But what if it’s Flint? Maybe he forgot his key or something.
Savanny is already walking out the bathroom door. I follow, and along the way, spy a robe hanging next to the door and slip it on. A dark-blue velour material at least one size too big. I roll up the sleeves awkwardly while making my way through the enormous house.
This place commands respect in every glance, all soft earthy tones covering the walls and glistening wood floors. I can’t help wondering if I helped with the decorating. I truly admire each painting, every piece of furniture, the decorative pieces made of stone and monkey tree wood on the floating shelves.
It’s elegant, if a bit dark and overly masculine.
Still, the clean lines and open spaces are just homey. It’s a nice balance of classy and rustic, very Hawaiian and very modern. The perfect place to just be.
There’s a window on the front door covered with a tan curtain that’s sheer enough to see through.
It’s not Flint standing there, but a young boy with sandy-brown hair. Maybe in his preteens.
He sees me through the glass and grins.
I twist the knob, but it’s locked. Same for the deadbolt. Thankfully the manual controls still work, even though they’re the newfangled smart home stuff that can be accessed remotely with an app.
After fumbling around for a minute unlatching everything, I throw the door open.
“Can I help you?” I ask, looking down at the chubby kid.
“Hi!” he says. “My name’s Louie Stevens, and my Boy Scout troop is selling popcorn to fund our activities.” He swipes up a colorful ordering form. “We have, uh…popped and unpopped corn in many different delicious flavors. Even microwave packs! Wanna buy some?”
Before I can respond, he flips open the flyer and starts pointing at colorful pictures, explaining the type, amount, and cost. He’s obviously practiced his little dog and pony show many times because he’s talking a mile a minute, sucking in air every now and then so he doesn’t forget where he’s at in his spiel.
I can’t help but smile at how adorable he is. He even specifies which packages are the ‘all-time gourmet bestsellers’ on his order form.
Somehow, I doubt any gourmet chef ever slaved over freaking mass market popcorn, but he’s a good little salesman.
He’s still going strong when a black truck whips into the driveway between two wrought iron gates. My heart skips a beat at the driver.
Flint. Good timing, maybe he’ll want to buy some.
Then a shiver rips up my spine. There’s a vicious scowl on his face when he jumps out of the truck and starts storming this way.
“What’s going on?” he growls at the boy. “Who’re you?”
“Louie Stevens!” the boy answers, his eyes going wide, backing up a step as Flint marches forward. “You know…fr-from up the road. M-my Boy Scout troop is, um…Mister?”
“He’s selling popcorn,” I tell Flint as the boy swallows hard.
Jeez.
Stepping forward to place a reassuring hand on Louie’s plump shoulder, I shoot Flint a glare before smiling back at the boy. “We’ll take two number fives, Louie.”
Flint keeps frowning, but he doesn’t look like he’s ready to impale a man anymore.
I still have no clue what gives.
Taking the brochure from Louie’s clammy little hand, I hold it out to Flint. I don’t even know what type of popcorn comes in the number five pack, but it’s another ‘gourmet bestseller,’ supposedly.
Flint takes the flyer, glances at it quickly, nodding his head.
“Two number fives,” I repeat, this time aimed at Flint.
“You, um…you can pay when I deliver it,” Louie says meekly, swallowing. “I’m friends with Bryce.”
“Put us down for two number fives and two number tens,” Flint says, digging out his wallet. He hands the paper back to Louie. “I’ll pay you now, no problem. Did you open the gate?”
Louie nods.
“Mind if I ask how?” Flint studies him. There’s still a gentle edge in his voice, but it looks like he’s come back to his senses over…whatever that was.
“I’m sorry, Mister! Bryce showed me once. He said drop by anytime and I guess I just…dropped by.”
Flint’s face softens the first time this kid says the name Bryce, and again when he mentions it a second time. Of course, the name doesn’t mean anything to me. I can’t remember any names besides Savanny, who sits by my feet, swishing that long spotted tail at the ground.
“Thanks, Louie,” Flint says, passing him cash for the popcorn. “Didn’t mean to growl at you. Say hi to your folks for me.”
Louie nods, takes the cash, and then sprints down the steps, the sidewalk, and the driveway.
I’m sure he keeps running long after he passes through the gate.
“Jesus. You scared him half to death with the way you flew in here, huffing and puffing.” I’m shocked because I’d never seen this side of Flint. Not that I remember, anyway. “Where’s your aloha?”