Andre seemed to regain his regal demeanor after his dash to the top of the hill. He sat bolt upright next to Keefe, denying his frisky romp.
“I guess I better take Andre back down,” Keefe said. “Let you get settled up here.”
“That’s…” Summer could feel the disappointment in the pit of her stomach. “That’s a good idea. I have lots of unpacking to do.”
She knew as soon as she said it how lame that sounded. She had one truck bed worth of stuff. She’d be unpacked in an hour.
“Oh no,” Keefe said, his eyes focused on something in the distance.
Summer followed his gaze to Queenie, walking by the lake.
“Even the ducks won’t eat those peanut butter cookies,” Keefe said.
Summer squinted and could see Queenie scattering the cookies on the grass by the lake. The ducks assembled, stared at the beige lumps on the ground, then retreated to the safety of the water. Summer felt sorry for her grandmother, but couldn’t really blame the ducks.
Keefe walked down the hill without a backward glance. Shortie tried to squirm out of Summer’s arms and follow Andre, but Summer held him up and looked into his shiny black eyes.
“We need to stick together,” she said. “I’d appreciate some support here.”
She put Shortie on the ground. He took off down the hill, joining Keefe and Andre on their walk to the house. He didn’t look back either.
Traitor!
Summer walked all the way around the caboose. She was finally going to make it into her home. She remembered Bale saying if she stayed in one place, she’d need to cover the tires, take the weight off them, put plywood under them and enclose the undercarriage. But she tried not to fantasize that this might be that place.
She had plans, after all. If Keefe and her grandfather thought she needed to see the world, she would still see it! One round of finger-lacing did not a future make.
Summer pulled a small step stool from Big Red. It was one of her first Wal-Mart purchases when she realized it was quite a big step up to the caboose on wheels. She stood on the top step, hand on the doorknob, and paused. Even though she had slept in the caboose for days now, she’d deliberately disconnected from the tiny house emotionally. For better or for worse, the caboose was going to be her home. She opened the door and walked inside.
Man, it was small.
Summer looked at the interior with new eyes. Exactly where was she going to put things? She tested the lights and the water in the kitchen. She was grateful for that small blessing. She walked into the closet and sat on the circular staircase, the only seating in the place. She realized she had one more essential to check before she could call this place home: Wi-Fi. If the Internet gods were with her, Queenie’s signal from her house would reach Flat Top. She used her thumbprint to activate her phone and scrolled through the settings till she found Wi-Fi, then smiled triumphantly. There, among the networks was Queenie. Summer attempted a few passwords: Queenie (nope), Zach (no), DoughZDough (negative). She was about to give up and just call Queenie for the password, when it occurred to her that Queenie wouldn’t know it. There was no way in hell either she or Grandpa Zach knew enough about computers to set up a password. Grandpa never went near the computer and Queenie was always insisting the computer was broken every time she couldn’t figure something out. It hit Summer like a thunderbolt: Keefe was the computer guy around the farm. He had to be.
With technological advances seeming to sweep across the globe every few seconds, ten years ago was practically the Stone Age in technology. Even then, Keefe was interested in the field. She thought back to one of their many conversations about where technology was going. Keefe predicted that cell phones would one day be multi-functioning devices and remote businesses around the world would start doing business on the Internet. Facebook had just appeared on the scene, but was only being used by college students. He used to tease her that she would be using Facebook when she started college and he’d lose track of her. When she arrived at Baylor, students were in a delirium over Facebook. She refused to use it. And he lost track of her anyway.
She knew she shouldn’t attempt to guess Keefe’s password for the farm, but she couldn’t help herself. She tried “Summer.” If technology was just a little more advanced, the password-rejection notice might have read: You’re pathetic…and no, that’s not it. This game was lose-lose and Summer knew it. But she couldn’t help herself. She tried again, this time typing “SummerofLove.” She was embarrassed for herself, let alone the poor database that was having to put up with her. Besides, Keefe wouldn’t have come up with SummerofLove even if things had worked out between them. He wasn’t that kind of guy.
Summer remembered reading an article that said it was good to use symbols and numbers in any password. She had a hunch that if she knew a techno-tip, Keefe knew it too. She told herself she’d try one more time: $umm3r.
She was in.
She stared down at the phone. There was so much she could read into this. He regretted letting her go was her favorite scenario. Her least favorite was, since it was the farm’s password and not his, the whole thing might just be an innocent homage to the past.
The good thing about being logged on was Summer could always lose herself online. It had worked in the early days of trying to forget Keefe, and it worked now. She logged into Instagram to check on the tiny house community. People who bought into the tiny lifestyle were fanatics about posting pictures. Summer smiled—she would now start posting pictures herself, maybe even start a blog. Yet from her own research, she knew that the world didn’t need another tiny blogger. Maybe a blog about running a purse-making venue out of a tiny house. She hadn’t seen that before. And she could have used a blog or two in her early days as a felter. Catching a glimpse of her purse, now stretched out to the point it hugged her knees, she decided maybe she needed more purse-making practice before offering tips to the world.
