I wait for an emotional kick that never comes.
“Maybe,” I say quietly. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m planning yet. I just got here yesterday. There’s been a ton to sort out with Granddad’s estate the past year and I’m taking a good look around.”
“Of course, ma’am. It’s all so new and there’s a lot on your plate.” Joseph nods sympathetically. “Anyhoo, if you decide the old place is too much and you want to unload it, we’d be very interested.”
“For the land!” Viola interjects. “Not the house or the other buildings. We wouldn’t bother you with any fixes—it would be a simple teardown job. Makes it quick and easy for you.”
Tearing down the lake house?
There’s that delayed gut punch.
In theory, it makes total sense, but the sentimental value finally hits.
This place belonged to PopPop and I think his ghost still visits.
No, I haven’t been here much since I was a kid. Whatever ties I had earlier in life were dissolved.
But imagining everything gone?
The house erased and the path going down to the lake overgrown with blueberry fields?
That’s heavy.
“I haven’t made up my mind,” I tell them. “But if it goes that way, if I decide to sell, you’ll be the first ones I’ll call.”
“That would be amazing! Thank you,” Viola gushes. She bends down, picking up an enormous basket behind her I hadn’t noticed. It’s filled with packaged blueberries and jars of jam. “Here ya go, sweetie! And welcome to Sully Bay.”
Holy crap.
The basket nearly breaks my arm.
There are so many blueberry goods tucked in here they’re almost overflowing, straining the basket itself.
I stagger backward and set the basket down in the house. I watch them climb into an old, beat-up pickup truck to leave as I shake my arm to limber up.
How weird.
I don’t even know why meeting them feels a little freaky, but it was.
They were just—a bit too friendly?
Then again, I’m a New York girl at heart.
Even Portland feels small-town friendly with its cozy old cobblestone streets and gaggles of happy seasonal tourists.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the Big Apple and later on in places like Scottsdale, where people keep their distance and posture a lot.
They don’t do small talk.
They aren’tneighborly, not by nature.
This is country living as an adult, I suppose.
Having people pop in with gift baskets and random offers to help with housework.
That can’t be a bad thing, I guess.
The basket digs into my chest the second I hoist it up again with a grunt. I balance it on my knee as I twist around to kick the door shut behind me.
