Chapter One — The Iron Gates
The gates were beautiful.
Gabriel had noticed them the first time he’d cycled through the neighborhood, but he’d been in a hurry that morning.
Today, he wasn’t.
He stopped on the opposite side of the street and looked at the house.
American architecture. Cream-colored stone. A perfectly maintained front yard. Nothing particularly unusual for the neighborhood.
Except the gates.
Black wrought iron, heavy-looking but elegant, with intricate scrollwork that seemed completely out of place among the white picket fences and ornamental hedges.
Now that’s something you don’t see every day.
He’d seen similar craftsmanship in Andalucía. Old houses where iron gates had stood for generations, made by people who understood that some things were worth doing properly.
His own house, three streets away, needed a new entrance.
And Gabriel wasn’t particularly interested in settling for whatever the local hardware store happened to stock.
He crossed the street, leaned his bicycle against the low stone wall, and examined the ironwork.
No maker’s mark.
No plaque.
Nothing.
He looked toward the front door.
Well. Only one way to find out.
He rang the bell.
Somewhere inside, a dog barked.
Then came footsteps.
A woman’s voice.
“Coming!”
A moment later, the heavy black door opened.
And Gabriel forgot about the gates.
Not entirely.
But for a second or two, certainly.
She stood in the doorway wearing light blue jeans and a pale button-down shirt, its sleeves pushed casually toward her elbows. Her thick blonde hair was tied into a loose, rather unsuccessful bun.
She looked as though he’d interrupted something.
Which, judging by the dish towel in her hand, he probably had.
“Hi?”
It was a question rather than a greeting.
Gabriel smiled.
“Hi. Sorry to bother you. I was wondering if I could ask you something about your gates.”
She glanced past him toward the street.
“My gates?”
“Yes. The ironwork. It’s beautiful.”
She looked at him again.
For the first time, properly.
Dark hair. Thick beard. A slightly unfamiliar accent.
And eyes that were looking directly at hers rather than wandering around.
“Oh.”
She smiled.
“Thank you.”
A brief silence followed.
Then she tilted her head.
“What about them?”
Gabriel gestured toward the entrance.
“Do you happen to know who made them?”
She thought for a moment.
“Actually, yes. I think I still have the paperwork somewhere.”
“Really?”
“Somewhere,” she repeated, smiling. “That’s the important word.”
He laughed.
“Fair enough.”
She looked toward the kitchen behind her.
Something beeped.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
She turned halfway toward the noise, then back to him.
“Listen, I’m right in the middle of something. Would you mind coming back another time?”
“Of course. No problem.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m the one who showed up uninvited.”
That earned him a slightly bigger smile.
“Well, at least you’re honest.”
“Occasionally.”
She laughed.
Only a little.
But genuinely.
“Okay. I’ll see if I can find it.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stepped backward toward the path.
“Have a good afternoon.”
“You too.”
He turned toward his bicycle.
Behind him, she began closing the door.
“Hey.”
He looked back.
She was holding the door with one hand, her head tilted slightly.
“Those gates?”
“Yeah?”
“They were one of the reasons I bought this house.”
Gabriel smiled.
“Then you have excellent taste.”
She gave him a look that was almost amused.
“Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
The door closed.
Gabriel walked back toward his bicycle.
The gates really were beautiful.
He looked at them once more before riding away.
He’d have to come back for that craftsman’s name.
Inside, Scarlett returned to the kitchen.
The oven timer had been beeping for almost a minute.
She switched it off, opened the door, and inspected the casserole.
Perfect.
She set it on the counter.
Then she looked toward the front entrance.
Interesting accent.
She wondered where he was from.
And then she went back to preparing dinner.
At least, she tried to.