that raised his eyebrows. The subject line of the e-mail read, “Sleepless in San
Francisco.” Jonathan worked in television as the host of a show on a do-it-yourself home
improvement channel. His show was called
Dream Away
. The premise was that people
planning to do extensive home renovations sent e-mails to the producers for a chance to
have their home makeover televised. The show followed each step of the project from the
initial demolition to the final result.
Dream Away
was now in its fifth season, and still the
number-one show on the network. Jonathan’s producer usually scanned the e-mails, then
forwarded the most interesting ones to him for his opinion. He thought he’d read
everything, until he read this one.
Dear Dream Away,
Me and my Dad just moved to San Francisco and my Dad’s changing the whole
house. We used to live in New York in a really nice place, but we moved away because my other Dad died in a car accident last year. We had a lot of friends there, but we don’t
know anybody here. My Dad thought he’d be able to sleep better in another city. But that
didn’t happen. So my Dad bought this big old house without seeing it first and we moved
here. This place is falling apart. The other day my dog Tucker jumped off my bed and the
light on the ceiling in the room under us crashed to the floor. The bathroom floor has a
hole so big you can see all the way down to the kitchen. The whole place is falling down
around us. But my Dad says by the time he’s done with this place, he’s going to make it
the best house in San Francisco.
I’m a big fan of your TV show and I wanted to let you know about what my Dad
is doing in case you’re interested in putting us on your show. I think my Dad would sleep
better if the house wasn’t so bad. I know it won’t bring back my other Dad who died, but
it might help. I know me and Tucker would sure sleep better if that hole wasn’t in the
bathroom floor. And my Dad might start to feel better again.
Sincerely,
Noah Richardson
Jonathan read the e-mail two more times, then called his producer at home and
told him he wanted to fly out to San Francisco to meet with the father of the kid who had
written the letter. And he wanted to do this immediately. The show was set to begin
production for a new season soon, and they still hadn’t found an interesting home
renovation to document. They’d received thousands of e-mails, and had narrowed the
prospects down to two possibilities. One was a young family in Portland, Oregon,
renovating a 1960s split level, and another was a retired couple in New England
renovating a barn. But as far as Jonathan was concerned, both were as interesting as a glass of prune juice. One of the reasons his show had become number one was that the
people on
Dream Away
were always just as interesting as the actual home renovations.
According to his most recent contract, Jonathan had the final say as to who they would be.
When the producer pointed out to him that he didn’t have an actual address in San
Francisco, Jonathan waved his hand and assured him he’d get one. Then he hung up and
replied to Noah’s e-mail, asking for his contact information so he could speak directly
with his father.
But Noah didn’t reply. And Jonathan couldn’t sleep that night. The thought of
doing a show in San Francisco with a widowed gay father who had a young son made his
heart beat so fast he could hardly close his eyes. It was relevant; it was warm; it was
perfect for his viewers.
So the next morning he booked a flight, packed a bag, and took a taxi to the
airport. He didn’t even know where he was going until he finally landed in San Francisco
and checked his BlackBerry. He’d just sat down in a rental car when he noticed an e-mail
with a subject line that read, “Sleepless in San Francisco.” It was short; just an address
and no telephone number.
Jonathan quickly sent a reply and asked for a phone number so he could call
Noah’s father. He checked out the address on his iPhone, then sat in the rental car eating
chocolate for almost a half hour, waiting. But Noah never replied. So Jonathan started the
engine and put the car in gear. He took a deep breath and sighed, then headed to an
address located in the Forest Hill section of San Francisco.
By the time he arrived at Ed’s and Noah’s house, it was after seven o’clock on
Saturday evening. When he clicked off the engine and opened the car door, he straightened his shoulders and walked up a long spiral path that had been laid with red
pavers. He stared up at the house and smiled all the way to the door. It looked to be one
of those huge, old Mission-style places built in the 1920s, with an arched portico, clay
roof tiles, and beige stucco. But the shrubbery was so overgrown he couldn’t see the front
windows, and the lawn hadn’t been mowed in weeks. He looked back and forth, up and
down, and lowered his eyebrows. It was perfect for the show.
And best of all, there was a cracked sign over the front door that read,
Mi Casa de
Mis Sueños
. Half of the “s” in
Casai
was missing, and the
Mis
was hanging lopsided.
Jonathan’s eyes opened wide and he smiled. Then he reached for a tarnished door
knocker in the shape of a long, thin greyhound and tapped it three times. He spoke a little
Spanish, and he knew the sign over the door translated in English to
My Dream House
.
A second later, the front door opened and a humongous black lab lunged at him.
He jumped up, placed his huge paws on Jonathan’s shoulders, and licked his face. A man
in his middle thirties opened the door wider and looked him up and down. Then he
grabbed the dog by the collar and said, “Tucker, get inside now.”
The dog jumped down, lowered his head, and clomped back into the house
without hesitating. Jonathan wiped dog saliva from the side of his face and said, “He sure
is friendly.” He loved all animals, especially dogs.
The guy frowned and said, “A little
too
friendly.” He was wearing long, baggy
camouflage shorts, flip flops, and a loose V-neck undershirt. His sandy blond hair was
cut short and looked as if it hadn’t been combed all day. It also looked as if he hadn’t
shaved in two or three days. But it suited him well. He didn’t look unkempt, just comfortable and casual. At the end of a long, dark center hall, a little boy with wide eyes
watched the man’s back.
