Rooms - James L. Rubart [8]
But those drives ended when the accident shattered his life.
South of town he took the winding road fifty feet above the beach. Micah slowed his car to a crawl as he watched seagulls pirouette in the cobalt sky above Haystack Rock. A few minutes later he pulled back onto 101 and swallowed hard. Then again. There was no reason to be nervous. The thought didn’t help.
His GPS showed the house would be just south of Arcadia Beach State Park. As the park came into view, he slowed to five miles per hour, pulled onto the shoulder, and studied the numbers on little posts till he found 34140. He tapped on his brakes and took furtive glances up and down the highway.
Micah’s heart quickened as he turned right and his tires crunched slowly over the gravel driveway. It curved to the right, enough to block a view of where the house might be. A faint briny smell seeped into the car, and as he lowered his window, the roar of a thousand waves filled his ears. He stopped his car before the view in front of him could answer the question pounding through his mind.
“C’mon, God, let something be there. And let it be more than an outhouse.”
The words spilled out before he could stop them. Where did they come from? Prayer wasn’t part of his to-do list. Or at least it hadn’t been for eons. Opening his eyes Micah looked up at the sky and let the prayer linger, watching the thought of it float up into nothingness. Then again, maybe God was still up there, even after all these years.
The pace of his breathing increased. Couldn’t put it off any longer. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead into his eye. He wiped it away and pressed the gas pedal, as if it were a feather.
His car scrunched forward, and a corner of the house appeared. He let out a long, low whistle as more came into view. First glance said it could compete easily with any of the mansions the Vanderbilts had ever constructed. He leaned forward over his dashboard. Whew. Top of the slate roof had to be twenty-five, maybe thirty feet high.
He got out of his car and walked under the awning that led to the front door, pausing to marvel at the flowering gardens on his right and left. They smelled like sunrise. A reflecting pool to his left showed the image of a stone chimney rising up along the east side of the house. The pool flowed out the far end in a cascade of water that rained down on mossy boulders before it settled into a pond dotted with lily pads. Probably filled with koi. Micah shook his head and chuckled.
Two magnificent stone columns ran up on either side of a solid fir door highlighted by a bronze knob that looked ancient and new at the same time. Two nineteenth-century gas lamps framed the polished limestone entrance.
As he slid the key into the lock, a severe case of déjà vu splashed over him. He’d seen this before. In a dream? A picture of a house just like this? Micah shivered as he turned the key.
The feeling intensified as he walked through the front door. He had been here, hadn’t he? No. Not possible. The thing had just been finished. Get a grip.
As he wandered forward, a puff of laughter escaped his lips and he grinned. Amazing. Four towering mahogany windows framed a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean. Huge cedar beams held up a ceiling at least twenty feet high. A fireplace made of river rock dominated the wall to the left. Along the right wall were built-in mahogany bookshelves, ten feet tall.
In front of the windows sat an oversized, overstuffed chair. A lamp next to it would no doubt cast a warm, golden light. An ideal spot to watch the waves.
Archie might have been a loon, but whoever built this place for him nailed it. Micah felt like he’d been coming here his entire life. How did Archie know? He and his great-uncle must have had identical tastes in style.
Micah studied a massive painting of Haystack Rock hanging over the maple fireplace mantle. Influenced by Monet, no question, with maybe a splash of van Gogh. Micah tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Peace seemed to flit about him like a barn swallow. An unexpected emotion.