“Yes, and I was wondering if you could come by for an assessment.” Here I thought I’d have to hire a local contractor, or even a plumber and electrician, to repair and spruce the place up, but the house is in great shape, save for a few creaks here and there, a deck in need of repairs, and mice. I cringe inwardly at that.
Papers rustle in the background. “I can come by tomorrow around noon if that works for you.”
“That would be great, thank you.” I end the call and glance around the empty house. The quiet is a bit disconcerting. Odd really, considering I spend so much time alone, either at my desk at the university or in my small apartment.
Cup of tea in hand, I head to my den and go over paperwork. The copper key near my laptop pulls my attention. I’d been hoping the realtor would come today, give me a reason not to go to Gram’s studio, the place we talked, laughed, had bonfires, and painted. Facing the past is going to be hard, that much I know. My stomach tightens, and I exhale a painful breath as warm memories bombard me. Then again, maybe the visit will help soothe my soul, give me the closure I can’t seem to find.
Okay, girl, put on your big girl panties and do this already.
Pushing from my chair, I tug on a sweater, and five minutes later, I’m in my rental. After I return the vehicle, I’ll use Gram’s huge Ford Thunderbird, aka, the land yacht. I’d prefer to Uber, but well, this is Lunenburg. Cripes, they don’t even have a Starbucks in town. The Lunenburg Heritage Society shut that down years ago, their mission to preserve culture and natural heritage. Unless that’s changed since I’d been here last, and I somehow doubt it has. That’s all well and fine, until PMS hits and a girl needs her mocha latte.
I drive past town until I find the dirt road leading to Gram’s studio on the ocean. Her father built the cottage over a hundred years ago, and when he passed, it went to Gram and eventually she turned it into her studio.
Twisted branches from the tall, neglected trees stretch like arthritic fingers overhead, the canopy of leaves keeping the small flakes falling from building on the road.
Has no upkeep been done since I’ve been here?
The cottages are abandoned, closed up for the winter, but with the overgrown weeds, and fading paint, I’m guessing no one’s been in them for ages. This once bustling place, full of families and kids and dogs is no more. The desolation fills me with a sense of loss and loneliness.
At the end of the long road, Gram’s studio rises up in the distance. Warm memories bombard me as I park, and when I spot a squirrel climbing up the old abandoned bird feeder I once filled with seed, my breath catches. I fail to calm my shaky hand as I open my door, and the cool fall wind washing over my face stirs the chaotic storm inside me.
Paint chips fall to the ground like snowflakes as I run my gloved hand over the railing. Big dirty window that haven’t been cleaned in ages, stare wide-eyed at the choppy ocean. Gram would be mortified at the state of the place. I swallow. If only I’d come sooner…
But now that I’m here I’ll do all I can to preserve the place her dad had bought years ago. Back when he was young, he purchased all the land, and sold off parcels to others. His property is at the end of the road, the land jutting into the ocean, giving a view of the water on all three sides of the studio.
The old fire pit is still standing, although its once pristine white stones are now dark with soot and cracked from use and age. I can’t even count the s’mores we gobbled up around it. I chuckle quietly. I might not be able to work a gas stove, but roasting marshmallows was the one thing I was good at. I’d get that perfect brown, caramelized exterior, while maintaining the warm, gooey texture inside. I guess that’s why Gram always