“Coming, Lance?”
He turned away from the motionless figure on the bench and stepped into the coolness of the house.
The foyer that met him was wide with tall ceilings. Smooth oak planking made up the floor he stood on, and the walls were covered in surprisingly light, neutral colors. Beyond the foyer, the home opened up with vertical support beams made of stained logs that ran from the floor to the ceiling nearly fifteen feet overhead. A large bathroom was positioned to the right with bright track lighting already glowing within. Lance assumed Carrie had gone throughout the house before he arrived, throwing on lights and perhaps tidying up a bit to further entice her potential buyer.
“The last owners really wanted to modernize the old place. They sheetrocked over all of the stone walls, which to me wasn’t the best idea, but it turned out really well nonetheless. The house was built in the late forties just as Stony Bay was being fully established. Actually, the bay out front is the town’s namesake and I’m guessing you’ll be able to see why.”
Lance followed the realtor farther into the house, glancing up every so often at the large chandeliers hanging from ornate chains. Suddenly he imagined he could see the blond man sitting in an overstuffed chair covered by a white sheet. Lance stopped and stared. The man blinked and Lance could see a tear running down the right side of his face. Absently, the man wiped it away and kept looking forward blankly, then dissolved to leave only an empty dust-covered chair behind. He’s here, Lance thought. Why’s he here? What is he waiting for? Lance’s mind was so consumed with the story dancing at the edges of his imagination that he barely heard Carrie speak to him.
“Lance, are you okay?” He nodded and licked his lips as he looked at the Realtor vacantly.
“Sorry, I’m fine. Long drive,” Lance replied, finally gathering his wits. The Realtor gave him a sidelong glance and turned to walk farther into the house.
Carrie led him into a wide kitchen set into the right side of the home. Lance admired the black marble the prior owners had chosen for countertops and the contrasting light wood of the cabinets beneath. A hanging pot rack hovered over a large cutting block in the middle of the room, and Lance even spied a fairly new-model dishwasher tucked beneath one end of the counter.
“As you can see, they spared no expense in the kitchen. If I remember right, the owner used to be a chef at a culinary school in Boston.” Lance nodded and was about to follow Carrie out of the kitchen when he imagined the blond man seated at the counter, staring forlornly out of the window. There was a scrap of paper and a dulled pencil lying on the marble top. His left hand kept rolling the pencil back and forth, over and over.
Excitement buzzed in Lance’s stomach as he followed Carrie out into the wide expanse of the dining/living room. Details were starting to appear. It was always the first sign of a story taking shape. He would see something in his mind or imagine it happening in the world around him, and it was only when he noticed a detail within the imaginations that he realized there was something worth writing there.
“To me, this is the best part of the house. The atrium was added just before the previous owners bought it. It’s the best view of Lake Superior I’ve ever seen.” Lance stepped out into the glass room and couldn’t help but agree. The panoramic view floated before them, unobstructed by walls or doors. The contractor who had built the vestibule was talented and had the foresight not to install wide supports that would have cut up the observatory like a tic-tac-toe board.