Creed told me he had his Expedition as well as a nondescript Ford sedan to do work in during jobs he needed to be invisible. He also told me he had a Harley, a speedboat he took to the lake with his kids and a three bedroom house on a hill.
Of all of this, I was excited about the speedboat and Harley. The speedboat said good times on the water that included such things as inner tubes, skis and Creed wearing nothing but swim trunks. Who wouldn’t like all that? A Harley elevated anyone’s badass status about seven thousand levels. Owning a Harley and looking and acting like Creed made him even more badass than Ron and Ron was a fucking Marine.
Creed did not tell me his “three bedroom house on a hill” was a showplace.
My eyes scanned as Creed moved us through.
To the left through an archway was a study. Handsome furniture with a modern bent, the space clearly used but organized, even tidy.
Straight ahead was open space and lots of it. It also screamed, “Make no mistake! You’re in the Southwest!”
A long, rustic, wooden, rectangular dining room table with eight chairs was just in from the front door and beyond the recessed study was an open plan kitchen with modern cabinets, shiny granite countertops and top-of-the-line appliances. The kitchen/dining room and living area was delineated by a red felt pool table.
Yes, a pool table. That was how vast the space was.
Past that was the living area with a big, comfy-looking sectional accompanied by a massive chair and ottoman and an enormous flat screen TV in an enormous wall unit. The floors were shining wood throughout except the kitchen was tile.
There were stunning prints with a southwest feel on the walls but none of them were stereotypical. They were unusual and exquisite. Art deco desert landscapes that Creed would tell me later were by Ed Mell. Whimsical portraits by L. Carter Holman. Colorful cacti in bloom by Diana Madaras.
The entirety of the space had a feel of rustic as well as modern mixed with a heavy hand of southwest. It was decorated in brick red, terracotta and cream with hints of turquoise, purple, golden yellow and sun burnt orange.
It was amazing.
Beyond the living space was the showstopper. Floor to ceiling windows with a view to a lit pool that looked more like a rocky grotto including a small waterfall. All of this was surrounded by a massive pool deck and handsome deck furniture. There were manicured, graveled in areas around the pool deck filled with palm trees, fruit trees and weird but attractive cacti. Since Creed’s house was on a hill, the pool’s backdrop beyond an adobe wall was the lights of north Phoenix.
The house was amazing.
The back patio and view were awesome.
In truth, the whole thing was. Well-appointed, well-decorated with personality and thoughtfulness, open, airy, clean and tidy but with a comfortable feel.
Therefore, like I mentioned, I was stunned.
The Creed I knew lived in the broken down house that he shared with his mother. A house that, when he grew older, he was constantly working on to keep the roof from leaking, the plumbing working and the space livable until we could take off on my eighteenth birthday finally to start our lives. The furniture was old, worn and in some cases, hand-me-down. Creed’s Dad had inherited the property from his Dad and had died before he’d been able to give his family better. Winona Creed was a mess who could barely take care of herself and didn’t bother taking care of her son or home. This included the fact she didn’t clean, as in ever.
These thoughts entering my head, harking back I remembered something I’d forgotten.
Creed did clean. He vacuumed, did the dishes and did the laundry. He hated that house and not just because it was ramshackle but because it didn’t smell good, didn’t look good and it was a pain in the ass to clean not only his own mess but that of a drunk of a mother who didn’t give a shit. Like me but for different reasons, he couldn’t wait to get out.
Still, even remembering that, it must be said I didn’t know what I expected of single Dad Creed but this definitely wasn’t it.
We were standing at the windows looking out at his view when Creed murmured, “Hot as an oven now, baby, but come September through to May, that right there is paradise.”
I looked up at him to see his eyes trained to the view. He must have felt my gaze because he tipped his down to me.
“What’s the stringy cactus?” I asked.
“Ocotillo. Orange flowers, twice a year. The desert in bloom, outside you and my kids, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re here in March, Sylvie, I’ll take you out. So pretty, you’ll forget to breathe.”
I held his eyes and forgot to breathe right then.
He liked it here, a lot. He’d found a home. He’d settled.