Falling

of inches taller than her, with skin tanned by the sun and an easy smile that seems to put her at ease. It isn t so much that she finds him attractive, but that there is something familiar about him, a recognition,  a sense of having somehow met him before.

Perhaps because she has remained silent, he goes on to add, At least, it was a home. My grandparents lived here for forty years.

Yes, thinks Emma, it looks like it. It smells like it, too. The air is fusty. Of course old people had lived here. That explains the wood paneling and the floral wallpaper in the family room; it also explains the salmon pink carpet and avocado green bathroom suite with matching tile.

How would you feel about me putting . . . Emma pauses, wonder ing how to say this diplomatically. She doesn t want to jump in and tell him she d like to tear everything out and start again. He probably doesn t want to change anything; his voice had softened when he men tioned his grandparents. She has an odd reluctance to offend him, and she senses she ll need to take this slowly if she wants this house. . . . a woman s touch on the house?

A woman s touch! The landlord smiles and nods approvingly. That s exactly what I ve been saying this house needs for years. A wom an s touch.

She follows him into the kitchen at the back of the house and her heart sinks slightly. It hasn t been touched since the fifties, rough wood cabinets bumpy with layers of white paint, although pretty black iron hardware. Formica countertops with large cracks, and linoleum floors. A stove that is so ancient as to be fashionable again, and, surprisingly, a large modern  stainless steel fridge.

Emma looks at the fridge and raises an eyebrow as she looks over at the landlord.

Damn, she thinks. What was his name again? Donald? Derek?