“Yes, Matsuda. Riku Matsuda. I called you on Monday.” The shorter and, he thought, the prettier one, smiled again. This time he saw that it lit up her whole face.
“I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Esther Stein, and this is my friend, Mrs. Flora Konigsberg. Esther and Florrie, if you’d like.” The taller one, Florrie, acknowledged him with a smile and, biting her lip as she took his cue, a quick bow.
“I’m here to look at your home, but I haven’t much time, as my flight is later this afternoon, and my family is waiting.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” said the shorter woman with the unusually thick auburn-colored hair, the one who was the homeowner. She took quick strides, leading the way into the living room. When she spoke, Riku thought he heard a slight accent in her voice, but he couldn’t quite tell from where. Her friend, fast on her tail, stood quietly behind as Esther swept her arm across the space. The first thing Riku noticed was the size of the room—large, expansive, with giant windows whose light was covered by dark damask drapes. The couch, a royal-blue velvet, and matching shag rug seemed out of date, and the radiator, white paint peeling at the top, equally anachronistic. It rattled intermittently, and the floors beneath the rug complained like an old man, squeaking with every step. A baby grand piano gleamed in the corner.
The kitchen was not much better. The appliances were olive green, though showed signs of careful scrubbing. Every couple of seconds, a sad drip coming from the kitchen faucet broke the silence. There were cheery yellow curtains on the one window over the sink, and a yellow-and-orange tablecloth decorated the small, round plastic table in an unfortunate attempt to brighten the room. The toilet and small sink in the downstairs powder room looked like they worked, although he wondered how many years it had been since the carnation-pink tiles had gone out of fashion.
Upstairs, another shag rug in the hallway, a chocolate brown, was severely matted, but it lacked any sign of pet hair or the noxious stench of tobacco and looked as if its only fault consisted of several frequent shampoos. The bedrooms, smaller than Riku would have liked, seemed equally immaculate. Only one, the main, contained a bed, two night tables, and a dresser. The other two, somewhat smaller, were empty. One was painted white, a color for either a girl or boy, the other blue.
“Oh, I almost forgot to show you the backyard,” exclaimed Esther before unlocking and pulling open the screen door at the side of the kitchen.
As the group stepped out on the small deck, he hardly noticed how rickety its planks were or the raw wood splinters that peeked out at every step of the chestnut-painted deck. His eyes focused only on the massive tree just steps away.
“I see you like our apple tree,” Esther gushed, the smile now filling her face from ear to ear. “My husband and I planted it in fifty-six, the year he built this house. Come fall, you will see apples on every branch.”
“Enough for sauces and pies for the whole year,” added Florrie.
“We like apples,” replied Riku.
“Shall we go back inside?” offered Esther, breaking the sense of unease that followed.
The women’s eyes pursued him as they sat on the worn sofa, while, staying away from the two odd yellow chairs at either side, he seated himself in the straight-back leather recliner. As he did, he thought he saw Esther emit a slight gasp.
“Well, Mr. Matsuda, what do you think?”
He paused before answering, knowing full well he had no choice in the matter.
“I think we can come to terms.”
“My friend is not selling the home, you know. It’s just a rental.” The taller woman looked at Esther, who nodded.
“Well, then, I think I have a few questions before I sign,” Riku said, placing both hands on his knees as if to get up.
“I think you should know something before you do,” said Esther, who for the first time met his eyes directly. The other one quickly put up her hand.
“Esther, I don’t think Mr. Matsuda—”
But Esther pushed the hand aside.
“Florrie, I want him to know—please!” She turned back to Riku.
“I want you to know why I have decided to rent the home, and not sell it. Excuse me—” She removed a tissue from the pocket of her navy polyester pants and dabbed at her nose before resuming, “It’s just that this house, this home, meant—it means—quite a lot to me. You see, Jacob, my husband, built it. He and his best friend, Zalman, who was an architect, oversaw every detail—the walls, the plumbing, the number of steps in each flight. It was all a dream of Jacob’s, something he’d had a vision of since he was a boy. A dream to build his own home, a permanent home for him and his family. After I met him, it became my dream too. And even though we never had the family we hoped—” She paused, twisted the tissue in her hands, and took a breath.