Tiny House on the Hill

by Celia Bonaduce

  She loved the distressed wood Bale had used for the flooring and the built-ins. She’d asked for the couch and dining furniture to all be built-in, so she wouldn’t have to set up the house every time she moved. She’d also required the dining table to be solid, since it would double as her sewing room. She snuck a peek at Bale now sitting at her table. She noted with satisfaction that everything looked sturdy.

  When she’d ordered the caboose, she envisioned herself trekking across the country instead of being parked in her grandmother’s yard, but the furnishings were beautiful and contained extra storage, so she still supported her original decision.

  The kitchen was amazing. It had a real stove top, farm sink, built-in microwave, dishwasher, and cabinets stained a dusty grey. She ran her hands over the stainless steel countertops. It was perfect. She hadn’t thought about it when she and Bale were going over design options, but she realized she could make a romantic dinner here, no problem.

  She continued her tour. Behind the kitchen was a sliding barn door. Her heart started to pound. She smiled at Bale.

  “Is this it?” she asked.

  “That’s it,” he said proudly.

  She slid the barn door smoothly to the side and gasped. In 220 square feet, Bale had managed to build a large walk-in closet. Shortie scooted in ahead of her and sniffed out every corner. Every inch was maximized.

  “You can hang seventy-two dresses,” Bale called from the dining area.

  “That should do it,” she called back, realizing her life working in a bakery would probably curtail her dress wearing.

  She looked at a wall of extra-large white wire bins. Walking over to them, she pulled one open. It slid as smoothly as the barn door had. The workmanship on this place, she felt, was incredible.

  “I know you said you were going to start making things out of sweaters,” Bale said. He had moved into the closet doorway, his arms propped on both sides of the frame.

  Sensing that this was his new territory, Shortie started barking furiously at Bale. Summer was horrified, but Bale just laughed.

  “Glad to see he’s protective,” Bale said. “Now I won’t have to worry about you out there.”

  Was he going to worry about me?

  As Shortie quieted down, Summer thought now might be a good moment to throw her arms around Bale. She envisioned him pushing her up against the wire baskets and kissing her passionately. But they might bend the baskets…those tracks were tricky. She let the moment get away from her. Bale had moved out of the doorway.

  “You have more house to see,” he said.

  Summer rubbed her eyes, clearing the daydream.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “The bathroom! I can’t wait to see it.”

  Bale had talked her into a composting toilet. Summer had her reservations; she wasn’t exactly sure they even worked, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to start discussing plumbing with this man right now. She would go straight to the tub. Composting toilets might not be the stuff that dreams are made of, but tubs were hot.

  The galvanized horse trough was set on a platform with a gorgeous oversized faucet. A rainforest showerhead hung from the ceiling and a circular curtain rod ring finished the tub. It was perfection.

  “I love this,” she said quietly.

  She looked at Bale, who was nodding. He was a man who obviously took pride in his work.

  “Check out the loft,” he said.

  Summer bit her bottom lip. The loft was always a concern. As much as she defended it to Lynnie, she wasn’t sure Shortie was actually going to be able to navigate stairs. She saw Shortie wandering around the caboose and she had to stifle a laugh. He really was her partner in this adventure, deciding on favorable corners and surfaces. She put her foot on the first circular stair that led from the corner of the bathroom onto the loft. It was higher and steeper than she expected, although that left more room on either side than a traditional staircase. And every inch was valuable. There was also no handrail. This might be tricky navigation for Shortie and her. She pulled herself up and realized it was not just her legs that had muscle fatigue from the hike, her butt cheeks were screaming in indignation.

  “You okay?” Bale said, sensing her distress.

  “Yes,” she said. “Just getting used to the pitch of the stairs.”

  She looked up to the loft. It was only seven large steps away. She could do it.

  No, I can’t!

