Sway With Me(9)

On second thought, he’d keep the air on high.

She shifted in her seat. “Are we almost there?”

“Yes. It’s coming up in about a mile. See that lake?” He pointed to the right. “The house is located on the west side.”

Sitting up tall, she squinted out the window, the sun sparkling on her skin.

Ryan had always loved this part of Michigan, with its deep forests filled with pine, maple, and oak trees, and trails for bike riding, walking, or running. Right now, the leaves were starting to turn from a deep green to bright yellows, oranges, and reds. By Halloween, he and Portia would need rake up the fallen leaves from their yard.

Opening his window, he inhaled the crisp fall air, smelling the scent he’d only ever encountered in this area—apple cider mixed with burning leaves and a hint of the lake. Although it was only thirty minutes from downtown Detroit, the lakes area might as well be in a different country—a clear, powder blue sky with fluffy white clouds, houses free from industry’s filth darkening their siding, and fresh, clean air without any hint of toxins.

Most of the Western suburbs of Detroit required rigid standards from its homeowners, from the length of grass in the yard to the height of the home. Because Uncle Alexander had preferred to create his own rules, he’d refused to buy a house in a neighborhood. Instead, he’d built his home off the main road, surrounding the property with a fence to keep out the press and the nosy neighbors.

Ryan turned into a short driveway, coming to a stop at a wrought-iron gated fence. “This is it. Do you have the keys that George gave us?”



Portia’s jaw had dropped and she didn’t seem to hear him.

“Portia. Keys?” he repeated, a little exasperated.

She dragged a hand through her hair a couple of times and exhaled loudly. After grabbing her purse from the floor, she rummaged through, coming up with the keys to their new home.

He slid out of the car and unlocked the gate. Pushing it open, it squeaked as if it hadn’t been touched in decades. Flakes of rust fluttered to the ground and rubbed onto his palms. He brushed his hands on his jeans and returned to his car where Portia still appeared shocked, having not moved a muscle since he’d left the vehicle.

“The house is at the end of the driveway about a quarter-mile down,” he said, throwing the car into drive and proceeding toward the house. “You can kind of see it hiding behind those tall pines in the middle of the yard.”

It had been a couple years since Ryan had been here. Uncle Al had lived his final days suffering from Alzheimer’s in a nursing home. He’d protested the move for years and hired live-in nurses to care for him before his illness turned for the worse.

Personally, Ryan thought his family should have kept his uncle in his home. After they’d moved him to the nursing home, Uncle Al had seemed to give up his will to live and became more delusional than ever, not recognizing Ryan when he’d come to visit.

Ryan surveyed the premises, neglect apparent in every corner. The tall, brownish grass desperately needed mowing and watering. And he’d thought the houses in Detroit were bad. Hopefully, they didn’t have a rat problem in this neck of the woods.

The car shook as he drove up the cracked, uneven pavement. When they hit a pothole, Portia’s head snapped back and her hair fell out of her neat bun.



“Michigan winters are hell on concrete,” he explained, admiring the way her hair fell around her shoulders. At least he wasn’t staring at her feet any longer.

She nodded. “We should probably fix it. I’d hate for anything to happen to your car,” she said without sarcasm, surprising him once again.

The home came into view and her eyes widened.

She leaned forward resting her hands on the dashboard. “Oh, my God. It’s huge.”

He shrugged. Having grown up wealthy, he didn’t think much about it. At seven thousand square feet, it was probably one of the smaller homes on the lake, but the property itself was spectacular.

“How many acres is it?” she asked as he drove into the circular drive outside the front door.

“I think the deed stated it was around seven acres. They’re actually two different lots. Uncle Al built the house on the far western edge of one of them, so that the house would be surrounded by open land.”

They simultaneously slammed their doors shut and the noise echoed against the stone-pillared entrance of the home. He walked around the front of the car to Portia, whose black hair blew in all directions from the slight breeze coming off the lake.

Shoulder to shoulder, they stared up at the white brick mansion.

Ryan immediately noticed the gutters filled with leaves and debris, as well as some missing shingles from the visible lower part of the roof. He’d have to start a list.