Love Shack (Tiny Houses, Big Hearts)

by Roxy Mews

  “I’ve been in my own tiny home for two years, and I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I have a lot less to clean, I don’t have to worry about so many things, and I don’t have a mortgage. The blog advertising I have doesn’t pay much, but aside from repairs and food, I don’t need much money. I would never have to work again if I didn’t want to.”

  Deborah lifted her eyes up from the model home picture at that. “Most people wouldn’t want to go into debt to help people they don’t even know. You aren’t getting rich off this.” She handed Felicity the papers back and folded her arms. “Tell me why.”

  A memory dinged inside Felicity’s skull. An image of Nan wiping her hands on her apron after finishing her weekly baking for the soup kitchen was still vibrant for her. Everyone loved Nan’s rolls.

  Doing this project would make Nan proud. Doing this would keep Nan’s memory bright. It was the only thing from her past she wanted to keep.

  Why was she doing this? That was easy. “I want to do something that matters, and give people homes.” Felicity thought about the little girl with her inexpensive sucker. “I want to give someone something that they didn’t think was possible.”

  Deborah leaned forward. “Why?”

  This was the dance she’d been doing for years. Felicity had become an expert at revealing who she was without letting on to who she used to be. She had to be honest without details.

  “Because my parents never gave me one. We had a huge house, but the staff lived there more than we did. It wasn’t a home.” Felicity flipped the business plan closed and pointed to the blue and white tiny house on the front. “That’s home. I made it. I built it. I designed it. I live there. I want to build a community that’s about something more than materialism.”

  “Why don’t you just use your trust to fund it?” It was the question everyone asked when they found out she had one.

  “Ever hear the term dirty money?”

  Deborah gave her a sideways glare. “Were your parents crooks?”

  “Nothing that juicy. Sorry. I just want to make it on my own. I’m writing a few stories about tiny house living and publishing them myself. That along with my blog ad space isn’t much money, but I can buy food to supplement my gardening.” Felicity felt so tired. “I’m not a rich kid playing at charity. I simply walked away from parents I never felt like I had. I’ve been alone for a long time. I know what that feels like. I want to help others, but I’m not using money from people who didn’t care. I want this business to grow from love. There’s no love in that money. I never touch it.”

  Deborah smiled. “Will you say all of that on camera?”

  “Everything but the inheritance part. I am serious about doing this on my own.”

  Deborah stood up and held out her hand. Felicity reached for it out of habit.

  “Then we have a deal.” Deborah grabbed a pen and a yellow note pad. “Which banks turned you down? I want to start making calls tonight.”

  That was exactly what she did. Over the course of the next five hours Deborah asked questions between each call and jotted important points on sticky notes to not stop the conversation. With Felicity sitting right next to her feeling like she would vomit, Deborah called all five banking branch managers and every secretary or board member she could get a phone number for. All that answered the phone had no comment. All except for the last one.

  The last bank she’d gone to today had agreed to meet for an on camera interview tomorrow morning at nine.

  That allowed for a few hours of sleep if she could get her brain to shut off. Felicity was going home to try and digest what had just happened. Luckily the busses were still running, and after just a two minute hike she was back at the bus stop where her whole brilliant television idea had been born. She needed a glass of wine to settle her nerves if she had any hope of sleeping tonight. She’d finally gripped her bus pass from the very bottom of her crossbody hobo bag, when she heard her name.

  “Hey. Ms. Newhouse? That is you. Hold up.”

  She still had her hand in her bag and gripped her pink can of pepper spray. Just because someone knew your name didn’t mean you shouldn’t be cautious.

  She flipped off the safety when she saw the last banker from the day charging toward her. Surely a man in that nice of a suit wouldn’t want to get blood on it by beating her, but she had just gotten done tattling on him to a nationally affiliated news station.

  “Hello, Mr. Halston. What can I do for you?” She loosened her grip on the canister just a bit when he stopped at an appropriate distance away.

  “You can tell me why you went to the news station.”

  She licked her lips. His eyes darted down for a brief moment, and she thought she saw him shake his head. That was weird. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had to get some community support behind this project, and I figured getting featured on ‘Debbie Digs’ was a good way to do that.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “She’s that pit-bull of a woman who always wears her hair in buns so tight they look like they are painted on her head. Shit. She’s already put a few companies out of business.”

  “She seemed very nice to me. And her hair was down when I met her.”

  “It won’t be when she paints a bullseye on my bank and labels us as the big evil corporation without a soul.” He put one hand in his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck with the other. His suit jacket stretched around well-defined arm muscles.

  Felicity shut her mouth so she didn’t drool. This was the man who denied her her dream earlier today. She shouldn’t care that he probably had abs just as fantastic as his biceps under that button down white shirt.

  “I need you to do me a favor, lady.”

  “What kind of favor?” Felicity gripped the pepper spray tighter.

  “I need to see that business plan again. My boss wanted me to call you and discuss details tomorrow before he meets with this reporter, but I think you and I would both appreciate it if I didn’t call you at seven in the morning.”

  “I’m usually up by six anyway.” Why was he rolling his eyes at that? “And I can’t give you the plan. I left it with Debbie.”

