Mick shut the door softly behind him and continued into the living room. Not only was it spotless, but it felt welcoming, too. Homey. Reminded him of how it had looked when he’d first purchased the place six months ago. Fully furnished, right down to the dessert cutlery and rolls of thick toilet paper in the johns. He’d bought the property in an all-cash deal. Had moved out of his suite at the Chateau Marmont and into the house two weeks later. Paid an arm and a leg for all the little personal flourishes. Didn’t care if the previous owners had spent a lifetime accumulating the various decorative pieces. If one paid enough, anything was for sale, and he’d wanted a home with a sense of history. A place that looked like what he’d imagined home was while growing up. But it hadn’t worked out. Didn’t matter how often or long he washed, or how successful he became, the dirt and dissipation had been bred into his bones. In a matter of six months, the place had looked like a larger version of the series of tacked-together semi-wides that he, his grandma, and the twelve women who worked at Desert Rose Ranch had called home.

He rotated slowly, taking in the room. The garbage was gone. Obviously. He should have done it himself before he’d left for work that morning. He felt his face heat up. Was glad he was alone. He continued his perusal. The layer of dust that had coated everything had been eradicated. Everything gleamed. The cushions on the sofas had been fluffed, enticing one to sit down. On the steel and wooden coffee table, she’d put more flowers in a low round vase. This arrangement was more informal, a tumble of greenery and flowers clearly pilfered from his garden, which warmed the room and added color and light. On the side table, in a delicate china dish, rested the old-fashioned lemon drops that had been opened and lying on the kitchen counter. He’d removed them from a giant gift basket that Columbia had sent over last week, along with a note and a script that they were hoping he’d take a look at.

The kitchen. Suddenly it felt of the utmost importance that he get to the kitchen as quickly as possible. Who knew what magic Ms. Rachel Jones had wrought there? Maybe there was a pie.