showed her the laundry room, which was so much nicer than the one in her apartment building.
“I can figure it out,” she told him, eyeing the sheets in the dirty clothes hamper by the shiny, front-loading machine. “I’ll use those to make a load. I’ll be fine, if you want to go, um, work.”
He studied her for a second, then nodded. “I’ll be in my studio for a couple of hours,” he told her. “Then we can figure out what to have for dinner.”
She’d just had soup and crackers, so wouldn’t be hungry for a while. Not that she wasn’t always up for a meal, but still. “Sounds great.”
She watched him leave, put her sopping clothes into the washer, added the sheets and detergent, then started the cycle. Only then did she wonder if he really was going to work. Lately he hadn’t been producing. She didn’t know if she was the only one to notice, or if his brothers had, as well. She wondered if the lack of work was the reason Ronan had been so withdrawn over the past few months. To be as gifted and incredible as he was and then to not be able to work would be... Honestly, she couldn’t imagine. Maybe the saddest thing ever. To have that creative gift taken away was the definition of cruelty.
The front-loading washer door locked into place. She watched it for a second, realized there was a timer that told her she had forty-seven minutes until the cycle was over and knew there was no way she could stay here watching laundry wash.
The right thing to do would be to quietly sit somewhere, minding her own business, maybe playing a game on her phone, but the burning need to explore the huge, intriguing house was so much more appealing. She wouldn’t go anywhere too personal, she promised herself. A quick tour of mostly public spaces should be okay.
She retraced her steps through the kitchen and into the entryway, wanting to start at the beginning. The double front doors were huge. They looked as if they’d been reclaimed from some castle teardown, not that they had many of those in the southwestern part of the country. She ran her hands over the wood and briefly imagined barbarians using a battering ram to break down the door.
The foyer itself was large and circular. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling two stories up. It seemed to be from the same design era as the front doors—wrought iron and glass twisted into a medieval feel. To her right was a staircase hugging the curved wall. Beyond that was a hallway. To her left was a shorter hallway leading to the kitchen-slash-family room, and there was a half-open door straight across from her. Inside was a very prosaic but necessary powder room.
She headed down the hallway to the right. It led to a beautiful formal dining room with a big table and eight chairs. Ronan wasn’t the type to host a dinner party and she couldn’t imagine him buying the furniture. Had the house been furnished when he’d bought it?
She went back into the kitchen. It was just plain big. Starkly modern with stainless-steel appliances all in fancy brands like Sub-Zero and Wolf and gorgeous quartz countertops. The backsplash was done in swirling glass tiles that morphed from gray to blue to green to yellow and back to gray. The shapes fit together like a puzzle, and depending on where she stood, the colors seemed to blend and merge or stand out on their own. What on earth?
“Duh,” she murmured to herself as she pressed her hands against the cool-to-the-touch backsplash. Ronan was a gifted glass artist. He would have made the tiles himself.
The glass door to the pantry had an inset that matched. She saw a built-in wine cellar that was filled, and plenty of cupboard space. After glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone, she opened one of the cupboards and saw a stack of dishes. Nothing noteworthy. Everyone had dishes. Only these were special.
She picked up one of the plates and studied it. The pattern—one that was similar to the backsplash—was unfamiliar, but she recognized the work. Mathias, Ronan’s brother, had made them. Mathias sold all kinds of dishes, serving pieces, light pendants and blown-glass sinks. As the part-time office manager, she cataloged his work, but she’d never seen these before. Had he made them specially for his brother, and if so, when had that happened? While they weren’t estranged exactly, she couldn’t imagine Ronan asking for something like this.
She put back the dish and turned to the family room. It was definitely a man’s room—the large black sectional faced a movie-theater-size television. There were a few pictures on the wall but what really got her attention was the wooden carved bear in the corner. It was life-size and incredibly realistic. The only thing that kept it from being terrifying was the cup of coffee it held in one paw. She moved closer and saw a plaque at the bottom that read Vern.
Natalie laughed, then touched the wood. She knew the artist of the carved bear as well as she knew the maker of the dishes. Nick was a third Mitchell brother.
She had to admit she was confused. She would swear that Ronan was almost entirely disconnected from his brothers. He barely spoke to them when he was in the gallery workshop and he was spending more and more time up here, on his own. Yet he had their work in his house.
She walked back to the foyer and debated the stairs or the longer hallway. The curved staircase was too intriguing to be ignored, so she went upstairs and found herself in what she assumed was a guest room. There was a queen-size bed, a dresser with a TV on top, a small desk and an adjoining bathroom stocked with basic supplies.
She tried not to shriek when she saw herself in the mirror. Her hair had curled as it dried and was now a bouncing riot of brown ringlets. Oh, to have her blow-dryer and some decent styling product.
She went downstairs and headed down the long hall. She came to a study with a big desk and lots of books. No doubt where Ronan liked to sit and count his money, she thought with a grin. She walked out and glanced to her left. There was only one more doorway and she knew it led to the master bedroom. Temptation whispered, but she ignored the voice. She was exploring, not prying. Besides, she’d already caught a glimpse on her way to the bathroom. She knew what it looked like, even though she very much wanted to spend some quality time admiring his roommate, the sprite. Determined to be a courteous guest, she returned to the foyer, grabbed her tote bag and went into the kitchen.
She sat at the table and pulled a flat plastic box from her bag. She opened it, then flipped through the various pieces of square paper until she found a deep green sheet. She studied it for a second, then began to fold the paper.
Less than two minutes later, she’d finished the origami dragon. From the laundry room, the washer beeped that it had completed its cycle. She got up and put her clothes and the sheets in the dryer, then left the small dragon on Ronan’s desk in the study.
Back in the kitchen, she noticed two doors. One led to the garage and the other led to yet another hallway. No, that wasn’t right. It was a covered walkway, but instead of traditional walls, these were made of glass, allowing her to see out into the storm on both sides. The flooring was stone. She sucked in a breath before taking her first step.
As she followed the path, she realized the glass was curved. There was a door at the other end. A door with a lock. She tried the handle and it turned easily, opening to a much smaller foyer. More doors. One stood open; the other was closed. She moved to the open door and stared into sacred space.
Ronan’s workshop was enormous—probably at least a couple thousand square feet. The ceilings soared. There were two ovens, equipment everywhere. Benches, bins, raw material for making glass and, on the wall opposite, a to-scale-size drawing of his current commission.
On the left was a beautiful swan, on the right an equally stunning dragon. The ten feet in between showed one creature transforming into the other. It was magical enough on paper, but the finished product would be done entirely in glass.
There was a similar rendering back in the gallery workshop. She knew parts of it were finished, but not enough, mostly because these days Ronan wasn’t working. Even now, both ovens were cold and dark.
It occurred to her a second too late that coming into the studio uninvited was much more of an intrusion than going into Ronan’s bedroom. He was an artist and this was—
“Natalie?”