One
Oliver
I open the balcony storage quietly so the noise doesn’t rouse the sleeping Chihuahua at the apartment to my left.
Once inside, I pull out about a dozen of my prized pieces—a set of decorated nesting bowls with carved details, a cobalt blue water pitcher, a fruit bowl, and a hand-built gnome I did for fun with scrap clay that turned out to be one of my favorite creations.
As I carefully wrap everything up with an extra layer of paper and place each item into a handled plastic crate, I hear a notification on my phone.
I know from the particular sound that I have a message in the vacation rental app. I stop what I’m doing to read the message from Iris, the owner of the unit I’ll be renting tomorrow.
Hello, Oliver! The code to the back gate is 4532, and the carriage house is the same. It’s all ready for you at 2 p.m. today. Feel free to enjoy the Dogwood Festival this afternoon, or make yourself at home! Complimentary homemade biscuits will be delivered to you at 7 a.m. tomorrow, contact-free!
I smile at all the exclamation points. There’s something so warm and human in the way Iris has messaged me ever since she approved my booking. She could use way fewer words, but I don’t mind it. She seems like the kind of person I could listen to talk all day about nothing and everything.
Taking a lazy moment to swipe through the photos of the carriage house she listed on the app, I notice the personal touches that reflect her personality — or the personality of Iris that I’ve built up in my head. The place is small but cozy, with a stack of handmade quilts in a rocking chair by the window. There’s a funky little cabinet with books and board games. The queen bed is a four-poster, covered with one of those old-fashioned wedding-ring quilts. The curtains remind me of the lace ones at my grandma’s house growing up in the country. And the bathroom is floor-to-ceiling birds. The wallpaper, the light fixture, the art on the walls, and even the toilet paper holder—everything’s got birds on it. I’ve been warned that there’s no TV, but that’s not on my agenda anyway. I click on her profile photo, and it’s hard to make out her features. In the photo, Iris sits at a sewing machine, head down. All I can see is shiny brown hair and maybe the hint of a forehead, furrowed in concentration. I wonder if she made those quilts. I wonder what she’s working on in that photo.
I can’t wait to get the hell out of the city, if only for a few short days. I need the fresh air of the Blue Ridge Mountains and to be far away from my day job with the moving company.
If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll find a place to display my pottery.
“Will this be enough?” I wonder aloud as I stare at the contents of the crate. I have no idea if I’ve packed too much or too little. For all I know, the potters in Songbird Ridge are way out of my league, and I’ll be laughed out of town.
Downstairs in the parking lot below, a couple of my neighbors exit their cars, apparently in the process of a heated argument.
“You said you stopped talking to your ex!”
“I did, Rhonda!”
“Then why did I see all those messages?”
“Because you broke into my phone like a psychopath!”
“That’s it, Bubba! It’s over.”
And there goes the Chihuahua.
Get me the hell out of here. Get me to the mountains, to the trees, the creeks, the spring flowers, and away from people.
Maybe for good, if things go my way.
Two
Iris
I’ve been in a mental flow all day, working on this off-the-shoulder chiffon A-line dress, and I’m finally at a stopping point.
The sound of piano music shocks me as it floats through the open window of my studio. That would be my neighbor, Maddie. Is it really 7 p.m. already?
I’ve been sewing and pinning for six hours straight.
Tomorrow, I'll map out the crystals that I’ll sew on to this maid-of-honor dress.
I stand and stretch in front of my dress mannequin, then head to the kitchen to pour a glass of sauvignon blanc. As I move through the parlor, I straighten a framed family photo that hangs on the wall of the staircase.
The after-work ritual continues out on the front porch, where I settle into my favorite hanging rattan chair, sip my wine, breathe in the fresh air, and gently sway as Maddie graces our little neighborhood with her playing.
The dogwoods are in bloom up and down the street, and soon Songbird Ridge will be teeming with tourists for the annual festival celebrating the beautiful pink and white blooming trees that decorate our town every spring.
