“Come on, Archie,” I say to the dog, glad for his company. He happily trots after me. Maybe he needs a friend as much as I do.
Not for the first time, I wonder about the owner of the house and why he left his dog here for the summer. Is he on holiday somewhere he couldn’t bring an animal, like yachting in the South of France? Or is he just an asshole who can’t be bothered to care for his pet himself? In working with estate sales over theyears, I’ve learned that the mega rich, especially old-money, live by their own set of rules that the rest of us don’t.
I fling open the French doors that lead out to the pool and breathe in the salt air, appreciating the way the light glints over the ocean, bathing everything in soft pastels.
I spot what appears to be a pool house or guest cottage on the other side of the patio. I pad across the tiles and try the door. It opens.
“Score!” I cry in delight, walking around the airy, white-washed wood and glass cottage decorated in varying tones of beige and white. It’s cozier, less intimidating, and—most importantly—less creepy than the mansion. And it has an en suite bathroom.
I turn to the dog. “Wanna shack up with me here?” Archie takes a running leap onto the chaise lounge at the other end of the room, does two circles, and lies down.
“I’ll take that as a yes. It’s you and me, kid,” I say and sink down next to him, scratching the soft fur behind his ears. He pants happily. As I look around the unfamiliar room, a wave of exhaustion hits me. After traveling all day and leaving my old life—one I loved—behind, I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.
Through the large windows, the pool sparkles in the dimming light, and a wide, rolling lawn leads to light gray cliffs and the ocean beyond.
The eerie silence and calming view are as unfamiliar as the hilltop mansion. I’ve lived my entire life in cities. First LA. And then San Francisco.
But here, as I pet Archie in rhythmic strokes and listen to the sound of the ocean below, as I watch the birds swoop and the light descend around me, I feel more unsettled than I have, maybe ever.
Because I realize that here, with just a dog and an old house for company, there’s nothing to distract me.
From me.
“Well, Archie, what the hell are we going to do now?”
CHAPTER 3
Daisy
(TEN YEARS AGO)
Dear Diary,
My mom told me we’re moving. Again. She spent our rent money on drugs. It’s times like these I almost wish that I was a foster kid, like Chase, instead of my parents’ biological child. At least I could have been sent away when he was and tried my luck with a new family and a fresh start.
When I grow up, I’ll have a beautiful house. Somewhere I can’t be forced to leave. Somewhere with grass and trees and peace. I close my eyes and can almost picture it.
(NOW)
“We’re doing fine, Olivia. Don’t worry. I was up early, and now I’m out for a power walk. I’m super boring and disciplined. Youwouldn’t even recognize me,” I say over the phone as I wait the ten million hours it will take for Archie to sniff a pile of rocks on the cliffside road.
In almost a month, I’ve settled into a consistent rhythm.
In my prior life, my schedule was always haphazard. But for the first time, I wake and eat meals in strict regular intervals. I have an alarm clock named Archie. And he’s unnervingly accurate.
I wake with a dog enthusiastically licking my face. When I drag myself out of bed, he yips and runs around my feet with one of my shoes in his mouth. I usually replace the shoedu jourwith an old one he’s already destroyed, and he chews on it until I’m ready for the day. Once I’m dressed, we head over to the main house, where I feed him breakfast, which he wolfs down. I put my coffee in a to-go cup, thanking the caffeine gods that the kitchen has a simple one-press espresso maker that takes pods because, though I can’t cook, I can press a button. After that, it’s time for Archie’s and my first walk of the day.
Every day, we meander for miles on the coastal road into town. Despite my fear of the quiet life, I’m finding the long, silent walks therapeutic. I don’t even wear my headphones most of the time. We wander across pebbly beaches and limestone rocks, admiring all the cute bungalows and historic mansions with verdant lawns and cliffs rolling to the water that line the road on the ocean side.
Archie needs that much exercise because when he’s tired, he gets into less trouble. And I’m finding that Mrs. Halle understated it by calling the dog high-spirited.
He’s an adorable maniac. A tiny dervish. A cute calamity.
“Have you met the mysterious owner yet?” Olivia interrupts my thoughts.
I try to yank the dog away from whatever heavenly smell has him occupied. “No, but everyone in town is really friendly. It’seasy to meet people when you have a conversation-starter with a cute face and a tail.” Life has filled up surprisingly quickly. I’ve made a few new friends who run shops in the village of Rockhaven.
I’ve even joined a corgi playgroup. Frankly, I’m surprised there are enough corgis in this small town to create a breed-specific playdate for dogs. Though the group has also allowed in a geriatric labrador, a portly pug, and a golden retriever, so at least there’s some diversity.
