She sprinted into the bathroom and ran a brush through hair. As she headed out of the bathroom, she thought about the electricity between herself and Keefe. She pivoted back to the sink and added lip gloss. Her closet called to her as she passed by. She heeded its call, changing out of her jeans and into the dove-grey linen pants.
She opened the front door. The sun was going down and the vista took Summer’s breath away. Shortie stood at the small stepladder and wagged his tail, waiting for Summer to pick him up. Summer gauged the stairs. They were wide and flat.
“You can do it,” she said to Shortie.
Shortie barked. Then whined. Summer put her hands on her hips.
“You’re never going to learn to do anything if I do it for you,” she said. “Come on Shortie, get with the program. Things are different up here.”
If Queenie can stare down a Great Dane, I can stare down a half-wiener dog.
Just as Summer was about to cave, Shortie lightly stepped onto the ladder and trotted down the three stairs as if he had been doing it all his life. Maybe Summer should have followed more of her grandmother’s advice.
She grabbed Shortie’s leash, then stopped herself. She needed to take her own advice: “Things are different up here.”
“Come on, Shortie,” she said, putting his leash away. “You’re going commando from now on.”
Chapter 16
Shortie ran into Queenie’s kitchen as if he’d been living there his entire life. Summer laughed as she watched him invade Andre’s personal space. Shortie jumped all over him, demanding attention by pulling on Andre’s long ears with his tiny teeth. The big dog bore the intrusion like a champion. But the laughter caught in Summer’s throat. Something was wrong. She knew it as soon as she stepped through the kitchen door. Queenie was at the stove and didn’t turn around when Summer walked in. Keefe was sitting at the table, the ice-cold beer and hard cider bottles sweating and ready to be poured. There was a basket of homemade biscuits on the table. Although blocked from view by her grandmother. Summer recognized the aroma drifting up from the stove. It was another of her favorites. Summer knew her grandmother was not a demonstrative woman, but always proved her love by making Summer’s favorite foods whenever she arrived. Summer was touched that her grandmother seemed to remember these dishes even a decade later. Stew wasn’t usually on the menu until winter, but Queenie was making a fuss over Summer’s arrival in her own way.
Summer caught Keefe’s eye and saw nothing but misery. What was going on? He looked down at a sad-looking biscuit sitting on his plate. It had one bite taken out of it. Summer may not have grown up to be a master baker, but years around her grandparents’ business had given her a critical eye. She knew a good biscuit when she saw one, and she knew this wasn’t one.
Queenie finally turned around, carrying a huge earthenware bowl laden with the fragrant stew. She put the bowl in the center of the table, ignoring the discarded bread on Keefe’s plate. Keefe and Queenie had an easy rhythm. Keefe poured the drinks while Queenie served up the stew into individual bowls. Summer looked at the stew. She was confused. It smelled the same but looked very different. The sauce was a richer brown. Summer speared a carrot and held it up to the light. The rich sauce clung to it, but it was unusually translucent.
“Is there something wrong?” Queenie asked.
“No,” Summer said, embarrassed to be caught examining dinner. She popped the carrot into her mouth.
Much like the calamari casserole of yesterday, it was delicious but different. Summer smiled at her grandmother and gave her a thumbs up. It was obvious the positive reinforcement meant a lot to Queenie. She visibly relaxed. If only Queenie were more…approachable. Summer couldn’t imagine saying: “So, Queenie, isn’t it bad enough that you’ve given up going to work in town and you’ve obviously lost your touch with baking? Do you have to mess with everything?”
Her eyes stole a peek at the basket of the limp biscuits. Was there ever a smaller elephant in a room?
“How are things going up at the train, Clarisse?” Queenie asked.
“You could just ask how things are going up at my house,” Summer said. “It’s my home, you know.”
“This whole tiny house thing that’s sweeping the country is just crazy. I can’t believe my own flesh and blood is buying into it,” Queenie said, then gestured around the kitchen. “This is your home, too. Why do you need another three hundred square feet?”
