He springs out of his kennel onto the floor, then looks up at me with a glare that says, ‘no way in hell.’
“Spoiled city cat,” I say, finally forcing myself to open the car door and step out. I stand and stretch, feeling the relief of a few pops in my spine, then look back at him. “Come on, Mr. Whitman. Don’t make me do this alone.”
He’s crouched motionless on the rubber mat, his ears sideways and his eyes wide.
“Isaac should have gotten me a dog.”
He doesn’t budge.
“Fine. Be that way. I’m going.”
Here we go. This is home, whether I like it or not. Oh, I am so not going to like this.
I walk gingerly up the sidewalk, keeping my eyes peeled for rats or spiders or spider-rats. A gust of wind ripples through the tall grass and causes a bright yellow army of dandelions to nod their heads at me. I flinch in response, waiting for something nefarious to jump out at me, but nothing happens. If Isaac were here, he’d walk ahead while we laughed about my imaginary enemies, and it would all seem amusing rather than sinister. A flash of anger passes through me, as it sometimes does. How dare he die on me? We were supposed to do this together.
Guilt is next.
Then nothing.
Walking around to the backyard, I’m relieved to find the property is surrounded almost entirely by tall, full pines and aspens that part in the south to give a clear view of the water. At least that’s the same as the pictures. Now that I’m back here, I feel slightly less positive that this was the worst idea anyone has ever had. I can picture myself sitting at a small wrought-iron table with a mug of tea and my journal, listening to the waves lap against the shore. If Walt the Wimp ever gets out of the car, he may even enjoy hopping through the grass to hunt bugs.
It’s not his fault he’s scared. He’s never been outdoors in his entire life. Not free, anyway. Isaac brought him home a few days after he found out he was sick. Walt was ten weeks old at the time. Since then, he’s lived exclusively in the five rooms that made up our apartment, only to go outside in his cage to the vet a couple of times. But here, he can be free. And maybe so can I.
I make my way over to the large glass greenhouse. Several of the panes are smashed, but the white frame seems sturdy enough when I push on it. An old wooden shed is tucked in the back corner of the lot. According to Eunice, it has every gardening tool needed to get this place back into shape, not that I know what to do with them.
As I wind my way around to the front yard, I expect to find Walt waiting in the car. My muscles tense up at the sight of an older woman standing by the U-Haul holding my cat.
“Hello, you must be Abigail Carson.” Rather than having a Maritime accent, she sounds Irish.
The New Yorker in me is immediately suspicious of a stranger calling me by name. “Yes, I am.” I hurry to take Walt from her.
“I live next door. Nettie O’Rourke. Well, Annette, actually, but everyone calls me Nettie. This lovely boy must be yours.” She smiles and instantly her face looks younger by a decade. Her gray hair is swept up in a messy bun, and from the looks of her clothes, she’s been out gardening for some time. Maybe years.
“His name is Walt.”
“I hope you don’t mind me picking him up. He was meowing so loudly that I came by to see what was going on.”
“No, it’s fine.” It issonot fine.
“Eunice told me you’d be arriving today. Welcome to South Haven.” Nettie reaches out and touches my arm.
“Thank you,” I say tightly, pulling my arm back as an indicator that I’m not here to make friends.
Seeming not to notice my attempt at being standoffish, she continues to smile at me. “It’ll be grand to have a nice new neighbor around.”
Might as well set the boundaries right off the bat. “Well, I’m not that nice.”
Instead of scurrying away like I hoped, Nettie laughs. “You’ve got that fast New York wit about you. How fun!”
“Listen, Nettie, I think it’s important for me to be clear. I’m more of a cat person than a people person,” I say firmly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll change that,” she answers with a wink.
I’m just about to tell her not to bother when she snaps her fingers. “Oh! I almost forgot. Eunice gave me the keys so you won’t have to wait for her. A retired couple from the city came to town today to look at a few houses.” She digs around in the front pocket of her jeans and produces my house keys.
I take them from her and stare at the dull metal in my palm. “This is not how we do real estate transactions in Manhattan.”
“I imagine not,” Nettie says with a chuckle. “Eunice said to tell you she’ll be by around four o’clock to check on you and bring you the paperwork.”
