A squirrel dashes up the trunk of the lone willow in the yard, and his head jerks in that direction. His gaze locks on to it.
Reaching for his collar, I remove the leash, letting him sprint to the base of the tree. He plops his butt down, staring up as the creature remains perfectly still on a branch. Rossco needs to stretch his legs anyway after the last few days of splitting up the twenty-three-hour drive.
One thing is certain: this weather is nothing compared to the hundred-degree weather back in Tucson. I stand up, absentmindedly running my palms over my arms. It has to be, what, nearly seventy-five degrees? It’s a late summer afternoon, and it still feels cold. Yet I’m also not used to this fresh, crisp, and moist Washington air.
Wandering to the mailbox painted the same chipped yellow as the house, I open it and reach inside, pulling out a cream-colored envelope. I wonder how long this house has lingered here, waiting for the next tenant. Ripping it open, I take out the single sheet note and the house key.
Who the hell leaves the house key in the mailbox?
I glance around at the other houses and back at my new home for the time being. There is no way I’ll stay here for a year. If I get hired for this position, hopefully I can find a nicer place.
I unfold the letter, smirking at the few handwritten lines.
We hope you enjoy your new home. Thanks for giving it a chance; we are sure its character and charm will be to your liking.
Sincerely,
The Donahue Family
Releasing a snicker, I fold it up, tuck it back into the envelope, and slip it into the back pocket of my jean shorts before walking over to my truck in the driveway—a truck packed with all my belongings under the blue tarp I secured everything underneath with bungee cords. A muscle throbs sharply in my back, reminding me that I slept in the driver’s seat last night while Rossco snored peacefully in the passenger seat.
Shit. This house better be fully furnished, as the listing said.
Opening the door, I take out my large suitcase and the reusable grocery bag I have with Rossco’s food and water bowl, as well as his various toys.
Before I know it, I’m staring at the front door, contemplating all the decisions I’ve made that have led me here. On the other hand, my dog looks perfectly content looking up at me, his tongue flopping around, and his mouth set in a way that makes it look like he’s smiling. It stirs the confidence in my gut round and round, and I force a smile.
You can do this, Taryn.
It’s not as bad as it seems, Taryn.
Just open the damn door and put your mind at ease, Taryn.
I place the key in and jiggle it a little before it gives way. Nudging the door open, the musty smell and the still and silent darkness hit me. When my eyes finally adjust to the scene before me, my shoulders drop, thankful that it’s in somewhat good condition compared to the outside.
Ahead, where the living room is, light filters in from the sides and middle crack in the curtains, creating a line of light on the dusty and scraped wood floors.
Rossco brushes past me, zooming into the small entryway, first running into the living room to sniff the plastic sheets covering the furniture. Once satisfied that he’s sniffed every inch, he takes off through the hallway to the right, scoping out the rest of the place.
I leave the door open, take a left into the kitchen, drop the bag in my hand on the four-person round dining table in the corner, and leave my suitcase on the floor, approaching the windows. I throw open the curtains, the layer of dust covering the fabric taking flight and shimmering like dirty glitter in the natural light.
Lifting the sleeve of my flannel to my mouth and nose, I try to keep myself from inhaling it into my lungs. I reach into my pocket and take my phone out, navigating to the notes app. I add another item to the grocery list:Pick up cleaning products and bleach.
Who knows how long it’s been since this place was properly cleaned.
A few hours later, the sun falls away and I walk about my room, unloading several suitcases. Folding my clothes neatly, I place them on the queen bed raised on one of those metal frames while Rossco is sprawled out on the mattress, chewing on some loose strands of his rope toy. Dua Lipa’s “Houdini” drifts through the Bluetooth speaker on the mahogany dresser as mystomach growls over the beat, patiently awaiting my pizza from Crocks—a small pizza joint and bar.
If there’s one thing I learned from the small pamphlet of restaurants and phone numbers the owners so kindly left on the kitchen counter—because they couldn’t manage to do much else—it’s that Cedar Creek Cove is much smaller than I thought it was. Despite that, it has that small-town West Coast vibe that I’ve been wanting.
It wasn’t just the population of fifteen thousand that called to me, but the quaint town nestled on the Columbia River with breathtaking water views. It may seem like an insignificant town to outsiders, but its main street has stopped tourists headed from Portland to the coast because of how well-kept and picturesque it is. It’s one street lined with cute shops, businesses, and restaurants on the water of Cedar Creek flooding into the Columbia.
I also learned from their Visit Cedar Creek Instagram page that they also have a Saturday summer market that attracts new visitors from all over the state because of the apples.
I hope to stop by there this week since I don’t have much to do until school starts back up in a month.
That is if I get the job.
My second interview is the day after tomorrow, and my skin is buzzing with anticipation. Considering the population, the job can’t bethatcompetitive. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