“Two hundred and twenty square feet,” Summer said.
Summer deliberately did not look at Keefe. His comment about the caboose fitting in her closet upstairs still stung.
“Everybody’s making interesting choices these days,” Keefe said. “We don’t always understand what’s going on with another person. Isn’t that right, Summer?”
Summer nodded, but didn’t say anything. If Keefe’s observation was an opening for Queenie, she did not walk through it. She did not even walk up to it.
“More stew, anybody?” Queenie asked.
Summer looked at Keefe as he passed his bowl back to Queenie. It occurred to her that he might not have been talking about Queenie, or perhaps not just about Queenie. He might have been talking about himself!
“How are thing going up there?” Keefe said, smoothing out the accusation in Queenie’s query.
“So far, so good,” Summer said. “I’ve got water, electricity, and Wi-Fi.”
Keefe reddened. Summer tried not to smile. He obviously figured out that if she had Wi-Fi, she’d figured out the password. Not exactly the same as stumbling across a treasure trove of love letters, but at the very least, a twenty-first century “gotcha.”
“We’ve got water, electricity, and Wi-Fi here, too,” Queenie groused.
“Thanks for dinner,” Keefe said abruptly. “I have some work to do this evening, so I’m afraid I’ll have to leave the cleaning up to Summer.”
Had everyone in this house gone insane?
“I can clean up,” Queenie said. “You’ve had a long day.”
“Oh, no, Queenie, that’s fine!” Summer protested. “You made dinner, I’m happy to clean up.”
Queenie gave her one of her imperious stare-downs that helped her get her name. Summer shrugged. She went to the door and called Shortie. Sleeping curled in the hollow of Andre’s legs, Shortie looked up sleepily and closed his eyes again.
“Shortie,” Summer said, imitating Queenie’s commanding manner with Andre. “Don’t make me come get you.”
Shortie’s ears shot up. Untangling himself from Andre, he flounced to the door like a sullen teenage boy. Summer could barely make out the silhouette of the tiny house on the hill. No matter what Queenie said, it was home.
Summer fed Shortie and decided that was her final chore of the day. Tomorrow, after she’d worked at the bakery, she’d check out some of the new antique stores on Main Street. She thought back to furnishing her apartments over the years; even a dorm room required more inventory than this place! Summer stretched and hit her knuckles on the wall. Every gesture was going to have to be rethought. In the loft, she couldn’t stand up straight. In the kitchen, she had to keep her elbows tucked in or risk hitting the wall beside her. But the bathroom was luxurious. It was the one room in the house where no compromises had to be made. Even with the washer/dryer, the trough bathtub, the toilet, sink, and storage, there was still room to walk around. She knew it wasn’t fair to the other rooms, which still needed decorating and furnishing, but the bathroom was her favorite place in the house—although she would never let the walk-in closet get wind of that.
Summer prepared the bathroom for her first bath. She turned the taps on, fingers crossed that there would be enough hot water to fill the trough. While water splashed into the trough, she ran to the kitchen to get a baggie. She’d learned the hard way that if she wanted to use her iPad in the tub, she needed it to be waterproof. She poured a capful of
bubble bath into the trough, turned down the lights using the dimmer switch, and lowered herself into the water.
It was heaven. She was so grateful Keefe had helped her with the hookups.
Do not think of Keefe right now.
Shortie stuck his nose in the bathroom.
“You can come in,” Summer said, feeling guilty she’d spoken harshly to him down at the big house.
How quickly had Queenie’s place become “the big house?” She wondered if that moniker would catch on in town.
Shortie hesitated for a few seconds, then trotted into the room. Summer watched him as he looked around. She could practically see him mentally claiming a bottom cubby as his own. He sniffed at it, then curled up on a fluffy yellow towel, circling a few times before settling. He looked at Summer as if to say, “You have your place and I have mine.”
Summer leaned back and closed her eyes. The warm water enveloped her and the lavender-scented bubbles soothed her aching limbs. She would have to tell Bale what a great bathtub a horse trough made. He should put them in all his dream homes.
