears and masks from Africa. More odd dolls and trinkets.

I don't see Peter as the great hunter. Or a doll collector.

More inherited stuff, I suppose.

Library. Lots of thick leather books. Most look old.

But not dusty.

Clearly the maid — I assume there's a maid — does her job.

One of those big antique globes in the corner.

Way out of date.

"French West Africa? Whoa. Old news," I say.

I caress Europe and the North Atlantic.

Peter smiles, closes his hand over mine. "It has sentimental value," he says.

He pulls me close.

I called it. Family heirlooms. He's got a traditional streak.

That could be good. Or bad.

I may not be the kind of girl Sutaf men marry.

Jumping the gun?

Just considering the possibilities.

Although if I am ever Mrs. Sutaf, the animal heads must go.

I don't like the way they look at me.

The whole taxidermy thing has always freaked me out.

In the other corner is a star globe. White constellations marked on a field of black. I point.

"Is that globe up to date?" I tease. "I guess the stars don't change."

Peter gives me an odd look. "Let's go see," he says.

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Losing Charity © Dan McGirt 2019. All rights reserved.

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