Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
"Pull all the way down the drive," he told me, making me realize I had hit the brake only a third of the way down, admiring the front of this place he called home.
"Oh, God. What is that?" I asked as we hit the end of the driveway. I had expected a sprawling backyard, seeing as his placement on the curve in the cul-de-sac, gave him the biggest lot. There did seem to be some sort of yard to the left, but was blocked off by a board-on-board fence. But the monstrosity in front of us was what seemed to take up most of the valuable real estate.
A giant, ugly metal building.
"The garage."
"That is not a garage. That is an airport hanger."
It certainly resembled one in both design and size. The steel was a brownish color. And there was nothing warm or inviting about it. Just a giant rectangle with a normal door to the side of the giant garage door.
Of course, one had to think of his car collection. This was Lincoln, after all. He had more money in his car collection than most people would ever hope to have in their retirement fund. And because he was Lincoln, he was nitpicky about how his cars were cared for. Meaning he would never let one of his babies sit in the driveway for rain or sap or bird droppings to splatter down on their perfect paint.
Of course he had a giant garage to keep them all in.
"I'm gonna unlock it so you can drive in," he told me. My face must have shown my confusion because he chuckled. "They don't do it often, but on occasion, one of the guys or Miller might pop over. If your car is in the driveway, they will have the questions we don't want to answer. Later, I will do some moving around so you can park in the attached garage. But for now, it's late. This is the plan."
With that, he hopped out, going over toward a panel, plugging in a code, then--and I kid you not--placing his hand on a palm sensor.
The door grumbled open, and I waited for Lincoln to wave me in before I dared pull in.
The inside was less ugly than the outside. Which seemed unlikely, but indisputable.
Where I expected more cold steel, there was, well, what seemed to be a luxury showroom. Tile floors, a fancy wooden ceiling, special lights, art on the walls.
And, of course, the cars.
Seven of them.
Plus the one at the office, that put him at eight.
It was excessive by any standard, but I guess I maybe figured it might be more. It sure felt like every time I saw him, he was in something new.
I pulled my car into the empty space, giving myself a second to worry about any potential fluid leaks before I reminded myself that this was what he wanted, then grabbed my overnight bag, and climbed out.
"This garage is nicer than my apartment," I told him, shaking my head.
"It's probably nicer than my house too," he admitted, putting a hand at my lower back again to lead me back out of the giant door, and up the quiet driveway to open the front door. That he hadn't even bothered to lock.
Sensing the direction of my thoughts, he shrugged. "If someone decides to take my TV when cars that are worth more than an average doctor's salary are back there, then, well, he's a fucking idiot. Come on, let's get you settled so you can get some sleep."
The foyer opened up to two rooms at the sides and a hall to the front, everything somewhat open. Living room at the left led into the kitchen that led into the dining room that led back into the family room at the right beside the front door again.
The decor was somewhat reminiscent, I believed, of the women who had shared part of their lives here, not Lincoln's taste, seeing as nothing seemed to match. The white couches paired with the black leather recliner. The floral runner in the kitchen with the chunky geometric hand towels hanging off the handle of the range.
"Stairs are back here," he told me, leading me into the kitchen and up the back stairs onto a second floor that led in both directions, cut off from the hall by closed doors. The master and the guest, I imagined. "This is you," he told me, opening up the door to the right, revealing a medium-sized room with a wrought-iron bed covered in all white, wide-planked wooden floors, a closet, a small bath, a steeply pitched ceiling, and even a little window seat overlooking the backyard I hadn't been able to get a look at driving up. And still wouldn't, given how dark it was. I found myself oddly excited to wake up in the morning to look it over.