Two weeks into May, Angela found herself pulling into the driveway of Anthony’s place for Marbles duty. It had been a while since the last time he had approached her about this at work, but as they were always on good terms and Angela lived no more than five minutes away, she was an obvious choice. The last time Anthony had begged her to feed his creep-eyed cat and scoop his nasty litter box, it had been for three agonizing weeks at Christmastime. Anthony had showered her with the appropriate amounts of gratitude and gift cards for her favorite eateries upon his return, but that didn’t keep the dread at bay as she parked her car in the gravel spot beside the front yard fence. 

Angela was apparently one of the few people in the world who knew his dirty little secret—that he was a hoarder and a pig. She could only imagine the type of disarray she would find beyond the door as she fished out her key from her purse. She knew the next twenty minutes would involve her picking her way around boxes, shoes, grocery bags, and the other detritus of Anthony’s life. She just prayed she wouldn’t see mice. Or roaches. Thank goodness Anthony was only away for the weekend this time. 

As she walked up the path to the front steps, she paused. Two large glazed ceramic planters flanked the stairs, overflowing with varieties of pansies and ornamental lettuce. Did Anthony have a green thumb?  She surveyed the rest of the yard. It seemed tidier than she had ever seen it before. More deliberate. No weeds competed with the line of shrubs along the fence. The grass was not overtaking the path to the porch. The last time she had been to the farmhouse it had been the dead of winter and even then things had seemed more haphazard. 

She turned the corners of her mouth down in a thoughtful expression as she mounted the porch. It was then that the transformation of Anthony’s homestead became more obvious. The porch decking gleamed a fresh coat of gray-blue paint. The gloss was intense enough that she could see the wavy reflections of the legs of the chunky wrought iron chairs that sat beneath the front windows. Thick cream colored cushions and red accent pillows graced the chairs, and the Boston fern that sat on the antique wooden table between them waved gently at her, beckoning for her to have a seat. 

Angela turned toward the front door, wide-eyed and now wondering what she would find on the other side. Something told her she might not be tripping over Vitamin Water cartons today. The inserted her key and pushed the door open. Her jaw dropped. The white tile shone as it never had, a golden sisal rug unfurled down the center of the hall.  The right wall was a stunning expanse of red, green, and white plaid, interrupted by an antique mirror over the hall dresser and a few small paintings depicting classic hunting scenes.  A small rush chair stood next to the dresser, an umbrella hooked over its ladder back. 

Angela marveled not simply at the transformation—at the cleanliness and the tasteful objects that now adorned the entryway—but at their lack of fussiness. This was nothing like Anthony’s house. And yet, she had no doubt that Anthony lived here. It was still…him. She turned and stood in the living room doorway, astonished to see that the metamorphosis had flowed in there as well. She took in the soft gray walls, the deep and moody velvet sofa, and the leather and tartan chairs. The fireplace was adorned simply with three small sets of antler mounts and flanked by classic bronze sconces with black linen shades. A chunky oak coffee table was the centerpiece of the room, sitting atop an antique Persian rug that was threadbare in a few places but still showed it rich hues of wine, gold, blue, and green. Even the tv had been thoughtfully hidden inside a scrubbed pine wardrobe, leaving unbroken the illusion that she had been transported to an English cottage somewhere. The filthy scarf valances were scarcely a memory now that the windows had been befittingly adorned with dark wooden blinds and framed with pale linen drapes. 

Angela breathed the clean scent of the house as she walked back to the kitchen. The house itself seemed more at ease, as though the air was from its sigh of relief at having been cared for again. The kitchen was perhaps where things had changed most dramatically. It’s shabby dark cabinets and chipped countertops were gone. Anthony had inset small recessed lights into a bright white wainscoted ceiling, and when Angela flicked the switch inside the doorway at the end of the hall, they glowed off the soft gray cabinet doors and warm butcher block surfaces. The industrial stainless island in the center of the kitchen had a shelf laden with deliberate graduated stacks of pots and pans and an eclectic collection of cookbooks. A wire basket on its top was filled with onions and potatoes. This felt…like home. 

Marbles padded up softly behind her in the kitchen door. They stared momentarily at each other. “What’s going on here, Marbles?”  His milky blank stare was his only response. Angela hurriedly went about her duties of filling his dish, putting out clean water, and scooping his box on the back porch, which she found was now a haven of wicker furniture and neat cubbies of boots and shoes, rather than a den of empty boxes. 

She slammed the front door and yanked out her key, skipping down the front steps to her car. She couldn’t wait to tell everyone at work: Anthony had a girlfriend.