My First My Last My Only

by Denise Carbo

  The overall square footage is roughly the same as my bakery, but it’s flip-flopped. The kitchen is narrow, and the public space is the largest. It would require a total gut and renovation. There’s nothing I would salvage in the kitchen. Grease is caked on all the appliances and cabinets.

  The building is in the newer part of town, outside the village.

  I hate everything about it.

  Sighing, I face my realtor, Bill Bovier. He is one of three realtors in town. Vanessa, of course, is not an option. I’d rather run down the middle of Main Street stark naked than ask her for help.

  Okay, that might be extreme. But they both rank the same.

  Lisa Johnson, an older woman, is on vacation. I chose Bill by default.

  “It’s not going to work for me.”

  “Okay, I have another building to show you in Granite Cove and there are more options if you’re willing to consider properties outside town.”

  I’m not ready to give up on Granite Cove, but I need to see what’s available to make an informed decision. If I will move my bakery or continue renting. Only one thing is certain, I need to move out of my parents’ house.

  “Let’s look at the other building and you can email me information on others in the area and I’ll decide if I want to see them.”

  Tugging his handkerchief from his pocket, he blows his nose. Bill informed me of his allergies when I met him at his office this morning, announcing it like an appliance that comes with a warning label. He stuffs it back into the pocket of his beige pants which are riding dangerously low under his prominent stomach. A brown leather belt is helping the pants defy gravity. That and the constant yank he gives them.

  “I’ll do that. You sure this can’t work for you?”

  “One hundred percent.” The renovations alone would blow my budget.

  Nodding, he frowns and takes one last look around. My confidence in his ability to find me what I’m looking for is rather low at the moment. It wasn’t all that high to begin with, but after seeing this place my options appear scarce.

  I stand next to the passenger side of his white sedan and wait while he locks up. He unlocks the doors and opens the driver side door while I climb into the passenger seat. Glancing over, all I see is his stomach and the row of buttons bisecting it. The sound of him blowing his nose once again resonates over the top of the car.

  He climbs in and drives out of the parking lot. The one positive thing I see about this diner is the ample parking.

  “Now this next one will require a little imagination.”

  This one didn’t?

  “It’s by the train tracks. It was a store a few times, and before that a house.”

  The train tracks meant outside the village again. The old depot, now defunct, was turned into a group of stores. There were a few nice buildings over there which might not be too bad, but it still wasn’t the village.

  “Next to the depot?”

  “No, this is farther up the tracks on the outskirts of town.”

  Ugh, even worse. The farther away from the village we go meant the less foot traffic I would get patronizing my bakery.

  I had taken Mrs. Roberts advice and come up with a list of different scenarios and options to salvage my plan. Option one: continue renting in my current location but find a modest house to buy. Option two: buy a new building with living space and move my bakery. Option three: continue living with my parents to save up more and buy the building from Mitch at whatever exorbitant price he wants.

  Each choice had pros and cons, mostly concerning my meager budget. The third wasn’t really viable because my life plan hinged on getting out of my parents’ house. I only consider it because I want to be thorough.

  Curiosity had gotten the better of me, and in the middle of figuring out ways to get my plan back on course, I looked up Mr. Roberts on the internet. I tried anyway. I guess the name is too common and I don’t have enough information about him, like first name, specific crimes, the dates involved, his age, the town or city he was arrested in.

  The more I thought about her story, the more amazed I became. The sheer gumption she had to not only turn her husband in but do it in such a way as to ensure he would be far away from her.

  I want to be that strong and smart.

  He pulls into a loose gravel driveway and I glance at him to see if maybe he got lost and is turning around.

  Bill puts the car in park and stares at the only structure in sight.

  It’s an old barn.

  With a giant hole in the roof.

  There has to be a mistake because… it’s a barn. How could this be a former store, or especially a home?

  “Ready to take a look?”

  “It’s a barn.”

  “That was probably one of its uses back in the day, but most recently it was an antique store. There’s a bathroom.”

  Oh goody.

  I should at least look at it and not make rash judgements.

  The gaping hole is a problem. The lack of windows and large barn doors appearing to be the only entrance are also problems.

  “Is there a kitchen?”

  He said it was a home once, so there should be a kitchen, right?

  “No, but it’s a wide-open space for you to design your dream kitchen.”

  Closing my eyes, I rest my head back against the seat. These are my two options, a grimy diner and a barn.

  “You could turn the loft area into a living space for yourself. It has a lot of potential.”

  I heft a giant sigh and climb out of the car. “Let’s go look.”

  After much prying and pulling on the doors, he gets us inside.

  It’s even worse than I imagined.

  Stray furniture is strewn about the large open space. A small square shaped room is tucked into the back corner. I assume it’s the bathroom. There’s a ladder disappearing into the ceiling next to it. The loft area? No stairs to access it, but a ladder.

  Bill walks over to a table with two chairs. He upends one chair and sits down. “You have a look around.” He waves towards the ladder.

  I meander around the debris laden floor and peer up the ladder. I can see water damage on the ceiling above and it’s not even near the hole in the roof.

