Rooms - James L. Rubart [9]
His cell phone screamed at him, shattering the moment. He grabbed the phone. “What?”
“Wow, excuse me,” Julie said. “I just wanted to see if you were there yet. See if the place is real.”
“Sorry, deep in thought. You startled me. I got here two minutes ago. You should see it, Jules.” Micah spun on his heel. A spiral staircase wound up to what looked like a long upstairs hallway. Of course the staircase would be spiral. He’d always loved them. “It’s stunning and bizarre at the same time. It feels . . . familiar.”
“How can a place you’ve never been to before feel familiar?”
“No idea.” Micah turned and walked back to the picture windows to watch the surf. Could he kayak in it?
“But you like it.”
“Impressive, so far. I’ll take some shots, show it to you next week.”
“You mean day after tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.” Micah hesitated. “Monday.”
After hanging up, he padded past the overstuffed chair that faced the window and thumped the armrest. “I’ll be back to you in a moment.”
French doors led to a massive deck above the beach. He swung them open, and the pungent ocean air rushed at him. He watched the waves pound out their mesmerizing pattern, and amid the roar of the water he listened to the solitude.
If only the waves could heal instead of stir up the past.
Yin and yang. He loved being here. He hated being here.
He closed his eyes and let the wind—which couldn’t figure out which way it wanted to blow—joust his face and hair before he stepped back inside and kept his date with the leather chair.
He propped his feet up on the ottoman and did nothing. Forced himself to think nothing. Looked at nothing but what was straight ahead. When the horizon faded to black, he was still in the same position. He believed people called this relaxing. He used to do it, eons ago, before RimSoft started sucking every minute of his time.
A few more minutes and he’d get up and explore the house, at least find the master bedroom. But that intent sank into the chair along with his last moments of conscious thought.
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Micah woke the next morning still in the leather chair. Remembering where he was took a few seconds, but the stunning ocean view that greeted his half-open eyes did wonders for his memory. He spent the night in the chair? How could he fall asleep before seeing the rest of the house? Time for a self-guided tour.
The rest of house didn’t disappoint with its fully stocked kitchen, complete with an indoor grill and subzero freezer and granite countertops.
Game room with foosball, pool table, and darts.
Colossal media room with maroon movie theater chairs and a screen at least eight feet by five.
A study with dark built-in bookshelves, wireless router, and a teak desk.
The guest bedrooms were themed, one with sports, one for thrill seekers, and one for history buffs. This place just kept getting better. Just like the living room, the home was how Micah would have built it.
He reached the master bedroom, and his palms started sweating. The entire house was exactly as he would have done it. It was laid out as if someone had been inside his head and picked his favorite colors and styles and dropped them perfectly into place.
His dream home, straight out of his dreams.
He didn’t like the idea of someone he had never met knowing his tastes with this much precision. His mind spun. The construction had to cost millions, let alone the cost of the land. Add the home’s contents and it was probably one of the more expensive homes on the Oregon Coast.
Why spend that kind of money? And build it for anyone, let alone him? It didn’t compute. Micah returned to the main floor, walked out on the deck, and looked up at the house. Rough guess, it was nine thousand square feet. And it was his. Unbelievable.
That was the problem. The home was not believable. There had to be strings. They had to be attached somewhere.
Good thing he wouldn’t be around to find out.
Micah glanced out over the ocean. He was going to sell the place. As soon as possible.
His stomach growled and he glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock.