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  Heart & Soul

  By

  Layce Gardner & Saxon Bennett

  This is a work of fiction, Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Square Pegs Ink

  Text copyright © 2014 Layce Gardner & Saxon Bennett

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the authors’ permission.

  Heart and Soul

  Sharon Clemens cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed her nose against the glass window. What she saw surprised her. The old house had wood floors, a marble fireplace and stained glass windows. It even had what appeared to be original cut glass doorknobs and beautiful crown molding.

  She took a step back and wiped off the nose print she’d left on the window. The house seemed too good to be true. It was exquisite. So why was somebody renting it out? More importantly, why were they renting it so cheaply?

  Sharon was suspicious by nature. When she read the ad in the newspaper she had looked for the key words—cozy meant it was closet-sized, fixer-upper meant it was on the condemned list, and good location meant it was on a traffic-filled street. But this house appeared to have none of the usual red flags.

  She was about to check out the backyard—perhaps there was an ancient burial mound hiding beneath the shrubbery—when the rental agent’s black BMW pulled up in the driveway.

  “You must be Sharon. I’m Holly. So what’d you think? It’s beautiful, am I right or am I right?” Holly Page chattered as she tottered across the lawn in high heels. She stopped and straightened her polyester skirt. She was having a static cling moment. She noticed Sharon watching and chuckled at herself. “I swear, I pick up static like a radio station. It must be the leather seats.”

  “Hair spray reduces static cling,” Sharon said.

  “My hair will stop my dress from sticking?”

  Okay, Sharon thought, Holly was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

  “No, you spray it lightly on the fabric.”

  “Oh. What a quaint idea.” Holly dug around in her bulging briefcase. “I have the key somewhere. Here it is!” She held up a key tied to a dirty string.

  A sudden movement caused Sharon to look up. She had seen something in the second story window. For a moment it seemed as if she had seen a woman gazing at her through the curtains. But whatever it was that had caught her eye wasn’t there now. “The house is empty, right?”

  Holly’s eyes widened. “Yes. The previous owners did a lot of remodeling. Then decided to move,” she said, pulling a sheaf of stapled papers out of her briefcase and pointedly not looking at Sharon.

  “That seems odd.”

  “They were gay. You know how those people are—they live to decorate,” Holly said. Suddenly, she clasped her hand over her mouth. “I meant that in a good way.”

  “It’s all right, us gays do have a propensity toward home beautification,” Sharon said with a slight edge to her voice.

  Holly’s eyes grew even wider. “I’m so sorry. Do you have a significant other that’ll be joining you?” She glanced around as if Sharon’s significant other might materialize out of thin air.

  “No, I’m currently single.” Sharon refrained from saying, “and homeless.” Somehow it always seemed like she was the one moving out. When things went south she was inevitably the one who got kicked to the curb because her name wasn’t on the lease. Thank God there’d never been a house to sell. She swore the next time around she’d be the one on the lease. Well, if there ever was a next time. Her chances at a happily ever after seemed to diminish with each failed love affair.

  As Holly approached the front door with the key held out, Sharon took another moment to gaze at the house. It truly was gorgeous. Filigree work on the porch post, a metal embossed address plate, a bronze lion’s head for a door knocker. And all of that just on the outside. She could hardly wait to see the inside. But the low rent still bothered her.

  She joined Holly on the porch. “Tell me the truth, Holly. Before I go inside and fall in love with it—is there something wrong with the house?”

  “Wrong?” Holly asked, playing stupid. Well, she might actually be stupid but she was definitely dodging the question.

  “Why restore a place, take all that time, energy and money and then bail on it? Did they split up?”

  “Not that I know of. They moved across town.”

  “So it was the location?” Sharon inquired. “I mean, this seems like a perfect location, close to Uptown. There’s even a Whole Foods within walking distance and a cute little coffee bar.”

  “No, they loved the location. It was the house itself they wanted to get away from. Shall we go inside?” Holly swung the door open.

