Except it’s not abandoned anymore.
Word around town is Lionel located the heir of Walter and June Pierce at long last. I rarely talk to people when I venture into the Quick Lick market for supplies, and I certainly don’t gossip with Latonya at the Lick Your Fork diner, but my ears perk up when the chatter involves my solitude.
This morning, Ginny Quick talked around her gum while I tried to pay for my frozen pizza. At first I was too distracted by her chewing sounds, thinking I misheard her. But when Latonya brought me the daily meatloaf special, she confirmed some out-of-towner inherited the whole mess next door.
Tires crunching on gravel disturb me around three. An unfamiliar car engine grinds up that disaster of a driveway. I try to ignore it. I have a product launch in two days, and this API integration is fighting me at every turn.
The cursor keeps blinking.
A car door slams.
I give up on the code and swivel my chair toward the window. From here, I can just make out movement through the trees—someone’s over there walking around with a phone, gesturing. I tell myself it’s probably a realtor doing a walkthrough before listing it.
Good. The faster someone sells the place, the faster things go back to normal.
She moves with loud energy. That’s the only way to describe the woman in painted-on pants invading my peace. She’s on her phone, gesturing with her free hand, pacing while she talks. Even from this distance I can see she’s young. Early twenties, maybe. She has dark hair and wears boots that look better suited for a coffee shop than a neglected maple grove.
City girl. She’s probably here to take some photos for the listing and leave.
I should get back to work, but now I’m invested.
She disappears around the trees, and I stare at my monitor, pretending the API suddenly makes sense. After ten minutes of accomplishing nothing, I push from my desk and stretch. My back cracks. I need more coffee.
In the kitchen, I make a fresh pot and lean against the counter, looking out the window that faces Pierce Acres. I can’t see the house from this angle, just trees and the overgrown path that used to connect our properties back when Walter and June were alive.
Walter used to bring over mason jars of syrup every spring. June made bread. They’d knock on the door and chat with my parents about the weather or the deer population or whatever neighbors talk about.
I miss them—my parents and the Pierces. Which is strange; I hardly ever feel like I miss people.
I should call my parents. I create a calendar reminder to do it later and pour myself a mug of the now-finished coffee. No sugar, no cream. My sister, Lia, says I drink it like I’m punishing myself. I just can’t be bothered with extra steps to improve something that’s already perfect.
I carry the mug to my office, but instead of sitting, I stand at the window. The car is still there, parked at an angle like she gave up halfway along the driveway. Smart. That asphalt is more pothole than road.
I check my phone. No messages from Lia, which is good. That means they successfully made it to their flight to paradise, and Ethan’s probably drowning her in food and attention. My sister and best friend—now married with a baby—are finally taking a trip together, leaving my nephew home on the farm with about a dozen noisy relatives at his beck and call. Not me, though. I have a product launch.
Feeling restless, I set down my coffee and grab my jacket. I’ll just check the property line. Make sure she’s not doing anything that’ll cause problems, like spray-painting the trees or something.
The air is cool with that late-afternoon chill that deepens when the sun starts setting. I move through my yard and into the trees, following the invisible line I’ve memorized after thirty-plus years of living here.
I can see her now. She’s still outside with a phone held out in front of her, walking toward the maple grove. She moves like she’s never walked through woods before—too focused on the phone, not watching where she’s stepping. Her voice carries through the trees, bright and animated.
I move closer.
“—so many trees,” she’s saying. “They’re huge. Old. Some of them have, like, taps still hanging out of the trunks…”
I don’t like the idea of someone inhabiting the space that’s been a silent buffer around me for so long.
I duck behind a thick maple and watch her spin in a slow circle, phone out, taking it all in. Even from here, I can see she’s pretty. Really pretty. My blood rushes to my crotch, startling me as I realize I am deeply attracted to this chipper person in inappropriate footwear.
Her dark hair falls in waves, and her pants cling to curves I have no business staring at. I can see from here her lips are stained berry red, and I briefly wonder if it’s makeup or whether she’s been eating fruit.
She’s temporary, I remind myself. Everything about her screams elsewhere. She starts drifting toward my property, toward my house. I freeze. Can she see me? I’m partially hidden by the tree, but if she looks directly this way?—
“There’s someone over there,” she says into the phone.
Shit.
I press my back against the rough bark, heart hammering.
