“This is me,” he’d said. Certainly in size the house matched the one Daisy had lived in, before her father’s death. But that house, with its wraparound porch and the eyebrow windows that accented the third floor, seemed, somehow, to have a friendly, welcoming character, the fun uncle who’d let you have a sip of his beer at Thanksgiving and slip you twenty dollars on your way out the door. This house felt more like a forbidding grandmother, one who’d frown at your outfit and tell you that you didn’t need that second helping of stuffing.
Hal led her through an empty foyer, past an empty living room, and into an almost-empty kitchen, where he paused to put the two bottles of seltzer he’d purchased into an almost-empty refrigerator （Daisy glimpsed condiments, lemons, and half of a hoagie in a clear plastic clamshell）。
Daisy turned in a slow circle that gave her views of the almost-empty living room and dining room. “Were you robbed?”
Hal looked puzzled. Then he smiled. “This is the house I grew up in. When my father moved, he took all the furniture with him. You may recall,” Hal said dryly, “that his place felt cramped?”
Daisy nodded, remembering.
“I just haven’t had time to shop for anything new.”
“I understand.” Daisy was studying a framed black-and-white portrait hanging on the wallpapered wall of the entryway. A man in an army dress uniform stood stiffly, his arm around the waist of a woman in a white dress.
“Your parents?” Vernon was handsome without his comb-over. The woman had long, dark hair and an easy smile. Instead of a veil, she wore a wreath of flowers in her hair. Daisy remembered what Vernon had said about his wife—that she’d liked people-watching, that she hadn’t liked to gamble, that he didn’t know how she’d felt about cooking. “What was your mom like?”
Hal shrugged. “She and my father had high expectations for me and my brother. I’m grateful now, of course, but when I was younger…”
Daisy studied the picture again. She was thinking of her own father’s delight in his sons’ accomplishments, how he’d brag to everyone about their grades, or David’s skill at baseball, or how Danny had been picked as the coxswain of the senior boys’ eight （“he’s the one who steers the boat,” Jack had explained to his own mother, who’d looked perplexed, perhaps at the notion of steering being an athletic endeavor）。 Had Vernon and Margie been proud of their sons? Or had they been the kind of parents for whom anything less than perfection was a disappointment?
Hal put his hand on the small of her back and ushered her through the French doors, out into an expansive backyard that held an inground pool, a Weber grill on a flagstone patio, and a single lawn chair.
“When did you move in?” Daisy had asked.
“About a year ago,” he said, as he’d fiddled with the grill’s knobs. “I’d been living in Center City, but most of the partners live in the suburbs. Easier to get to the golf courses.”
“Got it,” Daisy murmured.
“I figured I’d be buying a house here eventually, so when my dad was moving out, it just made sense to take over this one.”
Daisy nodded again. It made sense, and even if part of her wondered why Hal hadn’t wanted his own place, she also thought that if someone had offered her the house she’d grown up in, she’d have taken it in an instant.
Back inside, she was relieved to discover that the kitchen was clean enough to perform surgery. There was no trash piled up in the trash can, no dirty dishes on the counters or in the sink. This, it emerged, was the happy result of Hal having hardly any dishes at all. When she’d opened the freezer she’d seen stacks of frozen Hungry Man dinners, and, in the cabinet closest to the sink, there’d been rows and rows of canned Campbell’s Chunky soup. There were two bowls, three plates, and two juice glasses in one cabinet; the drainer next to the sink held a single pot.
Hal had come into the kitchen just as she’d closed the drawer on his paltry supply of silverware.
“Do you just eat the soup out of the pot?” she’d asked.
“It’s efficient,” he’d said, holding her so that his chest pressed against her back. Daisy appreciated his assurance, the way there wasn’t any awkward fumbling or hesitation. “Also, better for the environment.”
“Oh, so you’re an environmentalist.”
“I’m a thoughtful guy,” he’d said, nuzzling her temples, making her shiver. Then, almost as if he’d been waiting for a sign, he’d turned her around and pulled her against him, so they were thigh to thigh and chest to chest. “I’m just doing things out of order,” he’d said. “Most guys find the right woman, then the right house. I got the house first. And now,” he said, kissing her temple, then her neck, “I need you to make my house a home.”