“You married me to inherit this house,” I say.
He’s stopped by the bay windows in the sitting room. It would make for a great reading nook, I think, looking out over the backyard. Although I’m not sure ifbackyardis the right word. Property, perhaps, or estate. The lawn and gardens beyond look endless.
“Yes,” he says.
“Was it a good bargain?”
Victor gives me a wry smile. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Because of me, or because of the house?”
“Both,” he says, and it feels like his gaze goes right through me. “Both.”
I swallow. “Will you show me the rest?”
He nods. We walk through the kitchen, a guest bedroom, three baths. We finish our loop back in the entryway and the two grand staircases. The house is beautiful. It has character ingrained in every single floorboard.
“Do you want to see upstairs?”
“If you want to show me, yes.”
He leads the way up the staircase and I let my hand slide along the worn railing.
“That was his room,” Victor says, nodding down a hallway. I can just barely see a master bedroom.
“Oh.”
“This,” he says, pointing to an anonymous-looking guest bedroom, “was mine.”
I know so little of his background, of his life, of his family. I know his parents are out of the picture. “You grew up in this house,” I murmur.
Victor nods. “Since I was eight.”
He pushes open a half-closed door and my eyes widen at the treasures beyond. It’s a study, and it’s glorious. Multi-paned windows look out on the property, letting the last daylight into a room that could have been made for Winston Churchill.
A wide, oak desk with a leather inlay sits in the middle. The floor is covered in a thick oriental rug. All around us are bookshelves. My eyes travel over the spines, over memorabilia and trophies and pictures.
“This was your grandfather’s study? It looks beautiful. It could be the set of a movie.”
Victor doesn’t answer and I turn away from my perusal of a small bronze statue of a dog. He’s standing in front of a framed picture hanging by the side of the door. His hands are in his pockets, jaw tense.
Perhaps taking me here was an impulsive decision. Something to show me I was wrong when I accused him of sleeping around.
But this is not a place where he’s comfortable.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what?”
“For the loss of your grandfather. I didn’t tell you that, when he passed.”
“You organized his funeral,” Victor says. “You were there.”
“In a way, I suppose." I step closer, my voice dropping. “Do you come here to feel close to him?”
Victor looks away from me. “No. Not consciously, at least.”
“It’s your house now. Are you planning on… changing anything?”