Do not think of Bale right now.
Summer distracted herself with the iPad, making a mental list of the furniture she needed: two small chairs to use around the hinged dining room table, a small coffee table, and a small sofa or futon. Small was the operative word. She realized, at the moment, she only needed one dining room chair, but she couldn’t help but put either Bale or Keefe in the other chair, serving either one of them a gourmet meal. Queenie’s stew and gross biscuits popped into her mind. Summer really needed to get to the bottom of her grandmother’s unusual behavior.
Do not think of Queenie right now, seriously!
She determinedly linked to a few websites, browsing living room furniture. Many of the pieces were too large to even consider. She suspected even the love seats might be too big. She made a mental note to measure the space before she went into town tomorrow.
The washer/dryer caught her eye, turning her imagination to her sweater purses. Maybe eBay would be a good source for a few interesting finds, since she was clearly moored up on Flat Top Hill for the foreseeable future. The first sweater to catch her eye made her laugh. It looked exactly like one she owned and rejected. She moved on. The next sweater was also a spitting image of one she’d discarded.
Why was everything so strange these days? Had she somehow moved to the Twilight Zone?
She clicked on the second sweater and zoomed in on the right sleeve. There was a tiny moth hole in exactly the same spot as the one Summer had put in the GIVEAWAY box.
Summer opened the drain, got out of the tub, wrapped herself in her blue bathrobe and scrambled up to the loft. Shortie squeaked in outrage at the bottom of the circular stairs. Summer let out a deep sigh, clomped back down the stairs, stuck the dog under her arm, and climbed back up again. They both settled on the mattress, Shortie going right back to sleep. Summer began looking up the listings of the seller called M’Laitest: Mary-Lynn Laite, AKA Lynnie, her neighbor in Hartford, who was so kindly going to dispose of Summer’s possessions for her.
Summer gasped as she scrolled down listing after listing. Every single offering was Summer’s. Clothes, knickknacks, furniture, even that damn black cavalry jacket was for sale! And Lynnie was asking forty bucks more than Summer had paid for it! Summer thought about contacting M’Laitest.
Summer was not sure what to do. She was outraged that Lynnie would be so duplicitous. Of course Lynnie didn’t say she wasn’t going to sell Summer’s stuff, but it was just bad form. Summer plotted her next move, turning on her side to look out at the farm in the bright moonlight. She had to admit, it was a gorgeous sight. If she had landed here by accident, with no history, she would be congratulating herself on finding such a perfect place for her tiny house. The back porch light at Queenie’s suddenly went on. Summer sat up and squinted, trying to make out what was happening at the big house. Andre came out leaping out of the house, burning off some energy before bed by racing around the yard. Summer could barely make out the tiny dot on the porch, but she knew it was Queenie. Queenie probably wasn’t aware how bright the porch light was and Summer felt as if she was invading her grandmother’s privacy. But she couldn’t look away. She watched as her grandmother sat heavily on the top step and put her head in her hands. It was too far away to tell if Queenie was crying, but no one could mistake, even from the distance of the hill, that this woman was defeated.
You can keep everything, M’Laitest. There are bigger problems to solve.
Chapter 17
Summer woke before the sun, turning off her phone alarm before it sounded. Looking out the loft’s window, she could see a tiny light glimmering in the darkness. Keefe was already up. Even though it had been years since she’d stepped foot in the bakery, an entire childhood of training kicked in: bakers rose before dawn. She was planning on going to Dough Z Dough. She’d hoped to stumble upon any clue that might help to explain Queenie’s unusual behavior.
Shortie showed no interest in getting out of bed, so Summer made her way down the circular staircase and into the kitchen. The counter space was prime real estate, but she’d given Bale instructions to build an appliance garage in the corner that adjoined the bathroom wall. It was a wide cabinet where she’d stowed her Keurig coffeemaker, KitchenAid mixer, Cuisinart toaster, and Vitamix. When she was researching what to dump while downsizing, most online articles counseled tossing the big kitchen appliances. But Summer used hers. Thumbing her nose at the advice, she packed them all.
