Farmhouse

“Welcome home, baby,” Jonah beamed as we pulled up to a small farmhouse five miles outside of Jonah’s hometown. It was the second day of the new year, 1995.

“What?” I asked. I shook my head.

“Remember when my grandpa died last year?”

I nodded still gazing at the house.

“He left me enough money to put a down-payment on this place.”

“You own this?”

“The bank owns it, we just live here.”

“We?” I turned to face him.

“You and me.”

“My mom’s gonna to throw a fit.”

“So, that’s a yes?”

I nodded again.

We scrambled out of the car and strode up to the small front porch that greeted the long driveway. I fingered the chain that suspended a rustic swing; it would need sanding and painting. I imagined long afternoons spent on the swing with a good novel and pitcher of lemonade.

Jonah keyed in. The front door opened onto a cozy living room and formal dining room. The former owners left a large, sapphire velvet, Queen Anne sofa and an enormous oak dining table. The sofa reminded me of the naughty kitty couches in a brothel. The dining table begged for dinner parties with copious amounts of wine.

Jonah ran his hand along the table as we ambled to the kitchen. The traditional farm kitchen was a dream. It was full of glass-front cabinets and enough counter space to make any gourmet happy.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think I could get used to this.”

“Good.”

Photo: Haans249