  “The house?” Sharon said, following her inside.

  “Too many lingering memories they said.”

  “As in remodeling horror stories?” Sharon’s attention was drawn to the ornate chandelier. It was definitely vintage glass work.

  “Yes, you could say that,” Holly said. She stood by the front door and pointed. “This is the foyer. The living room is there. The library is across the hall.”

  Sharon wandered through the house and got lost in the details. So what if the owners had a bunch of fights or got in over their heads and decided it was time to move on, why shouldn’t she take advantage of a deal? The kitchen was a cook’s dream—granite countertops, walk-in pantry, and the appliances were stainless steel, all top of the line.

  Holly appeared at the back door, startling Sharon out of her reverie. “There’s even a sun porch,” Holly said. “And as you can see, the yard needs to be mowed but other than that most of the flowers come back year after year, they’re what’s called…” she was stuck.

  “Perennials,” Sharon said.

  “Right. So you don’t have to do much and I can arrange for a mowing crew if you’d like. As you can see there’s not a lot of grass. It’s mostly garden.” Holly said.

  Sharon stepped into the back yard and inhaled deeply. It even smelled wonderful. There were gravel paths winding through flower beds. Giant pink asters were on the cusp of blooming and sweet williams and hydrangeas were already in bloom. A rose garden with twenty rose bushes of all different varieties was set back along the privet.

  “This is amazing,” Sharon said. She had always loved gardening, but never had the time or the space. Possibly she might have both.

  “Now, imagine sitting out here drinking your coffee and gazing out into the garden,” Holly said, using her hand in a sweeping gesture of a dream vista.

  As she walked a gravel path Sharon could almost feel the wet earth in her hands and the sun on her shoulders. She could find peace in a place like this—Lord knows, she needed it. She rounded a corner on the path and jumped. She glimpsed a woman in a yellow sun dress, a broad-brimmed straw hat pulled low over her eyes, collecting roses into a straw basket.

  “Hello?” Sharon called. But the woman disappeared.

  Not disappeared, Sharon chastised herself. She had simply walked away. She didn’t hear Sharon say hello. It must be a neighbor, Sharon reasoned. And she wasn’t going to begrudge the woman a few roses. After all, the house wasn’t even hers yet.

  “What are the neighbors like?” Sharon asked, rejoining Holly on the sun porch.

  “The house next door has been vacant for quite some time,” Holly said. “And the house on the other side is owned by an out-of-state couple. They come a month or two out of each year. So, if it’s privacy you’re after, you’ll have plenty of that.”

  T
hen who was the lady in the sun hat? Sharon looked back over the garden, hoping to catch another glimpse of the attractive stranger.

  “Let me show you the upstairs,” Holly said. “You’ll love the master’s suite. Oh!” she said, covering her mouth again. “I mean mistress suite.”

  “Sounds great,” Sharon replied, her mind still on the woman in the hat. She followed Holly into the house and up the stairs.

  “It’s beautiful, am I right or am I right?” Holly asked, stepping inside the first door they came to.

  Sharon smiled tightly. Holly was beginning to get on her nerves. However, the bedroom was gorgeous. It had ornate crown molding, a parquet floor, and even a built in fireplace.

  “And it works, too,” Holly said, pointing at the fireplace. “There’s wood in the shed.”

  “Nice of them to leave it,” Sharon said. She fully intended to enjoy a real fire in that real fireplace.

  “It has three smaller bedrooms. You could always have roommates or children.”

  Sharon didn’t see that in her future—the children or the roommates. She’d been there and done that. What she wanted more than anything was peace and quiet.

  “What is it that you do?” Holly asked.

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Oh, what do you write?”

  Sharon poked her head in the other bedrooms. One of them overlooked the garden. It would make a perfect office. The other one would be an exercise room and the third, maybe a guest room despite her predilection to discourage guests.

