Rooms: A Novel (2 page)

When they’d started RimSoft six years ago, he never imagined they’d strike such a rich vein in the software gold rush. Of course, he’d never imagined their long-term platonic relationship would bud into romance, either.

Micah sat down and stared at Archie’s letter. He had to get down there. And if the house existed, get rid of it. Now.

“You with me here?” Julie leaned against Micah’s desk.

“Huh?”

“I asked about Monday’s board meeting, and I think waiting five seconds for a response is long enough.” She laughed.

“Sorry, didn’t hear you. Brain freeze. I got a bizarre letter from a long-lost relative. In fact, this weekend I might have to go—”

Julie pressed two fingers against his lips. “We cannot allow those thoughts to escape.”

“What thoughts?”

“Of nixing our Whistler trip this weekend. You and me and snow and spring skiing and fireplaces and old, old bottles of cabernet. Ring any bells?”

“Hmm.” He grinned, raised his eyebrows, and hoped Julie would understand a change in plans.

“If you’re canceling, you’d better have a really, really good reason.” She straightened the collar of his olive green polo shirt.

“Apparently I’ve inherited a house right on the ocean, just south of Cannon Beach.”

“Cannon Beach?” A scowl flashed across her face. “Didn’t you once tell me you hated Cannon Beach?”

“I used to love it.”

“What? You did?”

“Forget it.”
Sorry, Archie.
The emotions that stupid letter wanted him to face would never see daylight.

Julie stared at him, but he ignored it.

“Let me see something.” Julie leaned over him as her red fingernails danced over his keyboard until a sampling of Cannon Beach oceanfront homes for sale flashed on-screen. “Take a look at these prices.” She tapped his monitor. “Your little gift could be worth $3 million plus. Throw a sign on it and make some quick cash.”

“Exactly. The quicker the better.”

“That’s why I love you, Micah.
Cha-ching.
Where did this mystery house come from?”

He picked up the letter and drew it across his hand like a blade. “My great-uncle, whom I’ve never met, had it built for me.”

“You never met him and he gives you a house?”

“Weird, huh?” Micah snapped his fingers. “So this weekend, let’s head for the sand, see if it’s real, and if it is, put a For Sale sign on it and make some money.”

“Instead of Whistler?” Her shoulders sagged.

“You’re right.” He ran his finger over the surface of the letter. “Let’s go skiing.”

“Wow. You really need to get this taken care of, don’t you?”

Julie didn’t wait for an answer. A few seconds later, Google Earth splashed onto Micah’s monitor. “Address?”

Micah read it to her off the letter. In moments they gazed at a patch of dirt overlooking the ocean.

“Not even a pile of concrete,” Julie said.

“Maybe, maybe not.” Micah punched a few keys. “Look. That satellite image is seven months old. Archie’s letter says the home was built by somebody during the past five months.” Micah’s gaze stayed riveted on his screen. “There could be—”

“How ’bout I make you a deal so you can go to the beach, Mr. Break-My-Heart.”

“Hey, it’s not that important for—”

“No, no, stay with me here. I know that look. You have to go. If you switch out our weekend at Whistler for a week in the Alps, we have a deal.”

“Then you’ll come with me this weekend?”

“No.”

“What? I’m not sure I want to do this by myself.”

Julie slid her finger across Micah’s cheek and turned his head toward her. “Something tells me you need to do this alone.”

It would be his first time in Cannon Beach in more than twenty years. And his last. Without question the last.

CHAPTER 2

Too late to head for Cannon Beach to see if the place was real? Probably. Micah walked through his penthouse doorway that evening the moment the numbers on his digital clock snapped from 8:59 to 9:00.

He tapped his phone to get his messages and slumped onto his couch, hoping one would be from his dad—dreading one of them would be from his dad.

“Hello, son,”
his dad’s deep voice trundled out from the machine.
“Received your call today. No need to call back. The only response for anything having to do with Archie Taylor is to run in the opposite direction. I don’t need to know what the letter says. Burn it and forget it. That’s what I’d do. What I expect you to do.”

Micah sighed. Joy. That’d be a fun call to return.

