Selling Murder House

Chapter 9 (Continued)

I arrived at sundown at the Madsen House, or, as Leo called it, the Murder House. When I was done with it, I thought, it wouldn't be called either. With a refreshed look and feel, our potential buyers would know this house as "The Saddlebrook Property" or something of the sort.

Well, someday. Maybe.

I liked to think so, at least, but I knew deep down we were just putting paint over bloodstains, maybe literally. But someday. Surely. All we had to do was find our buyer, the one person who would be inspired by the kitschy furniture and appreciate the historic charm. That person, someday, would call the house by a new name.

Home.

I let the thought pull me forward, into the house. I had a purpose, I could feel it in my heart, and I was going to ride that purpose until the work was done.

Paul had been busy, I could see from the moment I walked in the door. As we'd discussed, the family photos and odd knickknacks had been either thrown out or put in storage. The windows were bare, ready for new, bright curtains that would let light in instead of smothering the rooms to darkness. Old, dirty rugs had been rolled up and set aside, awaiting banishment or further instruction.

Paul rounded the corner from the kitchen wearing his usual painter's uniform of stained sweatpants and a loose-necked t-shirt. He smiled brightly and greeted me, and we went upstairs together, up to the third floor to pick up where we'd left off before I'd scared myself silly and busted my nose.

When we reached the landing, Paul inspected my face.

"How is it?" he asked.

"Oh, it's fine," I said.

Paul met my eye, and his expression bored into me like an x-ray. He lifted his hand, and, very gingerly touched my face. I held my breath, thinking he was going to touch my injury, but he lightly cupped my chin in his warm hand and moved my face to the side to see the bruising in the light.

"Really," he said, breaking into a bright white smile. "Because it looks like it hurts like hell."

He dropped his hand and I laughed. I turned my face away to hide a blush, to hide the sweat I could feel forming on my upper lip.

"Okay," I said, nodding. "It hurts like hell."

We played music while we worked. We were both in good moods, me despite the impending deadline, despite the strange feelings I'd gotten at the office, despite the throbbing pain. The mood was, without a doubt, because of Paul. He chose an upbeat, jazzy playlist that surprised me, as he seemed more like the folksy sad song type. And maybe he was, I thought, but not tonight. Tonight, Paul was happy. It made me realize, with a pang of sadness, that Paul wasn't, by default, a happy man. Seeing him laugh and paint to the rhythm of the music was, by contrast, like witnessing a miracle. It felt like, maybe, Paul was my friend, and that this was the side of him he only showed to certain people, people he could trust.

The thought made me realize, though, that despite the growing bond between us, there were so many things I didn't know about Paul.

"Paul," I said, daring to break the rhythm. "What do you do for a living?"

Paul frowned, and I momentarily wondered if I'd broken the spell, but then he smiled.

"This is going to sound ridiculously pretentious," he said.

I nodded. "I think I can handle it."

"Well, I used to work for my father's business. He runs a software company," he said. "But I just couldn't do it anymore. So I guess you could say I'm between gigs at the moment."

I nodded.

"No judgement here, I was just curious," I said.

"Sometimes I think I'm a spoiled brat," he continued, smiling, but he looked a little ashamed. "I'm not oblivious of the fact that I grew up privileged. Now I think I make a pretty shit employee."

I laughed.

"When you think you're going to inherit an estate, it does something to your head, I guess," Paul continued. "Now I think I'm pretty much unable, like, physically, to do anything I don't care about. Which, turns out, when it comes to software, is pretty much everything."

We both laughed at that.

"Maybe it's not about the way you grew up, because I think I'm the same way," I said.

"Maybe we're both just terrible people," he suggested, smiling.

When we finished painting, giddy from fumes and the feeling of a completed project, we went to the kitchen for a little celebratory night cap. Paul pulled an expensive-looking bottle of wine from the cupboard and two glasses. I wondered, briefly, how much it cost him, and how much Tom and his podcast had paid him for the exclusive interview. I watched as he poured two hearty glasses of deep, burgundy wine.

"To a job well done," Paul said, holding up a glass.

I took my own and clinked it against his, then we drank. The wine was like velvet on my tongue. It was rich and delightfully bitter going down my throat, and then the sweetness hit me like an aftershock. It was probably the best wine I'd ever had, even with my nose likely working against me.

Paul met my eye, his face turning serious.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for helping me. Not a lot of people would take on a house like this. And nobody would've helped me paint this entire house, I'm sure of that."

I blushed under his gaze. I felt like I could already feel the wine in my head, making me dizzy.

This time, though, despite the blush warming my cheeks, I didn't turn away. Instead, I held his gaze. I looked at him, this sad man smiling at me. I let it warm me from the outside in. I let myself watch him, I let myself see him. In his shabby, comfortable clothes, with a splotch of paint on his forehead. Unconfined by tailored pants and collared shirts, he looked youthful and alive. He looked exactly as he should. Stubble was forming a shadow over the lower half of his face, and I found myself wondering what it might feel like against the palm of my hand, against the soft skin of my face. It would be like the wine, sharp and abrupt . . .

Before I could stop myself, I was reaching to him, cupping his face in my hands like he'd done hours before to mine. This time, though, his face in my hands, I wasn't careful, I wasn't even thinking. I took him in my hands and brought his lips to mine. His face was sharp against mine, the stubble shocking the skin of my face, the impact of the kiss sending a wave of pain down my spine from the broken nose that no longer seemed important. But his lips were warm and soft and sweet, tinged from the wine, and when his lips parted against mine, when he kissed me back, when he wrapped his arms around me, it was sweeter than any wine I'd ever had.