ONE
LILY
Strange, but as I look up at the California Bungalow, the word ‘charming’ no longer fits. Not as it had in the glossy brochure I’d picked up at the realtor’s office.
Like a lot of decisions in my life, I’d made it on the spur of the moment. I’d only been after a short-term rental to allow me to escape the motel. I hadn’t intended to buy a place.
But something about the house had appealed to me, meaning I hadn’t given the purchase the attention it deserved. Heck, I’d given it no thought at all. Wracked with a crippling sense of guilt and grief, I hadn’t been thinking straight.
At the time I’d signed on the dotted line, my sole aim was to take the money I’d inherited from Dolores, my nan, and make good on it. I owed that to my maternal grandmother after she’d raised me from the age of seven, following the loss of my parents and younger sister in a car accident.
But for a nasty stomach bug, I’d have been with them on that day trip, rather than staying with Nanna Dot, to be cosseted and pampered. That was my first guilt.
The second was as good as abandoning my nanna when I went away to college and lost myself to a lifestyle of study and partying. Thanks to those distractions, it had been all too easy to forget the woman who’d raised me.
And now it’s too late to follow through on the promises I’d made after I’d started work. Promises to travel up to Coogan’s Break so I could spend quality time with her rather than relying on video calls.
Particularly shameful was Mitchell—my ex-husband—and me being in Mexico when she moved into the Rose Haven Retirement Home. I should have been there to help her, for all she said there was no need.
The vacation had been a last-ditch attempt to either rekindle our relationship, or for me to fall pregnant. We—or rather, I—had failed on both fronts.
“Okay, Miss Finnegan, she’s all yours.” I take a second to realize the realtor is talking to me, forgetting for a moment that I’ve reverted to my maiden name.
When she drops the keys in my outstretched hand, there’s no missing the woman’s palpable relief. There’s also no missing how quickly she jumps into her car and roars off down the road.
Why do I get the impression this place is less fixer-upper and more puller-downer than she’s led me to believe? Of course, if I’d taken the time to actually view the property rather than “Jump at the opportunity of a lifetime!” I might not be so in the dark.
“Chin up, it can’t be that bad.” My words of encouragement don’t get me far after I open the front door.
Unable to cross the threshold thanks to the odor of a home that had evidently belonged to an ardent cat lover, I turn and gulp down fresh air. Blast it, I should have known something was up when the realtor said I could as easily check the place out by viewing their video.
Whoever was behind the camera must surely have been wearing a military-grade re-breather. And while I don’t have one of those, I’ve got a couple of masks in the car. Finally, there is a plus to my old job as a dental hygienist. The other plus will be if I can turn a profit on this flip and any others I take on.
Despite training to be a hygienist, I’d never planned on spending the rest of my working life being confronted with wonky teeth and gingivitis.
I turn back toward the front door. If I’m serious about making a go of this flipping business, then I need to get used to taking on projects others won’t go near.
Another sniff of the air and I decide that with this place, it’s more a case of CAN’T go near.
With a heavy heart and a deep sense of regret, I straighten my shoulders and try to steel myself for my new future. San Francisco, the city I’d called home for so many years, was now firmly in the past.
The end of my marriage hadn’t only put a stop to my dreams of a family, it’d also seen an end to my career. With Mitchell a part-owner of the dental practice we’d both worked at, I’d had to pull up stakes and leave.
I try to push the painful memories of our divorce to the back of my mind, but they linger like a dark cloud, threatening to engulf me at any moment. After a deep breath, I race for the back door of the bungalow, eager to put as much distance between myself and my past as possible.
The journey is far from peaceful, with creaky floorboards and spongy sections threatening to trip me at every turn. When I finally burst into the kitchen, I can’t help but marvel at the sheer bleakness of my surroundings.
Despite the overwhelming sense of despair that washes over me, I press on, eager to see what lies beyond the back door. My fingers fumble with the key, and when I finally escape, I’m gasping for air. It’s as if I’ve just broken free of a suffocating trap.
As I stumble onto the small back porch, a wave of dizziness overtakes me, and I clutch desperately at the wrought-iron railing for support. As I examine the crumbling concrete underfoot, I wonder how I could have let things come to this.
My new life looms ahead of me like an impenetrable fog, leaving me feeling utterly lost and alone. Tears stream down my face as I realize this isn’t the life that I’d envisioned for myself.
Instead of a happy home and family, I’m facing drifts of cat hair and the prospect of a life teeming with feline companions.
I sink to the bottom step, my head in my hands, worried this will prove to be the total of my new life. A lonely, cat-filled bungalow in my childhood hometown.
And yet, even in the depths of my misery, something catches my eye. Through the overgrown weeds and unpruned citrus trees, I spy something that piques my curiosity.