  “Novels,” Sharon answered.

  “Have you written anything I’ve read?” Holly said.

  “I don’t know what you’ve read,” Sharon said. She was in the bathroom now. It had a claw foot tub with a wrap-around shower curtain. She could see herself lighting candles and soaking in a bubble bath with a glass of wine. “How soon would I be able to move in?”

  “Tomorrow would be good—the sooner the better.” Holly laughed nervously and furiously scribbled on the application. “Just fill this out and I’m sure everything will be fine with the owners.”

  *

  The coffee shop was only a few blocks away. Sharon found parking on the street—a miracle in itself—and stepped inside. A latte sounded just right. And surprisingly, it didn’t take three weeks to actually get the latte—another miracle. Even the barista was cute. Her streak of luck continued when she nabbed one of the tables by the front window. Could this day get any better?

  Apparently it could. Because she saw the woman in the yellow dress and sun hat stroll down the sidewalk and pass right in front of the window. Sharon lifted her hand in greeting. She couldn’t tell for sure but she thought the woman had smiled at her. She watched as the woman’s yellow dress fluttered in the breeze and disappeared around a corner.

  Sharon had a definite thing for a woman in a dress. The woman in the hat had nice calves too. As she took her first sip of coffee, her cell phone rang.

  “Hi, Sharon?” the voice said.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “This is Holly. You were approved! You do still want the house, right?”

  What a weird question, Sharon thought. She had handed off the application moments ago. “Absolutely! When can I move in?”

  “Anytime you want,” Holly answered. “I can meet you at the house or drop the keys in the mailbox in say ten minutes? You can move in tonight if you’d like.”

  “That’s great, but I’ll have to get a cashier’s check. I had to do some bank changing up,” Sharon said, which was really code for she’d changed banks so her ex couldn’t do anything wonky with the joint account.

  “No rush. You can come by my office any day this week and drop it off.”

  “Really? You trust me with a house I haven’t paid rent on?”

  “Of course. You have a good credit rating and you seem like a nice person.”

  Holly had evidently never saw the movie Pacific Heights.

  “Great, I’ll meet you at the house in ten minutes,” Sharon said, hanging up. Things were moving fast, she thought. Very, very fast. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

  *

  Holly didn’t even get out of the car. She practically threw the keys at Sharon. “Bon chance,” she said and floored it.

  Sharon parked her Toyota Tacoma in the driveway and began the process of unloading it. Everything she owned was in her truck. It sure made moving easy. She opened the door to the house and stepped inside. Home sweet home. All she needed was a trip to IKEA and she’d be good to go.

  She put her things away, grabbed a box of Triscuits and a bottle of water and put her camp chair out on the back porch. She got out her iPhone and took a picture of the garden and then the house from all different angles. She uploaded the photos to her Facebook page. Let her bitch of an ex-girlfriend get a load of her new digs.

  Her friend Dave posted almost immediately, “When’s the housewarming?”

  She posted back, “Have to get furniture first.”

  She returned to the porch and sat in her chair, perusing the IKEA catalogue that she’d been carrying around for days. Carol-the-bitch-ex had decided the furniture in the apartment was hers. Truth be told, Sharon didn’t want it anyway. She was starting over and looked forward to getting furniture she liked.

  Later that night, Sharon ran a hot bath and put in some bath salts that were left in the bathroom’s cupboard. They were in a thick glass bottle with a cork stopper. Sharon thought she could detect the smell of lavender as the salts soothed her skin and worked their magic on her tired and stressed muscles.

  She had plugged her iPod into a set of external speakers. She closed her eyes and relaxed to the sound of Leonard Cohen singing, “Dance Me to the End of Love.” Heaven. Pure heaven.

  Sharon was in this state of bliss when her mind slipped back in time to her first love, Amelia. She and Amelia used to take bubble baths together and wash each other’s hair, the intimacy of young girl-love, each sensation was a milestone along a road you never even knew existed. It was in this dream-like state that Sharon felt a gentle caress on her head.