He got up to pour himself a glass of Diet Coke and stopped on the way to the kitchen in front of a framed picture of Julie and him on the cover of
Inc.
magazine hanging in the hallway. Their first cover story. A lifetime ago. He kissed his fingers and touched the glass. He’d popped the cork on a bottle of champagne that day. They’d made it.

Too bad the champagne of success seemed to be losing its bubbles.

After getting the Diet Coke, he clicked on his Panasonic big screen and glanced at the wall on either side of it. Blank. Last time Julie was over, they’d had the same conversation they had ten times before about his penthouse’s lack of decor.

“Why don’t you put some art on the walls, Micah? Some paintings? Or pictures? At least something.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Well, buy some, or put up those drawings and paintings you did back in high school and early college. The ones stacked in the closet. They’re pretty decent if you ask me.”

“They’re horrible.” His high school counselor had encouraged him to major in art in college. No way. No money in it. A shot too long to seriously consider. That part of his life was over.

“Then why have you hung on to them for the past twelve years?”

“Yeah, I will. Soon.”

“Which? Toss or hang?”

Micah didn’t reply. He didn’t know the answer.

That was a month ago. He took a sip of his Diet Coke and glanced over at the closet door, cracked open just enough to see the edge of the stack. He still didn’t know the answer.

Micah turned back to the TV and watched ESPN with the mute button on and thought about Cannon Beach. He loved the annual sand castle contest. His brother and he came in second place in the seven-to-eleven age group the year they built the dragon. That was their last trip. Two days after the contest . . . He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

He looked over at
The Fellowship of the Ring
novel on his end table. He’d been meaning to read it for two years. “I’m taking you with me.”

Saturday morning he rolled out of bed at seven, whipped up a bacon-bits-and-kalamata-olive omelet, and called his dad. Talking to him more than twice a year was too often, but if anyone had a clue why Archie had left him a house, it would be his father.

The phone rang three times. “Taylor residence. Daniel speaking.”

His dad had answered the phone that way for as long as Micah could remember. Sounded like it was straight out of a 1950s textbook on manners. Probably was.

Micah rubbed his forehead. He had to stay focused. Get the info and get off the phone. And try not to loathe the man more when he hung up than when he started.

“Hey, Dad.”

“You’re eating while you’re talking to me, son.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you eating?”

Micah pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. As usual his dad was in fine drive-you-crazy form. “Why does it matter?”

“What are you eating?”

“Just my special scrambled eggs and toast, coffee. Nothing fancy.”

“Get some fruit in your diet, son.”

Micah rubbed the scar on his left hand. “I want to talk to you about Archie’s letter.”

“I thought I explained my position in my message last night.”

“You did.” Micah rubbed his neck. “But I hoped I could get you to—”

“Fine. Read me the letter.”

Micah read it and waited. Three seconds. Five. His dad broke the silence at seven.

“Stay away from Cannon Beach. Why would you consider going back there even for one second?” Micah knew he’d have a reaction to where the house was located. Just as he knew his dad would fail to address the accident in any direct way. And Archie was a character straight out of Looney Tunes. How do you know the letter is real? It’s probably from a competitor trying to distract you.” His dad coughed. “You’ve accomplished a tremendous amount in the business world.”

“Thanks,” he sputtered. It was the first time his dad had mentioned RimSoft’s success. Ever. Micah looked at the
Inc.
picture of Julie and him on his wall. He’d sent a copy to his dad when it came out. His dad never acknowledged it.

“Also, what makes you think a house is really there? If there is, it’s probably no bigger than an outhouse and doesn’t smell much better. Leave it alone, son.”

His dad rarely called him anything but son, and Micah had grown up longing to hear his name spoken every now and then. “Thanks for the thoughts. I’ll think about ’em.”

“They’re not just thoughts; they are facts. What are you going to do?”

“Think about it!” Micah instantly regretted raising his voice. But every conversation with his dad was like talking to Spock. All he wanted was a little emotion from the man.

