“Of course there’s a catch, dear,” Priscilla said.
Vivien could see the remark caught Jose by surprise. He recovered quickly.
“So?” Jose said. “What is it? What’s the catch?”
“I want you to release Marco from having to run the store,” Priscilla said.
Vivien saw Marco and Rosa’s jaws drop. You could see the family resemblance when hearing something they couldn’t believe.
“What are you talking about?” Jose said.
“Colonel?” Priscilla said, abdicating once again.
“Priscilla was thinking she wants to open an artist’s retreat here at Casa de Promesas,” the Colonel said. “Correction. We want to open an artist’s colony.”
“I’m a little rusty, I admit it,” Priscilla said. “But I want to help people learn to express themselves. I’ll work with drawing. And we want Marco to run the sculpting program.”
“What are you talking about,” Jose said. “You need a degree to teach that stuff.”
“Go to college if you want that sort of education,” Priscilla countered. “This is an art colony. It’ll be about free expression.”
“You sound like something straight out of the sixties,” Jose groused.
“Truer words were never spoken,” Priscilla said, almost to herself.
There was silence as they all digested this news.
“Won’t you need money to do that?” Rosa asked. “I mean, if you give my dad five acres….”
“Whose side are you on?” Jose asked.
“I’ll sell my apartment in New York to get us going,” the Colonel said, ignoring Jose. “So, Jose, what do you think? Is it a deal?”
“I can’t do that!” Jose said. “I need Marco at the store. I’m getting old and I have to pass the store down to my son. What else can I do?”
“Dad!” Rosa said. “What is wrong with you?”
“Lighten up,” Marco whispered to his sister.
Rosa took a deep breath and started again.
“Why can’t I run the store?” Rosa said. “I love it. I’m good at it. What is your problem?”
“The sign says, “Marquez and Son,” Jose said. “For three generations. Marquez and Son.”
“It sounds like it’s time for a new sign,” Priscilla said, putting her hand on Jose’s.
Chapter 34
Vivien felt it was only yesterday—and also a thousand years ago—when she drove into Cobb, Kentucky to pick up Shrimpfork. And now, here she was again, driving her old truck by Crabby’s. Molly was out on the porch. She must have recognized Shrimpfork because she gave Vivien an enthusiastic wave.
Bale was expecting her. He opened the gate and Vivien turned expertly into the lot. There were several new tiny models. It looked like Bale had sold the miniature Victorian and the log cabin.
“Welcome back,” Bale said.
“Thanks,” she said.
Thor came running out to greet her. As she patted him, she thought about Clay back in Sandstone. She didn’t want to think about New Mexico right now.
“I moved a few of the houses, so you can park Shrimpfork while you’re here,” Bale said. “I appreciate you taking me on.”
“Happy to do so.” Vivien smiled.
Should she feel guilty that she had other motives for coming here?
“Why don’t you get set up and I’ll meet you in the office,” Bale said.
Vivien pulled Shrimpfork to the designated spot. Bale had cleared out a space that had a beautiful view of rolling hills. It took her only minutes. She was getting to be a real pro. She took Hilda out of a box. Priscilla had insisted on her taking it.
“She’ll bring you good luck,” Priscilla said.
Thor solemnly walked Vivien to the office. She dropped her messenger bag on the floor and smiled when she saw all the multi-colored binder clips Bale was using to organize his paperwork.
“How did things go in New Mexico?” Bale asked.
“It was…very interesting,” Vivien said, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
There was no denying it. She missed Marco.
“I want to talk to you about something before we get started,” Vivien blurted.
“Sure,” Bale said. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s a long story,” Vivien said.
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Bale said.
Vivien rushed through her adventure in New Mexico and California.
“I didn’t see This Old Thing? the day that went down,” Bale said. “But of course, I saw video of it everywhere for days.”
“The Colonel was right, though,” Vivien said. “It all died down.”
“What’s happening with the show?”
“Franklin is the new host.” Vivien shrugged.
“Wow, the poor Colonel. That must have stung,” Bale said.
“He said ‘That’s show biz,’” Vivien said. “He said that it was fine with him and that Franklin was welcome to the show.”
“Glad he could be so philosophical,” Bale said. “So the art colony is going to happen?”
“Yes,” Vivien said.
“And the sister….”
“Rosa,” Vivien supplied.
“Rosa is going to take over the store while her brother gets the art colony going?”
“That’s the deal they made,” Vivien said.
“Wow,” Bale said. “Interesting isn’t half of it.”
“I know,” Vivien said.
She stared at Bale.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Bale asked.
“Not tell you exactly,” Vivien said. “Ask you.”
“Go ahead.”
“When I finish here, I’m going to go back to Sandstone,” Vivien said. “And I want to take ten tiny houses with me.”
“You…what?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but Marco and I thought it might be too much for Priscilla to have all these…artists…in the house. Even with the Colonel there. So we hit on the idea of bringing in tiny houses. Priscilla still has five acres and there’ll be plenty of room.”