She clicked on Facebook. Summer was never a huge fan of this site in her other life as a risk management specialist. She was more of a Twitter girl. But life on the road changed all that. She’d doubled her friends since heading across the country. The tiny world was bigger than she could have imagined. She was about to check on Margie and Alf when she was distracted by a familiar photo on the right side of the screen. It was an ad announcing that Bale’s Tiny Dreams would be featured at the Tiny House Road Show in Seattle. She had seen the ad many times before, but now she took in every detail. She knew tiny houses caught people’s imaginations and sometimes wouldn’t let go. That’s what happened with her. But now, there was more to it.
Bale Barrett would be in Washington, and he was coming to see her.
Chapter 15
Summer’s head was about to explode. There was so much to think about at the farm: the caboose, Keefe, Queenie, the password. And now Bale was coming to Washington! She took a few deep breaths and put everything out of her mind. She was going to move into her tiny home, free of distractions. She went out to Big Red, hauled in the first box to the minuscule living area, and opened it. She looked down at her seventy-two articles of hangable clothing. Heading for Kentucky and Bale’s Tiny Dreams, she’d lived in jeans, yoga pants, Tieks, and assorted T-shirts. Living on Flat Top Hill and working at the bakery might involve a change of footwear. Buttery leather ballet flats would have to give way to Doc Martins, but other than that, she didn’t see a need for a pair of dressy dove-grey linen pants or a 1940’s vintage floral blouse with a sweetheart neckline. They seemed like costumes from another life.
Unless Keefe takes me on a date, I won’t be needing this, she thought, as she dragged the box into the walk-in closet. She hung up a simple black dress with a lace hem. She shook her head. A little black dress would look ridiculous at the one small Cat’s Paw café.
But if Bale were to take her to dinner in Seattle…
Her thoughts were interrupted as Queenie’s voice a
ttacked the space.
“Hello?” Queenie called, noisily stomping around the front of the caboose. “Summer?”
“Yes, Queenie,” Summer said, sidestepping the box and the circular staircase. “I’m in here.”
She met Queenie in the miniscule hallway between the kitchen counter and the closet. Queenie was looking around the caboose, dipping her head into the closet behind Summer, and darting her eyes toward the bathroom at the far end of the caboose. Summer swelled with pride. You couldn’t help but be impressed with the workmanship and the brilliant use of space.
Even Queenie could see that.
“My dear,” Queenie said. “You’re not seriously going to live in this thing?”
Or not.
“Where are you going to do your laundry?” Queenie asked, spreading her hands to indicate that she saw no washer or dryer in the place.
“As a matter of fact, there’s a combination washer-dryer in the bathroom,” Summer said, trying to hit the perfect tone between nonchalance and unbridled triumph.
“And there’s no oven,” Queenie said, practically daring her to produce one.
“I don’t need an oven,” Summer said.
“What are you talking about?” Queenie asked. “How can you bake without an oven?”
Summer instinctively knew that “I wasn’t planning on baking” was a statement sure to enrage her grandmother, but that was the truth. She should just tell her that.
“I can use the oven at your house,” Summer said carefully.
Shortie isn’t the only half-weenie in this family.
Summer expected this statement to meet with huge approval, but Queenie only looked sad.
Summer knew better than to pry into her grandmother’s business. Even now, with Queenie’s cryptic demands that she come save the business, it was clear that events would unfold on Queenie’s timetable, not hers.
Summer noticed a box from Big Red sitting in the living area.
“How did this get in here?” Summer asked.
“I brought it in from your truck,” Queenie said. “I saw you moving boxes and thought I’d help.”
“Oh,” Summer said, startled that her life on the hill was not going to be as private as she imagined. She wondered how she was going to sneak a man—Keefe? Bale?—into the caboose if her grandmother could see everything from the house. Maybe she could turn the caboose around, but she’d lose the fantastic view. The entrance would just face the huge evergreens. That was a lot of work for an imagined love affair, especially when she couldn’t decide on the leading man!
She returned her attention to her grandmother, who pulled a Leatherman multi-tool from her pocket. Summer smiled. It was her grandfather’s. He never left the house without it. Now that he’d left the planet without it, it was still working hard for Queenie. She opened the box cutter and zipped it across the packing tape. The box contained the sweaters Summer had collected before heading across the country. She’d packed them as tightly as possible and they sprang, panting over the ridge of the box as if gasping for air. Queenie picked up a particularly hideous red, pink, and purple wool sweater and stared at it.
“This is a look,” Queenie said.
Summer toyed with the idea of not telling her grandmother anything about her plans. Two could play the taciturn game. But she knew she was no match for her grandmother.
“I’m planning on starting a business,” Summer said, taking the ugly sweater and holding it closely.
“You’re about a hundred years too late to be a ragpicker,” Queenie said, pulling an orange cashmere out of the box.
“I’m going to make purses.”
The surprise on her grandmother’s face was worth giving in.