  A sharp squeal sounds behind me and I whirl around.

  Bill is standing on top of the chair he was just sitting on with his hands clutched to his chest in fright.

  I follow his gaze to see an oversized rat disappearing into a hole in the floor.

  Ugh.

  That’s it, I’m done.

  As I walk back towards Bill still hyperventilating on the chair, a crack splits the air and he goes tumbling down when the chair crumbles beneath him.

  I run over to help, but he is already scrambling up with his gaze fixed on the hole the rat disappeared into. He moves quickly for a man his age and size.

  “Are you all right?”

  He nods. His face is pale and there’s a sheen of sweat covering his forehead.

  Please don’t let him have a heart attack or stroke.

  “It’s won’t work.”

  After giving me a swift nod he turns and heads for the door.

  When I exit, he’s already in the car mopping his forehead with a tissue.

  Okay then, my realtor has a strong aversion to rats. They don’t bother me, unless they’re in my home or bakery. That’s a no go.

  I climb into the passenger side and glance at him to make sure he’s okay.

  “All right, I’ll keep looking. I have a few homes to show you. You said you were also interested in seeing standalone houses.”

  Back to business, I guess.

  My budget for a house is small. If I keep renting the space for my bakery, it doesn’t leave much room for a mortgage payment on a house.

  “Let’s see them.”

  Bill drives back into town and shows me a duplex, a cape on the outskirts of town, and a bungalow not too far from the village.

  The duplex is an automatic n
egative for me. A trio of dogs on the other half of the building barked the entire time we looked at it and I also don’t want to take on the added responsibility of managing the rental. The cape is the largest. Two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and a half bath, kitchen, living room, and dining room downstairs all set on two acres of property. What am I going to do with all that land? It will require maintenance and I don’t have the money in my budget to hire someone so it will mean I have to mow the lawn, trim the bushes, and whatever comprises lawn care.

  Standing in the center of the bungalow, I fold my arms over my waist. It’s small, the smallest option he has shown me. There’s only one bedroom, a bathroom, living area, and a galley kitchen. It’s also the most expensive option because it’s right outside the village. I could still walk to the bakery. It’s at the top of my budget.

  Wandering back into the bedroom, I gaze out the back window. The yard is fenced in with a chest high white fence, it surrounds the property on three sides. A large Maple tree sits in the center. I could get a dog, or a cat, or both.

  Bill peeks in the doorway. “What’s the verdict?”

  “It could work, but it’s expensive.”

  “We could make an offer, see if they bite.”

  The lawn is manageable, even I could mow it. I could plant flowers along the front walk too.

  If I do this, then it means keeping The Sweet Spot where it is and not having to endure all that moving my bakery would entail.

  Rubbing my forehead, I glance around the room at the wooden floors and the large closet.

  “Make the offer.”

  Chapter Six

  The hunter green kayak glides over the smooth as glass water with the occasional help from the swipe of my paddle. Other than walking to and from the bakery when the weather allows, it’s my one form of exercise during the warmer months. Granted, on days like today it doesn’t take much exertion to skim along my favorite route around the edge of the lake. It’s more of a lazy meandering, enjoying the view.

  Bill called and told me they didn’t accept my offer on the bungalow. I was careful not to dwell too much on the house or make plans so I wouldn’t be disappointed if it didn’t go through like I still am over my building.

  It didn’t work. I’m still disappointed.

  He’s going to continue looking for both commercial options for the bakery and residential.

  The docks are bustling with people and boats. The Dorian John, the mammoth white ferry that traverses the lake, stopping at the three busiest towns, is filling up with people for the dinner cruise. A horn announces its imminent departure. It’s more of a tourist boat than a form of transportation. During the summer, the ferry makes four cruises per day. Two are strictly a brief stop at each town, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Then there are a lunch and a dinner one which give longer, more leisurely tours of the lake. I took it once as a kid, but never again. My parents live on the lake and have always had a boat, first at the marina then at our house, so there was never any need or desire to take the ferry.

  There’s a slight chill to the late afternoon air. Luckily, I wore a sweatshirt and the light life vest adds a layer of protection from the wind.

  Two older men in a small fishing boat bob along the shore with their rods and lines cast towards the rocks. Returning their nod and wave, I steer the kayak around the tip of the peninsula leaving the village behind. Houses dot the shore. Two kids play in the yard of one of the houses with a small beagle running along beside them. Their giggles carry clear as a bell over the water and I smile.

  A splash and the telltale circle left behind on the surface from a fish jumping occurs a few yards to my left. Perhaps the fish is escaping the fishermen I passed by, or more likely, it’s chasing after a tasty bug for its dinner.

  The tiny cove ahead is my destination. I always drift around daydreaming for a while then I’ll spin around for the return trip.

  I love this cove and the century old behemoth of a house that stands watch over it. Once the summerhouse of a wealthy family, it’s been empty for as long as I can remember. The faded white shingles and dark green shutters hang askew in places. The grounds are overgrown with weeds and untrimmed trees and bushes in desperate need of attention, but I can still picture ladies and gentlemen sashaying along the pathways from a more elegant time.

