The window only opens halfway.
And the heat rising from the ovens downstairs turns the place into a furnace.
I’ve already considered several backup options.
Except nothing seems to be going my way right now.
Mrs. MacLeish’s bed and breakfast?
“Sorry, sweetheart, we’re fully booked.”
The inn in Inverness?
Not a single room left.
Even Emma, my cousin by marriage who lives in a tiny apartment above the dry cleaner’s, has no room.
“Lachlan turned the sofa bed into a bookshelf. I’m really sorry, Mary.”
So when I walked into the bakery to buy food for my emotional breakdown, and the baker offered to rent me the little room upstairs, I thought I’d been saved.
That was before I stepped into the closet Mr. McKenzie calls a bedroom.
“Is it always this hot?” I ask, wiping sweat from my forehead.
“Depends. In summer, yeah.”
He pauses to think.
“Winter too, actually. But it saves money on heating.”
I glance toward the tiny adjoining bathroom, so small I wonder how anyone enters it without slamming into every available surface.
“And the noise?”
“What noise?”
At that exact moment, music blasts somewhere downstairs.
Heavy metal.
Screaming guitars and drums that sound like a jackhammer.
Mr. McKenzie smiles.
“Oh, that. That’s just my son. He likes listening to music while kneading dough. Motivates him.”
“What time does he start?”
“Four in the morning. Every day. Even Sundays.”
I close my eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“I’ll think about it.”