“Out of these?” Queenie asked.
“Yes.” Summer tried to hide her excitement, but it felt good to be talking about her dreams. “I’m going to felt the wool and make them into …”
She ran to the kitchen and opened the narrow cabinet that would hold her broom and mop, the ones she would eventually buy, where her purse was hanging on a peg. The weight of the contents in the bottom strained against the handles. The purse was now twice as long as it was when she’d designed it. It was twisted and distorted; the Quasimodo of purses.
“You’re going to make them into…” Queenie prodded.
“This…” Summer said in a tiny voice. She held up the revolting bag, and said in a quavering voice, “It’s not supposed to look like this.”
“Obviously,” Queenie said, taking the purse and studying it.
Summer sniffed, which caught Queenie’s attention. Her grandmother looked up from the purse.
“Why do you want to make purses?” Queenie asked.
The question surprised Summer.
Why did she?
“I just loved the idea of doing something unpredictable.”
“Living in a train car is not enough?” Queenie asked.
“It was going to be a whole thing.” Summer tried not to wail. “A whole new life!”
Queenie perched against the kitchen counter and stared at Summer.
“So I guess that made it twice as hard returning to your old life,” Queenie said.
Summer waited. Was her grandmother going to tell her what this summons was all about? Queenie studied the purse. The silence was stretching as painfully as the handles on the bag. But Summer could feel a real bonding moment was upon them. She would wait for her grandmother’s next move. Finally, Queenie jumped down from the counter and handed the purse back to her.
“Lining,” Queenie said.
“Pardon me?”
“You can’t make a purse out of wool and hope for the best,” Queenie said. “You need to make a lining for each bag, so the outside of the purse doesn’t have to bear any of the weight.”
“Do you really think that will work?”
“Would I be telling you this if I didn’t think it would work?”
Clearly, their bonding moment was over.
Both women turned toward the door as Andre bounded in. Shortie yapped from the stepladder. Summer went to retrieve him. She had to thread her way between her grandmother and the Great Dane. The three of them took up the entire living space – and this was before Summer furnished it!
“You shouldn’t baby that dog,” Queenie said as Summer lifted Shortie into the caboose. “He’s never going to learn to do anything if you’ll do it for him.”
“You used to say that to Grandpa Zach when you thought he was spoiling me,” Summer said.
“Good advice never goes out of style,” Queenie said as she headed out of the caboose.
“Do you mean, And look how well you turned out?” Summer teased.
Her grandmother was silent.
“Well?” Summer said, pleased to have the upper hand.
“I’m ignoring you,” Queenie said as she swept out of the caboose.
Summer smiled. She knew that was exactly what her grandmother meant.
“Come on, Andre,” Queenie called from outside the caboose.
Summer stood in the tiny house looking out at Queenie, who was framed in the doorway. Behind her, the view from Flat Top Hill was stunning. Whatever misgivings Summer had about returning to the farm, the view from her tiny house helped soften them. Andre nudged Summer’s arm, waiting for a pat. Summer wondered if she should pet him, now that her grandmother had commanded him to follow her.
“Andre!” Queenie called into the caboose, giving her hands one sharp clap. “Did you hear me?”
Summer was impressed. Queenie might have cowed everyone in the town of Cat’s Paw, but Andre was holding his own.
“Don’t make me come get you,” Queenie threatened.
Summer felt as if she were back in middle school, waiting to see a fight was going to break out. She looked at her grandmother and then at
Andre. Suddenly, Andre skittered across the hardwood floors and leapt out of the caboose, ignoring the stepladder all together.
Smart dog, Andre. I wouldn’t test her either!
Summer watched her grandmother march down the hill with Andre walking beside her, his giant tail swinging like a furry metronome. Summer turned her attention to the box of sweaters and sighed. How was she ever going to fit all of these in her house? The box was only the start of her stash. All the sweaters she’d collected along the way were tucked into Big Red’s every corner. Summer realized with a jolt that the orange sweater was gone. She looked out the window at the speck on the horizon that was her grandmother. Queenie was carrying the orange sweater.
Her grandmother was getting weirder and weirder.
The next few hours flew by. Summer put away everything from Big Red and discovered there was still room to grow. Several of the cubbyholes in the bathroom were bare, there were still two vacant shelves in the kitchen and even an empty drawer in the loft. Of course, there was no food or furniture in the place. But the feeling of spaciousness was a relief. On the other hand, the walk-in closet was a disaster. It looked like the remains of a neighborhood after a cyclone, randomly filled with clothes, shoes, sweaters, two sewing machines, dog paraphernalia, and everything else that didn’t have a rightful home in the caboose. But Summer had left a path from the closet door to the circular staircase and decided to call that a win.
From the closet window, she could see Keefe leaving his apartment and heading toward Queenie’s house. She looked at her watch. It was almost dinnertime. She started for the front door. Eventually, she’d start cooking at the caboose, but that was a few days away, at least. She caught sight of her reflection. She was a wreck!
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