Mere was gone before I finished the sentence. Fifi trailed after, Huey glued to her side. I lugged the first of their suitcases in and listened to them shout room claims down the corridor. Fifi wanted the one with the view of the creek. Mere was more interested in the built-in desk. An old argument, perfectly predictable.
I smiled to myself. Predictable was nice. It meant they were settling in. And being able to direct their beds and dressers to the right rooms was nice too.
Once the movers were gone and the kitchenpartially unpacked, I walked upstairs. I found Fifi sprawled on her bare bed, no sheets in sight, phone in hand. Huey was curled up in the dip behind her knees. "Wi-Fi password?" she asked, barely glancing up.
"Check the envelope on the kitchen counter. Should be in there with the welcome brochure and emergency numbers."
She made a little salute, then got up and headed downstairs.
I left her to it and found Mere arranging her clothes in the empty closet. At sixteen, she just wanted her shirts color-coded. She pointed at the blank wall across from the window. "If it's okay, I want to get one of those plant shelf thingies. Like a vertical garden."
"If it doesn't violate the rental rules, go for it. We'll add it to the shopping list."
She smiled, her whole face lighting up. "Thanks, Mom."
I settled bags in my own room, did a quick lap to make sure there were no obvious issues like water leaking, thermostat working, all that jazz, and double-checked the kitchen for fire extinguishers. I couldn't help myself. Years of living alone with twins meant always being prepared for disaster.
Upstairs, I heard muted laughter, Fifi reading something to Mere, probably a meme neitherwould explain to me even if I asked. I let myself lean into the moment. As long as they were laughing, we'd figure out the rest.
I cracked a cherry soda and opened the laptop at the kitchen table to check my email at the Natural Resources Conservation Service, NRCS, just to make sure nothing was on fire at work. Nothing urgent, just a roster update and a reminder about the upcoming virtual check-in. I'd have to start my reports on the hellbenders soon, but for tonight, I could pretend we were a normal family moving into a fresh house.
Normal. Whatever that looked like.
After a while, the girls wandered back in, drawn by the promise of food.
"Did you ever finish the government paperwork to adopt a salamander?" Fifi asked, her tone full-on deadpan. "Because I was thinking, if you need a lab assistant, I'd be willing to raise a hellbender. Name it Steve. Teach it tricks."
I snorted. "Steve would require at least six months of forms, three people to approve, and he'd need to sign up for a biometric scan. Hellbenders are notorious for their paperwork avoidance."
Fifi grinned. "Lazy little dudes."
Mere leaned against the counter. "Steve, the hellbender. Could probably run for mayor in this town."
"Only if Steve promises to outlaw birdseed," I said.
Fifi's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Wow, you're really adapting to small-town life."
"Give me a week, I'll have a secret identity and a casserole recipe." I didn't tell them the real reason I'd picked Laurel Gap wasn't just the salamanders or the scenery, but the hope that a new place could give us a reset. Maybe for all of us.
I caught Fifi watching me. Her gaze was different now, less exhausted or just curious.
"Do you think it's going to snow?" she asked.
"Sooner or later. Mountain weather is all or nothing."
She nodded, staring outside at the dimming woods. "It's really pretty."
There. That was something.
We finished up the night with microwaved pasta, because neither of us could find the box with the kitchen pans. I let the girls scroll their phones and promised we'd make the trek to the bakery in the morning.
After dinner, Huey executed his second round-the-house patrol, then collapsed dramatically at Fifi's feet like a mophead that had gotten loose.
I checked on Mere. She'd found a spot by the window to set up a cluster of potted succulents,already fussing with their arrangement. She was humming quietly, a little habit from when she was small.
I stood at the doorway and listened, just for a minute. Let the memories drift up, the chaos of moving day, Gran's stories about second chances, the way my girls always found their own rhythms, no matter what happened.
Tomorrow, there'd be unpacking. Groceries. Maybe a hike, or at the very least, a walk down to the creek to see what kind of aquatic life we'd inherited. There'd also be moments where everything felt impossible and the house too quiet. But tonight, I'd count my wins. Two teens fed and not actively arguing, a dog asleep on the rug, and a safe place to start again.