  “Here, allow me,” a woman’s soft voice said from behind Sharon. Two gentle hands rubbed shampoo into her scalp and lathered her hair. The shampoo smelled of jasmine and the woman’s hands caressed her scalp, running fingertips up the back of Sharon’s head in strong, even strokes.

  Sharon moaned as the woman’s hands used the bath sponge to lather her shoulders and breasts. She felt herself getting aroused. It had been so long, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like. The sponge traced soapy circles across her belly and began to dip lower when the doorbell rang.

  Sharon’s eyes flew open and she sat up quickly. She looked around for the mystery woman with the expert hands half expecting to see the beautiful woman she’d glimpsed in the garden. But, of course, nobody was there. She felt chagrined. She’d already known that the woman wasn’t really there, hadn’t she? She was a writer, after all, and had a powerful imagination.

  The doorbell rang again. She heard doors slam and a car speed off. She got out of the bath and quickly dried off. She threw on sweats and a rumpled T-shirt and went downstairs leaving wet foot prints in her wake.

  Poking her head out the front door, Sharon saw a big basket of wine, fruit, and several packages of expensive cheeses. She picked up the basket and read the card tied to a ribbon. It was from her friend, Dave, and his partner Ralph.

  She opened the card and read: In case you’re wondering how I figured out where you live—Google Earth and some fancy detective work on Ralph’s part about Victorian Houses. And don’t you dare buy IKEA furniture—that house needs authenticity. We’ll come by this weekend so we can go shopping for APPROPRIATE furniture. Love and kisses, Dave and Ralph.

  Gay boys were always so bossy, Sharon mused and then laughed. At the bottom of the basket there was even freshly ground coffee and biscotti. She put the items away in the kitchen. She made a cup of red bush tea using her electric kettle. She’d al
most left the kettle behind when Carol thrust it at her on the way out the door, saying, “Don’t forget this ugly thing.”

  It wasn’t ugly and it had been a present from Amelia who knew how much tea a writer like her drank during her long writing jags. You could plug the thing in anywhere and have a cup almost instantly. She dreaded the day her kettle finally gave up the ghost.

  Sharon walked through the huge house, sipping her tea, and thought about her ghost episode. That’s what she decided to call it—a ghost episode. God, she had a flair for the dramatic. There was no such thing as ghosts. Or spirits. Or lost souls. No matter what you called them, it all boiled down to her overactive imagination and her overactive hormones. She missed having sex, that was all.

  Sharon yawned. She needed sleep. She put her camping sleep pad down in the “mistress suite” and climbed into her sleeping bag. In a matter of seconds, she was fast asleep.

  In the middle of the night she felt someone stroking her hair and softly breathing against her neck. “You’re so lovely,” the voice cooed.

  Sharon knew she wasn’t lovely. She was too tall and gangly. She had shoulder-length brown hair that she wore in a perpetual pony-tail and faded green eyes. There wasn’t one remarkable thing about her.

  “No, I’ve never been lovely,” she said sleepily.

  “Oh, but you are to me,” the voice said, and then Sharon felt arms wrap around her as they spooned.

  *

  The next morning Sharon woke up and stretched lazily. Despite sleeping on the floor, she felt rested and serene. She felt as if she belonged here. As if this house was exactly what she’d been searching for her entire life.

  Sharon chuckled. Just like a lesbian, right? One night of bliss and she was ready to dedicate her entire life. Except instead of a woman, this time it was a house.

  As she drank her coffee and had biscotti in the sunroom, she thought about how she was going to decorate the house. What had it looked like when it was brand-new? Who built it? What was its history? It wouldn’t be that hard to figure out—courtesy of the Internet. Except she didn’t have an Internet provider and looking things up on her phone was a pain in the ass. She finished her breakfast and set to work getting her “affairs in order,” as her mother called it.