Jonathan smiled and extended his right hand. “I’m Jonathan Haynes,” he said,
“I’m the host of the television show
Dream Away
and I’m here about an e-mail your son
sent my TV show regarding your impending home makeover. I’d like to discuss the
possibility of filming the entire renovation with you for the show.”
But the guy didn’t reach out to shake his hand. He ran his palm through his messy
hair instead and said, “I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about, buddy.”
Jonathan looked past him and asked the little boy, “Are you Noah Richardson?
The one who wrote the e-mail titled, ‘Sleepless in San Francisco’?” Then he looked at the
father and said, “I’ve been going back and forth with your son with e-mails about your
home renovation.”
The guy put his hands on his hips and looked back at his son. He lowered his
voice and said, “Noah, what’s this all about? Have you been e-mailing this guy?”
Noah stared for a moment, then sank into his shoulders. He slipped to the right of
the doorway and disappeared with a very guilty expression on his face. The dog groaned
a couple of times and followed him.
Jonathan smiled. He knew he’d have to work hard to explain all this. He was glad
he’d worn his tightest jeans that day, the ones that hugged his ass and accentuated the
natural arch at the small of his back. So he purposely dropped his briefcase. When he
turned to pick it up again, he knew the guy was watching him. He bent down slowly and
spread his legs wide. And when he rose again and turned to face him, he lowered his head
and raised his large brown eyes. “I came all the way from New York just to talk to you,” he said. “Won’t you
please
just give me a minute of your time?” He wasn’t above
begging; he wanted this house on the show.
The guy took a deep breath and frowned. “You can come in for a minute,” he said,
“but I can tell you that I’m not interested in having my home, my life, or anything filmed
on television.” Then he stepped to the right and said, “I’m Dr. Ed Richardson. I’m a
veterinarian.”
When Jonathan stepped into the hallway and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Dr.
Richardson,” a large white SUV pulled into the driveway and honked the horn. Noah
came rushing through the hallway, carrying a backpack, and screamed, “See you
tomorrow, Dad.” Then he raced past them both and crossed to the SUV before Ed could
grab him.
Ed waved at the man driving the SUV and shouted to Noah, “Thank you very
much, Noah. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” But Noah didn’t hear him. He’d already
jumped into the back seat and slammed the door. Ed ran his fingers through his hair again
and said, “He’s spending the night with a friend from school. Let’s go into the living
room. But I don’t want to waste your time. My son shouldn’t have sent you those e-mails
without asking me first.”
When they were in the living room, Tucker jumped up on the sofa and rested his
head on Jonathan’s lap. Jonathan noticed a walnut baby grand piano in a far corner of the
large room. It looked expensive. The furniture looked expensive, too, but the wallpaper
was faded and torn, the floors were stained and scratched, and the only window
treatments were flimsy brown shades with frayed edges. Ed sat on a white wing chair
beside a walk-in fireplace made out of limestone with hand-carved swirling grapevines. Ed scolded the dog for being on the sofa, but Jonathan ran his palm down Tucker’s head
and said he didn’t mind at all. Then he opened his briefcase and showed Ed the e-mail
Noah had sent. He explained why he was there and that he wanted to begin production
quickly. He also told Ed that he was so excited about filming his project that he’d
actually flown out himself to see it, which was something he never did.
Ed tried to be serious, but he couldn’t help laughing at Noah’s e-mail. “I’m going
to have a serious talk with him about this,” he said. “But the kid did write a damn good
letter.”
“He seems like a really cool kid,” Jonathan said. And he wasn’t just saying it.
They both seemed like decent guys.
Ed shook his head and laughed again.
Jonathan noticed his legs were slightly tanned. He should have been staring at the
cracked wall over the fireplace or the scrappy floors that needed refinishing, but he
couldn’t take his eyes off Ed’s sexy, hairy legs. They were knobby and rugged and
slightly bowed. He had the urge to go down on the floor and rub his face against them.
He clenched his fists and tried hard to focus on business. He was usually in control, but
there was something about Ed that caused a lump in his throat and made his legs weak.
His stomach had never jumped and turned so much in his life.
Ed seemed just as distracted. When he spoke to Jonathan, he stared between his
eyes and his lips and didn’t seem to know he was doing this. He wasn’t mad anymore,
but he kept repeating that his son had made a huge mistake and that he wasn’t interested
in having his house on the
Dream Away
television show. But his voice wasn’t as firm as it should have been, and there were long, awkward pauses in the conversation that
Jonathan hadn’t expected.
When a police car passed the house with its siren blaring, Tucker jumped off
Jonathan’s lap. His briefcase flew through the air and the contents landed all over the
floor near Ed. He went down on his knees to retrieve the mess, and Ed reached down to
help him. Ed’s legs were spread wide. There were papers next his left foot; the
BlackBerry was next to his right foot. And four packages of condoms had landed on the
chair, right between Ed’s legs. They both reached for the papers at the same time,
ignoring the condoms. Jonathan accidentally grabbed Ed’s hand. Ed stopped moving. His
hands were large and his fingers were thick. Jonathan squeezed harder and he didn’t pull
away. Ed clutched the arm of the chair with his other hand and looked him in the eye.
“Tucker has a problem. He freaks out when he hears sirens. He’d chase them down the
street if he wasn’t in the house.”
“Ah well, Dr. Richardson,” Jonathan said. He wouldn’t let go of his hand.
