Nine years later
MaiaJacobsparkedinfront of the farmhouse her aunt used to own, which now belonged to her.She climbed from her car and inhaled the fresh country air.Notes of pine and dry tussock grasses filled her lungs, along with a hint of animal manure from the nearby paddock.
She spun in a slow circle, trying to take in everything about the buildings and surroundings.True, the house required work, and the lawn needed mowing, but after years of standing still, she was on the path to achieving everything she wanted.
Maia seized her overnight bag and, by city-girl habit, locked her vehicle and skipped to the door.
Long grass edged the footpath, the riot of greens brightened by the weeds bearing sunshine-yellow flowers.Everywhere was long and overgrown.The trustee had warned her, but Maia had no qualms about her purchase.She wasn’t afraid of hard work and had two weeks before she needed to report for rugby training.A grin surfaced at the thought, and she bounced in delight.
She’d scored a contract with the Dunedin women’s rugby team.An actual contract when her aunt had accused her of being an unnatural tomboy.Yep, they were paying her to play sports—not a huge salary because she was still unknown, but her writing income made up the difference.
Middlemarch was an hour’s drive from Dunedin, and the airport was handy if she needed to travel for personal reasons.Her grin widened, and she pinched her inner wrist.
Yep, pain.
Yep, wide awake.
She had a contract!
Apart from the once cherished lawn and gardens, now overgrown, Maia noted the sun-bleached net curtains screening the windows bore rips.These were things she could fix.All she needed was a bed, a workable bathroom and kitchen, and a place to sit her laptop so she could continue with her other passion: writing urban fantasy.
Aboo hisson the accountancy degree her aunt had forced her to acquire.She’d used her trustee powers to ensure Maia behaved.Maia had learned young to placate her aunt and stage her protests in other unseen ways.
It gave her great satisfaction to know her aunt would spin in her grave because Maia had purchased her former home, and she’d done it with writing proceeds.She’d never used her accounting degree; it would be a fiery day in hell when she succumbed to the dark side of ledgers and numbers.
No more spreadsheets or budgets for her.
“Not unless they’re my own,” she muttered, and even then, she might hire the chore out to a local accountant.
Maia fished the keys out of her pocket and found the right one for the front door.It turned stiffly as if the house bore her aunt’s anti-Maia tendencies.
A grunt slipped free at that.Wow!Over dramatic, much?That was her writing self, allowing her imagination free rein.Once the lock yielded, she had to use her shoulder to shove the door open.
A musty, damp smell greeted her, but Maia refused to let the property’s deficiencies get to her.She could fix the cosmetic stuff, and that was all it was, according to the building inspector who’d reported on the house before she signed the deal.
Her aunt hadn’t left the property to Maia, even though Maia was her last living relative.She’d never approved of Maia’s father and, heck, had the elderly woman clasped her resentment tight to her bosom.Aunt Beatrice had left her home to charity, even though she’d known Maia had wanted it.
Yeah, her aunt had held a mean grudge, which had lasted until death.Maia grimaced, memories of tetchy orders and demands for Maia to do as she was told and obey her betters.
An old wound.Best to lance the lingering sore and let the past go.
Her aunt was gone, and her current trustee had handed over control of her parents’ estate when she turned twenty-one.Not that Maia needed the money.She was doing nicely with her writing and now her rugby contract.Yep, no financial problems.Self-sufficient, that was her.
She loved her life.
Maia set her bag at the entrance and stalked along the creaky hall to explore and run a mental list of the essential tasks to slot into her coming week.The kitchen was as she recalled—the old yellow lino on the floor faded and cracked.She twisted a tap, and water spilled into the sink.As she went back out, she flicked on the light switch.Yes, she had power.
“Groceries.”She noted the time.Huh!She’d need to hustle if she wanted to grab food and go for a run.
Maia speed-walked along the passage to the end bedroom—the one that used to be her aunt’s.The photos on the website had shown it empty, and she hoped that was still the case.Her furniture wouldn’t arrive for a few days, but she had a roll mat and her sleeping bag.It would do.
The bedroom was empty but also dusty, with an impressive display of spider webs.At least she’d brought a broom and basic cleaning materials with her.
She completed her tour with the bathroom.Basic but serviceable.
Maia grabbed her bag and placed it in the bedroom.She unloaded her cleaning supplies, sleeping bag, and roll mat but left her laptop and box of research books in the trunk.
Ten minutes later, she pulled up near Middlemarch’s supermarket and hurried inside to grab a few basics.If the selection was limited, she could stock up on groceries when she reported to the rugby administration in Dunedin.
