Maybe that wasn’t fair. She only wanted them to start their future together—two PhDs blazing trails in academia, being a power couple in the field of psychology. Wasn’t that what he wanted, too?
It is, he told himself. Stability, security. Finally.
“Make a U-turn,” the GPS said cheerfully.
In her cat carrier in the backseat, Mozart meowed with impatience. She hated car rides.
Spencer cursed softly under his breath as he followed the computer’s instructions. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts he’d missed the house, which just went to show how jumbled he was. Hopefully, a couple of weeks of peace and solitude would help him get his head and priorities straight.
He guided the car up the driveway before parking. Staring through the windshield, he couldn’t believe that this amazing house would be his. The woman he’d rented it from had quoted him a price even a graduate student could afford, so he’d jumped at the chance. Lakefront views and total quiet would definitely ensure that he worked.
After getting his luggage from the trunk, he grabbed Mozart’s carrier and his canvas bag of groceries, then maneuvered everything to the front door. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. Soaring ceilings and a living room with an enormous fireplace greeted him.
“Wow,” he said admiringly, stepping into the open space. “All right, Mozart.”
He set her carrier down and opened the latch on the grate. When she gingerly stepped out, he ran an encouraging hand down her back. “This is home for the next two weeks.”
Even though she hated car rides, Mozart liked new places. After giving one last assessing look at her environment, she padded off to explore.
He straightened, and his gaze fell on an ice bucket sitting atop the kitchen counter. A bottle of white wine stood chilling in the bucket, and a tumbler waited beside it.
“Well,” Spencer said with pleasure, “isn’t that thoughtful?” He examined the bottle, recognizing the label. “It’s good, too.” He picked up the tumbler and saw it was painted with cheerful little daisies. Cute, but not a wineglass. “Deserves a better glass than this.”
A hutch held long-stemmed wineglasses, so he set the tumbler down on one of the shelves and plucked a more appropriate vessel for the chardonnay. He brought the glass to the counter and poured himself some wine.
“Here’s to a productive two weeks.” He raised his glass. It would have been better if someone had been there to toast with him, but that was what this time was about—being alone.
After taking a sip, Spencer put the wine down and went to collect his luggage. It took two trips to bring the three perfectly matched bags up the curved staircase that led to the second floor. Once all his belongings were upstairs, he examined one of the bedrooms. It was a comfortable room with a perfectly pleasant bed, but it wasn’t quite what he wanted.
Further investigating uncovered a second, larger bedroom with a bed that faced a spectacular view of the lake. Wonderful. He stacked his bags neatly on the bed and, after ensuring that they were precisely lined up so that they wouldn’t topple over, he headed back downstairs. There was just one more thing to do to make the house perfect.
A small pedestal table was exactly the right size and height for his portable phonograph. He took a vinyl LP out of his canvas bag, then set it carefully on the turntable.
Mozart continued her exploration of the living room, sniffing delicately at the sofa and chairs.
“Hey, Mozart,” he said over his shoulder. “How do you like the place?”
He gently lowered the needle onto the record, and immediately the elegant strains of “Spring” from Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons filled the house. Spencer smiled to himself. He’d spent months tracking down this particular recording of Vivaldi. It had been his mom’s favorite.
There was something enchanting about an LP versus a digital recording. It had a warmth and humanity that a download could never achieve. He was glad that he’d taken the chance and brought some of his album collection with him. After he worked all day, he could relax in the evening with Vivaldi, Beethoven, and a few vintage oldies. They reminded him of those rare evenings with his parents, when he’d lie between his mom and dad on the living room floor of his grandparents’ house and just listen to music with his eyes closed, sensations of love and belonging enveloping him like an embrace.
The bittersweet memory made his smile fade a little. Maybe someday he could think about his parents without feeling that sense of loss and loneliness.
With the music sweeping through the rooms, he grabbed his wine and ambled down the hallway. If he wasn’t mistaken, the description of the house had included a media room. He doubted he’d have time to watch movies, but the film buff in him had to see if the rental came with the latest equipment.
The media room contained four large recliners and a wide-screen television, along with a sizeable assortment of DVDs. Some of them were new releases, but he picked up one that was still in its plastic wrapper.
“Casablanca.” He smiled to himself. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have thought the rental company had stocked this particular title just for him.
In the distance, a dog barked frantically. He tried to ignore the sound as he perused the rest of the movies. Singin’ in the Rain, Roman Holiday, An Affair to Remember. The classic romantic films spoke directly to his own personal taste, even though he seldom watched old movies with Susan. She preferred modern, cerebral dramas, and he sat through them dutifully, although they usually left him cold.
The barking grew louder. Spencer looked up from the DVDs when he heard Mozart’s annoyed howl. Something thumped and a woman’s voice cried out in warning. His heart raced when the unmistakable sound of a record scratching ripped through the noise.
The sounds were coming from inside the house.
Still holding his wineglass, he rushed out of the media room—and immediately collided with someone. Chardonnay went everywhere, including all down his pullover.
Spencer stared down at the elfin blonde woman from the train station, the one with the cute face and annoying dog. She stared back at him in shock.
“You!” he exclaimed.
“You!” she said at the same time. She wiped wine off her shirt, her hands skimming over the camera hanging from her neck.
Mozart leapt up onto the kitchen counter and hissed at the dog, who pawed at the counter and barked frantically.
“What’s your dog doing in my house?” Spencer demanded.
“What’s your cat doing in my house?” the woman fired back.
He rushed forward to grab Mozart, cradling her to his body and keeping her away from the excited dog.
“Actually,” the woman demanded, “what are you doing in my house?”
“That’s an easy one. It’s not your house. It’s mine.” He hurried his cat toward her carrier, still waiting in the foyer. “Come on, Mozart. Let’s get you somewhere safe—away from that animal.”
As he tucked Mozart into her carrier, he heard the woman say, “He has a name. That’s okay,” she added softly, presumably for the dog’s benefit. “You’re not a mean dog. No, you’re not. Shh. That’s fine, buddy.”
Spencer strode back into the living room. The woman had clipped a leash onto the irritating dog’s collar. But he barely saw that. All his attention was focused on the phonograph and the record spinning on the turntable.
“Please