  Gliding past the giant gray boulders guarding the entrance to the cove, the house comes into view and I smile. The dock has long since disintegrated or washed away so I usually just bob along the shore. I’ve explored the grounds a time or two and furtively peeked inside hoping a caretaker isn’t present to run me off. It’s fun to fantasize over the house, but I don’t want to get caught trespassing.

  A loud banging rents my peaceful reflections from my mind. I jump and wobble back and forth for a moment in the kayak. I regain my balance and search the area, but I can’t identify where it’s coming from. An echo across the lake making it sound closer than it is?

  The banging resumes.

  Nope, it’s coming from the house. Pushing away from the shore with the paddle, I steer the kayak farther along past the towering pine trees so I can see the other side of the house.

  A shirtless man is standing on a ladder hammering something. His back is tan, lean, and muscled. I get rather caught up in the view, so I set the paddle on the edges of the kayak and enjoy the show.

  It appears he might be fixing a shutter but what do I know about carpentry? Is a descendant fixing up the place? Did someone else buy it? A slight pang pinches my chest. In the back of my mind I dreamed of buying it and fixing it up one day, but it’s just a fantasy. I could never afford this place. It will be nice to see it fixed up if that’s what they’re doing. It would be horrible if someone bought the land and tore it down to build a modern eyesore in its place.

  The man stretches and yanks on a shutter. The flex of muscles draws my gaze downwards towards a well-rounded derriere encased in denim.

  Wait a minute, I recognize that butt. Well, what I mean is, I ogled that butt in my bakery a week ago. My gaze skyrockets back up. Yup, the chestnut brown hair teasing the nape of his neck is the same. That’s Mitch on that ladder.

  Sucking in a breath, I can only conclude one thing his presence signifies. He bought the house. My house. Just like he bought the building housing my bakery. I guess he’s putting down roots here in Granite Cove. Perhaps he means to stay this time around.

  He descends the ladder and I fumble for the paddle to get the hell out of here before he sees me.

  Instead of grabbing the paddle, I knock it into the water with a plop.

  The paddle is floating free beside me in the lake. I huff a breath and snatch at the end closest to me but only succeed in pushing it under the water.

  It pops back to the surface, but now a few feet farther away.

  I lunge forward but it’s too far away.

  Damn it!

  I cup my hand and use it as a paddle to get closer, so I can snag the oar. There, I’ve almost got it. My fingers trail along the tip of the wooden handle only to thrust it farther away.

  No!

  Lurching awkwardly, I stretch as far as I can.

  Like a slow-motion reel of old black and white comedic film, the kayak wobbles, then rocks, then ice-cold water douses my face and body as it loses its attempt to balance out my lopsided weight and rolls over.

  I submerge under water with a loud splash and a mouth full of lake water. I clamp my lips together.

  My life vest automatically inflates once it touches the water.

  I find purchase on the rocky bottom and I come up sputtering.

  “I thought those were unflippable.”

  Mitch is wading into the water grinning at me.

  I shove my dripping hair out of my eyes and grimace. So much for getting away unseen. “Yeah, well, it probably is to everyone but me.”

  His chuckle reverberates from somewhere above my head as I search the water for the recalcitrant paddle and now my ka
yak.

  “Looking for this?” He’s holding the paddle in his grip and the kayak is bumping against the rocky shore behind him.

  “Come on. Let’s get you out of the icy water. You’re shivering.”

  It isn’t until he says it, I realize I am. Next, I’ll probably turn Smurf blue. I grasp the hand he extends toward me as I trudge through the shallow water. Walking in water wearing a swimsuit is one thing. Trying to do it in jeans, sneakers, a sweatshirt, and inflated life vest is something altogether different.

  His hand is warm and strong and I latch onto it, letting him help tug me to shore. I let go once I’m standing on solid ground and wrap my arms around my midriff. Mitch grabs the end of the kayak, hauls it up onto the shore so it won’t float away, and puts the paddle inside it.

  I stare at the kayak. Can I get in it and make it back to my parents’ house before freezing to death? Which is worse, dying of embarrassment or cold?

  Mitch wraps his arm around my shoulders and gives my arm a quick rub. “Let’s get inside. You need to change into dry clothes. It may be June, but that water is as cold as ice.”

  Okay, it might be a slight exaggeration. I’m not likely to freeze to death but my skin is pebbled like one of my mother’s handbags. Shivers are rattling my bones and my teeth might chatter any moment. No one in their right mind will intentionally swim in the lake for another few weeks. Of course, no one has ever said I am in my right mind. People have stated the exact opposite on many occasions, however.

  We step onto the brick pathway leading to the house. Someone has tried to pluck the weeds growing between the bricks, but the path is still in need of repair. A damaged or missing brick mars the curved pathway every few feet. Clumps of naturalized Daylilies tower above the weeds along the meandering path. In a few weeks’ time their buds will open and a sea of orange and yellow will fill the lawn.

  My water-logged sneakers squish with each step I take, sending a cold surge between my toes. I try not to lean into his side, but the man is radiating serious warmth and the temptation to snuggle in and grab some of it for myself is overwhelming.