  “Oh, you’re on a nickname basis with the pit-bull?”

  “I wouldn’t call her that to her face.” Felicity put the safety back on the pepper spray. This guy wasn’t a threat—he was just trying to cover his own ass.

  “Can I ask you some questions then? I’ll buy you a drink…” When she was obviously about to say no, he pushed on. “Or a dessert, or an appetizer. Fuck, lady, I’ll buy you whatever you want. Just give me a few minutes. It is your fault we are about to get criminalized in the eyes of the public tomorrow.”

  He put on some puppy dog eyes, and Felicity fell for it. “Wherever we go, it needs to be close to a bus stop. I left my truck at home.”

  “Well, luckily you criminalized an evil corporate assistant manager who has a car with him. I’ll drive you. Come on.” He turned and held out his arm.

  When he looked over his shoulder, the light above the darkening street gleamed off his slick short black hair. A golden hue caught his eye as he smiled at her. Felicity forgot to breathe.

  Why did the evil banker have to be hot?

  Chapter Four

  Brandon found a café that offered breakfast all day. He was getting pancakes. It wasn’t technically his cheat meal day, but since the diner didn’t serve alcohol and he was driving, he was getting pancakes.

  His hostage—because that was basically what she was—pursed her lips and looked at the menu. When the waitress came, Felicity ordered some kind of perverted version of a grilled chicken sandwich.

  After their orders were placed and he had taken a drink of water, Brandon grabbed a notepad from his briefcase and opened it to a fresh page.

  “Now…tell me about your plan again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to tear it apart and figure out how to make myself look better while making the plan good enough to follow th
rough with.”

  The woman across from him stopped mid-drink and just stared.

  He clicked his pen so he could write, but it was obvious she wasn’t talking until he explained.

  “You wanted to get funding for your shanty project, right?”

  “Tiny houses.”

  “Whatever. You want money, right?”

  “For tiny houses, yes.”

  This woman was frustrating as hell, but with the reporter in her back pocket instead of his, Brandon had to remember to not be rude. It took effort. “My boss wants to get in on the ground floor of this and write it off as a charity project.”

  “But it’s only a charity project for me. I would be paying back my loan to the bank. Or I would have, if you’d approved me.”

  “Whatever you say, lady. I just want to see how I can help make this not a total disaster.”

  “I think I’m done with this meeting.” Ms. Newhouse stood to leave, but the waitress came back and pushed her down.

  “Nope. I already put your order in, woman. You are getting your super special breadless sandwich cooked in olive oil, not lard. So sit your butt down, because that took me damn near five minutes to explain to the cook. I don’t speak Spanish and there was a lot of hand signals that went down to get your order right. Not all of them were of the polite variety.”

  Ms. Newhouse sat. “I didn’t mean to be any trouble. I usually eat at home and that’s how I make it.”

  “Well, you’s eatin’ here tonight, and I expect a tip when your order comes out perfect. Got it?” She sauntered off and yelled at a patron who was sipping on a never-ending cup of coffee. “And buy some damn pie at least, Marshall.”

  “She scares me,” his hostage said.

  “Well, I’m tipping her fifty percent, because she kept you here. Now…” Brandon leaned forward, knowing he finally had the upper hand again. “Tell me about these shan…” He saw her narrow her eyes. “Tell me about these tiny houses.”

  Chapter Five

  Felicity hadn’t even felt her head hit the pillow that night. She’d stumbled to bed without even washing her face. Dragon breath was in full force as she slapped on some seriously heavy-handed under-eye concealer. Her coffee had to be poured into a travel mug so she could be somewhat caffeinated on the way to the station.

  It was a sunny day outside, and Felicity was wearing her nicest peasant blouse to combat the brutal rays of the sun. She’d soaked herself in SPF fifty sunblock, but she had a feeling she’d still need to hit the shade frequently to even have it last the recommended two hours.

  “What are you wearing?”

  The voice that had her jumping three feet in the air was Debbie’s. Felicity put a hand over her heart as she turned to the woman stomping her way. The reporter looked a lot more intimidating than last night with her hair pulled back so severely, a face full of makeup, and a scowl.

  “Good morning, Debbie.”

  But Miss Deborah was digging and she wasn’t about to let Felicity avoid her question, even such a strange one.

  “What are you wearing?” she asked again, with the same tone and force, just a bit slower pace.

  “I’m wearing clothes.”

  “You’re wearing hippie crap.”

  Felicity’s ears began to steam. If one more person tried to discount the work she was doing because of how she dressed, her ideals or even her sex, she was going to blow a gasket.

  “I am wearing clothes that I feel comfortable in. I am here to talk about my business and be myself.” Felicity held up a hand before Deborah could get a breath in and say anything else. “I am sick of being told that because I dress a certain way, act a certain way, am a certain freaking gender, that I can’t do something. Outward appearance is not in any way an indicator of intelligence. I am smart. I have a great idea, and that is what you’re reporting on, right?”

  Deborah didn’t say anything for a bit, and then a very scary smile filled her face. Whatever she was thinking, she didn’t share with Felicity. “I think this piece will go over just fine. I know exactly the angle I’m going to take.”