“That’s not going to be cheap,” Bale said. “I mean, I’ll work with you, but…”
“The Colonel sold his flat in Manhattan,” Vivien said. “We’ve got the money.”
“I’m flattered,” Bale said. “This is the biggest order I’ve ever had.”
“I want to work with you on the designs,” Vivien said. “There needs to be room for artists’ tools and supplies, plus good lighting in each one.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“So, we have a deal?”
“We have a deal,” Bale said. “I’m guessing you’re pretty anxious to get back to Sandstone. We’ll start tomorrow.”
“And I’ll still organize your office.”
“You’ll have to!” Bale said. “I don’t think you could stand to work here, otherwise.”
Vivien got up. She picked up her messenger bag.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Vivien said, digging in her bag. “I brought you a bottle of sherry.”
She handed the bottle to Bale, who put on his reading glasses.
“Clay’s California Cream,” he said, studying the label. It showed the Colonel, looking windswept and relaxed and Clay, tongue lolling to one side in a lopsided canine grin. Bale read a small tag attached to the neck of the bottle. “A sherry to share.”
“The Colonel is going to be the spokesman for it,” Vivien said. “Priscilla is going to serve it at receptions once we get the colony up and running.”
“Thanks,” Bale said. “I’ll tell you what—I’ll put this away and when we finish the houses, we’ll toast with it!”
Vivien walked through the lot to Shrimpfork.
She looked a
t the sky, thinking about the conversation she had with Marco after the amazing meeting in Priscilla’s dining room. They pulled Shrimpfork into its old spot under the Mexican nut pine. The tiny house looked right at home.
“It’s like nothing changed,” Marco said, studying their handiwork.
“But everything’s changed,” Vivien blurted.
She was hoping to be much slyer than that.
“I know,” Marco said.
“You’re happy, though, right?” Vivien said cheerfully. “I mean, helping to set up an art colony. That’s huge.”
“It is,” Marco said. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around…everything.”
“Me too,” Vivien said.
“Vivien…” Marco said.
She didn’t like the look in his eyes.
“The art colony is like a dream for me,” he said.
“I know it is.”
“Look, I know that one way to look at what went down with Priscilla and the Colonel is that you might only have one chance at love.”
“Is there another way of looking at it?” Vivien asked.
“Yeah. It’s that you should never let your dreams die. So, if there is something you have to do out there,” Marco said, pointing toward the road out of Sandstone, “you should go do it. Because you’ll always regret it if you don’t.”
“Don’t you want me to stay?” Vivien summoned her courage to ask.
“More than anything,” Marco said, pulling her toward him. “But I’ll be right here. You’ll always be able to find me.”
Everything had moved quickly after that. Her truck was fixed, the plans for adding the tiny houses to the colony took shape, the Colonel was on the cover of People magazine, where he told charming stories about his new life, old love, and a delicious wine everyone should try. The photo of him with his lovely bride in her exquisite embroidered flapper gown was the highlight of the spread.
Her future looked as limitless as the Kentucky sky. She stepped into her tiny house. Hilda was waiting, her one eye fixed on the door.
Vivien took out her selfie stick and posed with Hilda. She texted the picture to Marco along with a message: We’ll be home soon.
If you enjoyed Tiny House on the Road, be sure not to miss the first book in Celia Bonaduce’s Tiny House series!
Summer Murray is ready to shake things up. She doesn’t want to work in risk management. She doesn’t want to live in Hartford, Connecticut. So she plans a grand adventure: she’s going to throw out all the stuff she doesn’t want and travel the country in her very own tiny house shaped like a train caboose. Just Summer, her chihuahua-dachshund Shortie, and 220 square feet of freedom.
Then her take-no-prisoners grandmother calls to demand Summer head home to the Pacific Northwest to save the family bakery. Summer has her reasons for not wanting to return home, but she’ll just park her caboose, fix things, and then be on her way. But when she gets to Cat’s Paw, Washington, she’s shocked by her grandmother’s strange behavior and reunited with a few people she’d hoped to avoid. If Summer is going to make a fresh start, she’ll have to face the past she’s been running from all along…
Keep reading for a special look!
A Lyrical e-book on sale now.
Chapter 1
Summer Murray stared at the three large boxes marked KEEP, GIVEAWAY, and TRASH.
This is useless, she thought, frowning at the overflowing KEEP box. I’m supposed to be getting rid of stuff.
Summer was moving. She had to downsize. Overwhelmed with the prospect, she’d read article after online article on the subject. All the experts seemed to agree the “three-box” method would make it easier to get organized. But getting organized and downsizing appeared to be two distinctly different beasts.
She hugged a black wool coat to her chest, and took in a deep breath. The coat was an unfortunate impulse buy—a waistcoat worthy of the U.S. Calvary, circa 1865. She slipped her arms into the sleeves. The coat was from China, a country that really did not understand the concept of American breasts. At least, it didn’t understand the concept of Summer’s breasts.
The coat had three strikes against it: It didn’t fit, she had not worn it in a year (she’d not worn it ever), and it had been out of style for almost one hundred fifty years. Summer, at twenty-eight, was still barely young enough to go the costume route should she so choose, but costumes really weren’t her thing.