  It occurred to her that if she were honest with herself, this new life she envisioned encompassed more than just creating handbags. While the lofts in tiny houses didn’t exactly shout wild sex this way! they did look romantic. Bale might be having those exact same thoughts. She braced her muscles and sprinted up the stairs.

  She was an expert at getting into lofts without banging her head after inspecting so many of them. The process involved racing quickly up the stairs, bending your head without losing momentum as you reached the top step, launching yourself like Superman into the space, then elbowing your way, like a soldier on military maneuvers, to the center. She completed this exercise seamlessly, inhaled a few times to steady her breathing from the exertion and stuck her head into the space between the loft and the staircase.

  “This is amazing,” she called down.

  Most of the tiny houses on wheels she’d looked at, both online and at Bale’s Tiny Dreams, had pitched roofs. There really was only room to maneuver in the very center of the lofts. In the caboose, with its raised, flat roof, besides the addition of even more storage, she had plenty of room to move around. She felt herself naturally reverting to a walking style she’d learned on her walks around the wilderness outside of Cat’s Paw when she was a kid. They called it “walking native,” which meant propelling yourself forward in a partial squatting position. As you walked, you maintained a low stance. Her legs and butt would have none of it, but she knew she’d get her mojo back. After years of suppressing all memories of her summers in Washington, she was glad to see there was some positive experience still available to her – not just sadness and regret over a man who threw her over.

  There’s a handsome man at the bottom of the stairs, she thought. Focus!

  “Ready for some company?’ Bale called from downstairs.

  Summer was startled out of her reverie.

  “Um, sure!” she said, hoping she sounded jaded and sophisticated instead of eager and overly anxious.

  She turned toward the steps to see Shortie’s nose peeking over the top. He seemed to be floating until she realized Bale was handing him up to her.

  “I don’t think Shortie can navigate these yet,” Bale said. “But if he can’t figure it out, we’ll figure it out.”

  Summer liked the sound of “we’ll figure it out.” She reached over and grabbed Shortie from the disembodied hands that offered her the dog. She wondered what it would take to make Shortie feel comfortable climbing the stairs. She looked down at Bale, who was smiling up at her.

  She wondered what it would take to make Bale feel comfortable climbing the stairs, too.

  Chapter 6

  Just as she’d given up, Bale asked her if she would like to join him for dinner. He’d mentioned a restaurant called Crabby’s. She was happy she’d done her research and already knew the place was dog friendly. She could skip the anxiety-ridden what-about-my-dog? conversation.

  As soon as she got to her hotel room, Summer fired up her laptop. Looking for clues as to Bale’s intentions, she scrutinized the restaurant’s website. Crabby’s was on the water, with a battered-looking patio built over the Kentucky River. She always thought of water-view restaurants as being on the romantic side, but there was no way to know if Bale felt the same way. She looked for signs of a dress code. The closest she found was a little disclaimer at the bottom of their menu which stated: no shorts, no flip-flops. Even with her limited wardrobe, she could pull that off. Shortie would wear hi
s official therapy dog jacket.

  Shortie watched her every move as she unpacked a clean floral skirt, a white lace top, toiletries and makeup. He tensed as she undressed and walked into the bathroom, then tried to wiggle under the bed when he heard the shower creak to life.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Summer said, diving after him. “You need this more than I do.”

  Summer was sure he had the ability to read her mind, but two could play at that game.

  With Shortie under her arm, Summer climbed over the side of the tub into the warm spray of the shower. She gave Shortie a good scrubbing and rinse, while he stared at her accusingly. She stepped lightly out of the tub, put him on the vanity, and rubbed him down with two towels. No matter how hard she tried to get him dry, when she put him on the floor, he shook himself and water droplets flew like bullets around the bathroom.