The idea that Lynnie would have made a boatload selling these on eBay if Summer had left any of these treasures at home flitted into her mind. She shoved the thought away. Lynnie was the past and there was too much on Summer’s plate to worry about her.
Summer slid the Keurig from the cabinet and inserted a hazelnut coffee K-Cup. She slid one of her two coffee mugs into place. When she was fourteen, Grandpa Zach had introduced her to the wonders of coffee. She had forgotten that until just this moment. So many memories tickled her brain up here on Flat Top Hill. Unlike the outsized thoughts of heartbreak and betrayal that had dominated her thinking in years past, these remembrances were different—as sweet and tiny as her new house.
Summer turned toward the bathroom, almost tripping over Shortie. She looked at him, stunned.
“Did you get down the stairs all by yourself?” she asked, scooping him up and kissing his needle snout. “Who is the smartest dog in the whole world?”
The smell of coffee made her mouth water, and the sound of it trickling into the mug made her bladder roar.
“I’ll be right back,” Summer said to Shortie, putting him on the floor.
When she got back to the kitchen, teeth brushed and hair wrestled into a ponytail, she started looking through the cabinets. Any dog who would brave a circular staircase needed a reward. Shortie was going to get the wet dog food this morning.
After opening and closing all four cabinet doors, Summer realized she hadn’t gone shopping yet.
“Sorry, dude,” she said in a bright tone, as if a treat were on its way. Looks like it’s dry dog food for you.”
She was glad Shortie didn’t speak English.
A sandy cloud rose over the doggy-dish as she poured out the brown pellets. Shortie attacked the bowl, hungry as a mountain climber after his historic descent. Summer gave him a pat, which he ignored; there was food to devour. She sipped her coffee, leaning against the counter. She really needed to buy a chair.
Summer took the few steps to the walk-in closet. She’d had her doubts if it made sense to give up so much square footage to storage, but she was glad she’d gone with her instincts. While still a novice when it came to the tiny house experience, she could tell storage would always be the greatest challenge of her new lifestyle.
She tried to convince herself she needn’t look cute for Keefe, so she settled on needing to look cute for the
townspeople. They were sure to be full of questions now that a Murray was working at the bakery again. In her old life, getting dressed in the morning could result in ten or more wardrobe changes, but her options here were limited. Should she go with the dark jeans or the light jeans? The white V neck T-shirt or the soft, dark blue T-shirt with the rounded neck? She settled on the light blue jeans and the dark T-shirt. Even with the closet as packed as it was, Summer knew where everything was. She laid her hands on her lace-up boots and was tugging the first one on when she heard a sound at the door. She hopped out of the closet, one shoe on and shoe off. Shortie was standing at the door, front paws on the door, tail wagging with such ferocity that Summer wondered how he stayed upright.
“Some watchdog you are,” Summer said, smiling.
She knew it had to be either Keefe or Queenie on the other side of the door. Once again, the differences between living tiny and living in her apartment revealed itself. Before she could collect her thoughts, she was across the entire room. There was no time to overthink in a tiny house. She swung the door open, ready to greet her early morning visitor.
“Andre?” Summer said in surprise.
She looked down at the large dog, whose back paws were still on the ground with his front paws balanced on the top step of the pudgy ladder. She was just about to ask him what he was doing here, when Shortie scooted past her and the two dogs took off down the hill.
“Shortie!” Summer hissed in a whisper. She pulled on her other boot in a panic. “Shortie! Come back here.”
“Shortie will be fine,” Keefe’s voice startled her in the darkness. “Andre knows the ropes.”
“Oh! I thought Andre came up here by himself,” Summer said. “You brought him.”
“More like he brought me,” Keefe said. “Now that Queenie isn’t coming to the bakery, I let Andre out of the house in the morning.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
His voice boomed in the predawn light. She kept her voice pointedly low.
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