I will give this away, Summer willed herself, shrugging out of the too-tight coat. I. Will. Give. This. Away.
She stuffed the coat into the GIVEAWAY box. She looked down at it. The coat’s coal-black buttons stared back at her as forlorn as a baby seal adrift on an ice flow.
Fine!
Summer rescued the coat and dumped it into the KEEP box. After all, she lived on the East Coast, where it was certainly cold enough to need a wool coat, even with global warming. Perhaps she could take it to a tailor and get the bustline let out. She wondered if there could possibly be eight inches of extra fabric in those seams.
Summer had first moved in to her riverfront two-bedroom, two-bath apartment four years ago, after graduating with her master’s and landing a job with a big insurance company in Hartford, Connecticut. She had originally set up the smaller bedroom as a home office. But after three months at her job downtown in a cubicle, the last thing she wanted to do was spend any more time in an office—home or otherwise. Especially one with overhead lighting. She’d read an article online about turning an unused room into a closet, and hired a handsome carpenter named Hans to build her a dream storage space. Summer tried to engage him in conversation, but Hans only seemed interested in his job and sports—neither of which Summer understood. By the time he’d finished working for her, Summer had bookcases along one wall for shoes, purses, scarves, hats, and various other accessories; double-hung poles for shorter pieces along another and a strong support for longer items along the third wall. She took pictures of his handiwork and showed them to her colleagues at work.
All her friends said it was the most spectacular closet they’d ever seen. They also took a great interest in Hans. Except for Aiden on Sex and the City, none of them had ever heard of such a skilled handyman. And even in the insurance capital of the world, eligible men in their late twenties and early thirties seemed to be in shorter and shorter supply. Egged on by her friends, Summer toyed with the idea of inviting Hans for dinner. She didn’t really have much luck with the opposite sex. A few dates and her passion always cooled. She was the Goldilocks of the dating world, always looking for the one who was “just right.” She suspected she and Hans had nothing in common, but standing in her beautiful closet, she thought perhaps she should throw caution to the wind and just take a chance. As she reached for her phone, she happened to look up at the beautiful chandelier and realized—even as gorgeous as it was—it was still overhead lighting. You can disguise something, but it’s still what it is.
She never made the call.
* * * *
Summer hadn’t thought about Hans in months. She wouldn’t miss him when she left Hartford, but she sure would miss this closet. She held a pair of black leather espadrilles in her hands. Last spring, she’d twisted her ankle in them. Surely she could part with them! She strode purposefully toward the GIVEAWAY box but stopped just inches short of tossing them in. Was it the shoes’ fault she fell? Hadn’t she learned her lesson and would be more careful next time? They were just so damned cute!
She stared at the paltry GIVEAWAY box. There was a T-shirt from a marathon she’d run five years ago, a pair of pajamas, and one pair of jeans that were too big. She’d bought them online and thought about taking them to a tailor but then decided it was a comfort knowing there was a pair of jeans not just in the universe, but in her actual closet, that swam on her.
In the KEEP pile were the jeans that were too small. Summer usually bought jeans when she’
d been dieting. They usually fit for about a week before she’d gain her seven pounds back. But she made it a rule to never get rid of a pair of pants until she could fit into them again. The too-small jeans had been around so long they were out of style. But she worried if she gave in to chucking them, she’d never have incentive to lose the weight. She knew it was preposterous, but who was she to thumb her nose at this unfounded fear? Even superstition had some foundation in reality.
She stared at the jeans, then the espadrilles, then back to the jeans. Something had to give.
A knock at the door saved her from a decision.
“Hello?” came a familiar voice from the hallway.
It was her neighbor Mary-Lynn Laite. Mary-Lynn insisted that everyone call her Lynnie.
“Lynnie just sounds friendlier, you know?” Lynnie explained when Summer first moved in.
There was no denying it, Lynnie was fanatically friendly. Summer hadn’t been in the building a week before Lynnie offered to keep a spare key in case of emergencies. “Emergencies” seemed to translate into “any time I want to get into your apartment.”
“Hi, Lynnie,” Summer called. “I’m in the closet.”
If there was one person to whom she didn’t need to explain the layout of her apartment, it was Lynnie.
Somewhere along the road of Lynnie’s fifty-five years, she’d decided she was meant to be in the center of things. Lynnie knew everything about everybody in the building, and was happy to spread gossip among the tenants. After Summer had made her big decision to leave not only her job but the town of Hartford, Lynnie (and therefore everyone in the building) seemed to know about it before she’d even turned in her notice at work.
“How are you doing, sweet pea?” Lynnie said through her permanently sorrowful I’m-on-your-side expression.
“Plugging along, I guess,” Summer shrugged, espadrilles in hand.
“Want to take a break?” Lynnie asked, holding up a plate of cookies. “Chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin. Gluten-free, of course! Pick your poison.”
When Lynnie got her diagnosis and learned that wheat would have to be banished from her world, you would have thought her life was over. She’d thrown herself on Summer’s couch, begging for help.
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