  “Okay,” she said, opening the bathroom door. “You can go, but stay off the…”

  Shortie had already taken a flying leap and was on the bed rubbing his wet ears into the pillows. Summer studied the room. She wasn’t a master of square footage calculation, but she thought it was probably bigger than the caboose, which was still at Bale’s Tiny Dreams. Bale said he wanted to give her a few lessons on hitching and unhitching the caboose to Big Red. She felt a little guilty and positively retro letting Bale think she needed these instructions. While she was still getting the hang of driving something as powerful as her heavy-duty truck, her years hanging out with her grandfather had made her more than conversant with hitches and towing. But she warmed to any excuse that prolonged her time with Bale, not to mention prolong the time away from Cat’s Paw, Washington, her grandmother and Keefe Devlin.

  She’d probably been thinking more about Keefe Devlin in the last week than she had in the last ten years. That wasn’t exactly true—keeping thoughts of him at bay for the first couple of years had been pretty rough, but she had been in college and managed to bury herself in her studies. Was it possible she had him to thank for her degree and job in Hartford? It occurred to her that if Keefe had not broken her heart, she might not have been such a good student.

  She could feel her resolve against him loosen, but realized she resented her degree and her job, so he not only dumped her, but put her on the wrong path for most of a decade. But she would have the last laugh. Everything she’d learned about risk management would be applicable to running the bakery. She was going to run circles around him. Maybe even get him fired!

  Of course, that would mean she’d be stuck running the bakery indefinitely, which would put the kibosh on her plans to roam the countryside as a purse-making gypsy.

  Nerves gnawed at her as she stared into her uncertain future. She noticed the clock on her computer. She and Shortie had to meet Bale in less than a half hour. The thought did nothing to calm her.

  With one final swipe of lip gloss, Summer unlocked Big Red, wrestled Shortie into his jacket and strapped him into his car seat—Bale’s admonishments be damned. She climbed into the driver’s seat and set the coordinates for Crabby’s into Google Maps on her phone. She stared at the little car icon and the little walking man icon. It appeared Crabby’s was a two-minute drive, but also a short ten-minute walk. She jumped out of the truck, released Shortie from the car seat, clicked on his leash, and headed down to the river. It was still light outside, but by the time dinner was over it would be dark. Bale would probably either walk her home or give her a lift. Of course, in this day and age, you couldn’t count on that, but Bale had more than a hint of the Southern gentleman about him.

  She wondered if Queenie would like Bale.

  Shortie walked purposefully forward, oblivious to the many options that lay in his future.

  Cobb was a cute place, with a tiny, pristine downtown. Victorian buildings with second-story bay windows and brightly colored gables gave the place a historic feel. Summer window-shopped as she made her way to the river. Most of the stores were just closing, but everyone seemed to be friendly, in that small-town way she remembered from Cat’s Paw. Several of the proprietors interrupted their closing-up-shop rituals to pat Shortie, as Summer snuck peeks in their windows. As the new inhabitant of a tiny house, she knew she could no longer give into an impulse buy, but there was no harm in looking. At the end of the street, in the window of a thrift store already shuttered for the night, she spotted a mannequin sporting a purple cashmere sweater. The sweater had tiny pearl detailing around the edges and the color faded from a dark eggplant at the bottom to light periwinkle at the top. It was a beautiful garment. She had to have that sweater. She might even wear it a time or two before throwing it into a hot washing machine in preparation for its new life as a purse. Summer cupped her hands over the glass in the front door, hoping someone might still be inside, but there was no movement from the interior of the store.

  I’ll come back after my driving lesson tomorrow, she thought. She looked down at her phone. She was supposed meet Bale in five minutes. The sweater could wait!

  Turning the corner, Summer saw Crabby’s perched on the river’s edge. The parking lot was full; Cobb, Kentucky, was more jumping than she’d imagined. She looked around for Bale.

  Summer always thought you could tell a lot about a man by the type of vehicle he drove. She tried out a few on Bale. He clearly was too down-to-earth to be a sports car guy. Prius? Any man who thought you were stifling a dog by using a seat belt would never buy into a hybrid. SUV? Too citified. She could practically hear him snort in distain. Considering he built homes for a living, he probably had a truck. He might even have a truck just like hers. Although, probably not red. Bale didn’t seem like the type to drive a flashy red truck. It was probably black or maybe the British racing green that was almost black, but more mysterious. You could only tell it was green in the bright sun. A color with depth. She decided that was definitely what he drove: a green British racing truck.