“I’ve obviously said too much. I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life. But you asked for my opinion and—”

“I’m sorry. I just want—”

“—I know I’m not good at these . . . um . . . and in the past I’ve done . . . I’m just not . . . You’ll make a good choice, I’m sure.”

Micah hung up and looked out the window of his twenty-first-floor penthouse overlooking Seattle’s Elliott Bay. It was a radiant spring day, the sun in full bloom, casting long morning shadows on the tiny grass park just north of Pike Place Market. A man lay in the center of the emerald carpet. His arms and legs were spread out, as if he’d stopped in the middle of making a snow angel.

The scene sparked a memory of himself when he was seventeen, eyes closed, lying in the center of a park near home.

“Hey, Micah, what are you doing?” a friend from his basketball team had asked, interrupting his daydream.

“Not thinking.” Micah opened his eyes. “Do you ever have so many thoughts of what you have to get done that you want to escape from your own mind?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I do. Never want to be one of those fame or power players so wiped out from racing through life and trying to keep what they have that they never get a chance to enjoy it. I’m going to enjoy being alive every day.”

“You’re weird, Micah.”

A conversation from another lifetime. Micah opened his eyes as the memory faded. He was a pretty naive kid back then. The life he’d created had perks he never dreamed of. But when you get to the top of Everest and it’s not all that great, what do you climb next?

The guy sprawled out on the lawn was still there, undoubtedly thinking about nothing. Or more likely stoned out of his mind. Whatever the case, the guy wasn’t trying to climb a molehill, let alone a mountain. Micah shook his head and tried to smile.

Resistance is futile. Life changes people. It changed his dad. Turned him into . . . something else.

And it seemed life had turned Micah into Sir Edmund Hillary. Accept it. Twenty minutes later he stood at his front door, black leather Vaqueta briefcase in one hand, a Nike gym bag in the other. Anything else?

Yeah. Grab some sunflower seeds for the trip down to the beach. He set his bags down just inside his front door, then trotted down the hall toward the kitchen. Wait. Something was wrong. Out of place in the hallway. Micah stopped and did a slow spin. Not out of place. Missing.

Where was it? He looked down, expecting to see it lying on the ginger-colored carpet. Nothing.

Waves of heat washed over him. Impossible. He’d glanced at it forty minutes ago while talking to his dad.

The framed
Inc.
magazine cover on his wall had vanished.

CHAPTER 3

Showtime. Time to find out how fully his great-uncle Archie had abandoned his rocker.

Just after three o’clock Saturday afternoon, Micah took the first Cannon Beach exit, lowered his window, and breathed deep. The tang of the ocean air filled him. In it he tasted gut-wrenching memories and, for reasons he didn’t understand, hope.

The odds of the house being real were zero, but he had to see the dirt. It was the fastest way to get Archie’s letter out of his head. Micah had pulled up the satellite photo once more before leaving Seattle, hoping to answer the question before he left. It still showed the outdated patch of open land where Archie’s house now supposedly sat.

If it did exist, the place would be four miles south of Cannon Beach so he didn’t need to go through town; but since he hadn’t been there in more than twenty years, he wanted to see the changes.

It wasn’t the real reason he pulled off Highway 101.

Part of him desperately wanted a house to be standing at the address on the card. He wanted to believe someone was crazy enough—or maybe cared enough about him—to build him a home on the Oregon Coast. But a bigger part didn’t believe, and driving through town would delay the inevitable disappointment.

He turned onto Main Street, and a few seconds later Osburn’s Ice Creamery filled his vision. Still there! His family used to camp up and down the Oregon Coast every summer. And every trip ended at Osburn’s for two scoops of whatever flavor his brother and he wanted. The two scoops were never sweet enough because they meant a summer of adventures had ended, and the bittersweet taste of fall and a new school year would settle on his tongue during the cheerless drive back to Seattle.

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. But very welcome.

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.

||||||||

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. He walked back inside and grabbed his keys off the granite countertop with the intention of heading to town. Just before stepping outside, he stopped himself. A door at the end of one of the ground-floor hallways was slightly open, a shaft of bright light spilling out of the room onto the carpet.

A feeling washed over him. The feeling of a string about to be pulled.