“Sounds perfect.”
“Great.” She starts for the door, full of energy. “I might hit the local store and grab a few more things for you. Do you drink coffee?”
“Sure do.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Nope. I like it black. But don’t worry, I’ve got my own coffee maker and supplies in the van. I’m pretty self-sufficient.”
She grins back at me. “I know you are. I just want you to feel at home while you stay here. If you can think of anything you need while I’m out, text me.”
“Okay.”
I watch her practically skip toward the door. “Keri?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your phone number?”
She throws her head back and laughs. “I guess you can’t text me if you don’t have my number, right?”
“Yup.” I pull my phone out of my back pocket and hand it to her. “Give me your digits, and I’ll text you so you can have mine.”
She presses her top teeth into her lower lip to thwart a smile. “Perfect.” She starts tapping her info into my phone, but before she can hand it back to me, the darn thing pings with a text message. She frowns, reading it. “Roxy says, ‘You promised.’” She quickly realizes her error and hands the phone back to me. “Oops. I’m sorry.”
I clear my throat. “No worries. Thanks.” I text Keri’s number a quick “Hello” with a dog emoji, her ringtone pinging the air.
“Got it,” she says. I can tell she wants me to explain the phone calls and texts from Roxy, but she doesn’t press. “I’ll be back soon with dinner.”
“Okay.”
She opens the door and pauses, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. “Adam?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you decided to stay a while.”
“Me too.” I hold her gaze for a few beats before she closes the door behind her. I walk over to the large window and watch her pick up the yard sign and carry it to her car. She opens the trunkand tosses it inside before she drives away. I collapse on the sofa and turn my focus to Molly.
“Welcome home, girl,” I whisper, my voice barely steady. The silence is so deep, I notice the thud of my heartbeat, heavy and unrelenting.
***
It doesn’t take me long to unload a few items from my Sprinter van. The thing I’m most excited about being in a house for the first time in two years, is the full bathroom and large kitchen I’ll have all to myself. My camper van has no interior wet-bath. I’ve used a pop-up tent for a compost toilet when I’ve gone off-road, or the bathhouse when I’ve rented a campground spot. I’m proud of my van with its rooftop tent, induction cooktop I can pull out and put away, and my coffee station. What else does a single guy like me need?
The van can hold thirty-three gallons of fresh water, and I even had a small water heater installed, along with solar panels. My entire system is self-sufficient with batteries, allowing me to go deep into the woods without depending on a campground for water or power. But there’s something special about this old farmhouse with its open space. I feel like I can stretch and, as Keri put it, “breathe a little.”
I bring in my sleeping bag and fold it over the couch for later. I unload my mini fridge, arranging everything on the old Frigidaire’s top shelf. I loop a towel over the downstairs bathroom bar and set my toiletry bag on the counter. Ieven stack some books on the built-in bookcase, my meager belongings dwarfed by the expansive home.
An hour goes by. I wonder what Keri might be up to as Molly and I sit on the back porch steps, watching the sun dip below the horizon, the apricot sky gorgeous at dusk. I eye the old cast-iron farm bell outside the kitchen and ring it. The deep, resonant clang booms across the wide-open field. I hope I haven’t summoned the neighbors.
I find a spot in the kitchen for Molly’s doggy bowls and feed her, thankful for the fresh water from the spigot. It feels nice to meander through the empty rooms, my mind wandering to snapshots of when I lived in my own home in California. I remember what it felt like to fall in love with my house nestled in a grove of giant incense cedars and Douglas firs, the trees dwarfing my little slice of heaven. My favorite spot was outside in the yard, taking in the breathtaking beauty, the air filled with the thick scent of pine and earth, much like the lavender fields here in Heartsboro.
My home was cozy and filled with countless treasures. A sign hung above the door; “Love Grows Best in Little Houses.” A lifetime of photographs. Trinkets and tokens of love. My mother’s cedar chest. Stained glass windows found at the local flea market. Generations of jewelry—pearls, diamonds, gemstones, and gold. Collections of race medals and shot glasses, Christmas ornaments, and birthday cards. My old tools in the shed out back. My countless books.
My wife’s wedding dress and my daughter’s favorite teddy bear.
I pause, a lump rising so suddenly I have to swallow hard. My eyes sting, heat pushing behind my lids as I shut them tight.