  Summer was still scanning the parking lot when he flagged her down. He was standing in the doorway, already out of his car. There was no way to know what he drove at the moment, but Summer brightened at the possibility of her two minute ride back to the hotel in his British racing truck.

  As soon as Shortie saw Bale, he started wagging; no dog could wag quite as enthusiastically. It started at his tail, but within seconds had encompassed his whole body. Wagging and walking were almost at odds with each other. Bale broke into a huge grin, which Summer hoped was for her, but suspected was for Shortie. That dog was irresistible.

  “You found the place okay,” Bale said.

  Summer wasn’t sure what to say. Was this a question: “You found the place okay?” Or a statement: “You found the place okay.”

  As she was contemplating an answer, Shortie attempted to launch himself into Bale’s arms, a clumsy maneuver at best, now hindered by the therapy jacket. Shortie didn’t seem to realize exactly how short his legs were. Jumping got him as far as Bale’s knees. But Bale got the hint and scooped up the dog. Summer waited for Bale’s attention to return to her as Shortie covered Bale with kisses—which she longed to do herself. At least Shortie wasn’t constrained by convention.

  “What’s with the dress?” Bale said as he put the dog back on the ground.

  “It’s a skirt,” Summer said, looking down at her attire in a panic. “Is there something wrong with it?”

  “Not you,” Bale laughed. “Shortie.”

  “It’s his therapy jacket,” she said as they both stared down at the panting dog.

  He seems pretty well adjusted to me,” Bale said. “I bet if you didn’t keep him strapped to a car seat all the time, he wouldn’t even need therapy.”

  “He doesn’t need therapy,” Summer said, coloring. “He is the therapy. Not that I need therapy. Although there is nothing wrong with needing therapy. I just…”

  “I’m teasing you,” Bale said. “Even here in good old Kentucky, we’ve heard of therapy dogs.�
��

  Summer wished they’d go into the restaurant and order some wine. This encounter was not going as planned.

  “Shall we go in?” she suggested.

  “Sure,” Bale said, reaching down and releasing the Velcro around Shortie’s midsection. He handed the jacket to Summer and rubbed Shortie’s ears. “We’re going to the patio, so you can go commando,” he said to the dog. “Come on, boy! Walk like a man.”

  Bale stepped aside and let Summer and Shortie pass in front of him. Summer wondered if she should admonish Bale for taking such liberties with her dog, but when he guided her forward by placing his hand on the small of her back and gently propelling her forward, she decided against it. She’d wait for Bale to take liberties with her.

  “Hi Bale,” chirped the hostess. “Your usual table?”

  “Thanks, Molly,” Bale said.

  “Is this your new dog?” Molly asked, stooping to pet Shortie.

  “Can’t say that he is,” Bale said. “This is Shortie and this is my client, Summer Murray.”

  His client?

  “Oh, did you buy a Tiny?” Molly asked over her shoulder as she led them to the patio.

  “She bought the caboose,” Bale said.

  “Oh, I love that one!” pouted Molly, turning her duck lips on Summer. “I hate you.”

  I hate you, too.

  Molly indicated a table right on the edge of the patio. The sky was turning shades of purple with the sunset and the river twinkled. Summer sat down, and after making sure there was no more adoration coming his way, Shortie scooted under the table. Bale sat opposite her and smiled. Molly was still with them.

  “Can I get you started with a drink?” Molly asked. She looked at Bale. “The usual?”

  Okay, I get it. You know him.

  “Ladies first,” Bale said, looking at Summer.

  “I’ll have a Prosecco,” Summer said.

  “What is that?” Molly asked, tilting her head.

  “It’s an Italian champagne,” Bale said before Summer could respond.