  Felicity tried to stop her as she walked away mumbling notes into a pocket recorder, but it was no use. Whatever she’d said had already convinced Deborah of…something.

  “What are you wearing?”

  Felicity jumped again, but there was no déjà vu here. This voice was deeper than Debbie’s and much less scary. The banker from last night. Just hearing his grumbling made her yawn.

  He’d kept her out late ripping endless holes in her business model. She’d argued against every one and had research, material quotes, and testimonials from others like herself who’d found a freedom in living with less. The man couldn’t see past the end of his nose with this. Felicity was pretty sure he never even tried to change his point of view on anything. He needed his life shaken up.

  What could she do to knock him off his high horse?

  “I’m wearing clothes,” Felicity said yet again.

  “I thought you’d at least be in a suit.”

  Felicity opened her cross body bag and pulled out a handkerchief. “I’m comfortable,” She wiped it across his brow and showed him the sweat. “And I won’t be the one sweating bullets on camera.”

  Felicity walked away. She was ready to get this over with. She really hoped no one else commented on her clothes, or she’d just strip the damn things off and go back to her nudist days. Those were folks who knew how to live with less too.

  * * * * *

  The camera was a giant eye trained on her, so Felicity decided to ignore the thing. She was going to try and make herself connect with people, not with a big plastic eyeball.

  Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Her confidence started to slip as Deborah began her introduction. Then her fears didn’t even matter, because her frustration skyrocketed high enough to melt everything else away.

  “The average home size in America is over two thousand square feet, according to the US Census Bureau. This woman has decided to take advantage of what some are calling a minimalist movement, but most are calling a joke. She lives in a tiny house, and wants to give people the same cramped spaces as full time dwellings. Technically, a tiny home is anything under five hundred square feet, but even that is too spacious for a woman like you, isn’t it Felicity?”

  Felicity looked to the banker who had been tearing apart her work all night long, and the reporter who she’d thought was here to help. This was supposed to be where she got herself up and running. This was supposed to garner sympathy and support. She should have known they’d try to turn her into a side show freak instead.

  Well, if this was how it was going to go, she might as well go out with a bang.

  “I am fully aware of what people with small minds and no sense of adventure or self-sufficiency think of me.” The camera was trained on her, but Felicity almost stumbled when that same smile from earlier spread across Debbie’s face. She stumbled in her rant enough that the banker got a word in.

  “You are the one that can’t see where this needs to go, Miss Newhouse. This entire plan is not one that would work for a long term situation. For a single woman such as yourself who is young and in her prime, the idea of climbing up a ladder to get to bed isn’t a bad thing. What about when you got older? Got married? Had children?”

  Felicity completely forgot about the camera. “So because I am a woman, my entire motivation in life is to settle down, find a husband, and start a family? Just because you are happy with never seeing more than a tiny portion of America—most likely from the window of a hotel room—doesn’t mean the rest of the planet is as lacking in vision.”

  “Perhaps the rest of America wants indoor plumbing they don’t have to plug in whenever they go somewhere.”

  “Are you saying you couldn’t hack it living small? Because I’m willing to bet, if I put you in a tiny home, you would find out just like I did, there is nothing comforting about empty spaces. There is nothing homey about a big house with lots
of furniture. What is comforting is knowing you have created something where every inch of space was thought out around your needs and has a purpose in your life.”

  Deborah thrust the microphone between their heads and Felicity jumped back a bit. She hadn’t realized how close she’d been to the banker.

  He snorted at her and she curled her lip back.

  “I don’t need everything in my life to have a purpose. I happen to enjoy some of the finer things because they make me feel good.”

  Felicity took another step forward. The mic bumped her chest. She knew this type of man. She had grown up around this type of man. For all the stuff he probably had around him, he wasn’t happy. He just knew how to buy new things to distract himself. He had the latest type of phone and the best computer, and she would bet he had enough movies to watch something new endlessly for months. That was when he wasn’t out on the town entertaining someone to forget how empty his house was when it was quiet.

  Felicity looked at the banker, and she knew she was right, because even though he was looking down on her, there was uncertainty in his eyes. She scared him with her confidence. She tended to have that effect on people who were sure they could dominate her.

  “You don’t feel good, Brandon. You feel distracted. If all of those distractions were pushed away, what would you really want? What would you need if the party stopped? Where would you go if you didn’t have to hire movers just to haul all of your belongings? Bet you’ve never even thought about it, because you can’t see beyond where you are now. But if you were brave enough to open your mind, you’d see that having that freedom is beautiful. It’s a shame you’re too scared to try tiny.”

  “I could live in a tiny house if I wanted to.”

  The microphone pulled away.

  “I think that’s a brilliant idea, Mr. Halston.”

  Felicity stepped back and focused again on Deborah. The news reporter was practically vibrating as she turned from them to talk to the camera. “In fact, I think we should have a poll on my page for the news station. Log on right now and vote if you think Mr. Halston should take Miss Newhouse’s challenge. Do you think he should live the lifestyle he has condemned? Do you think he could?”