The window of the kitchen door seemed to flash at her, a siren luring her to peek through. Just to see, for a moment, what that bizarre reaction was when she’d looked at him. Just to see if it would happen again.
Because of course, that was all it was. An experiment.
Against the unruly, rude-through-his-charm neighbor. Who had a girlfriend.
She took another step, the fibers soft against her bare feet.
Another.
She reached the window and ever so casually glanced out.
His hedges were directly opposite.
She inched her gaze left.
And the cars.
Left farther.
And the dumb dog.
Left farther.
And there he was, shoveling, half the median overturned. Him and his perfectly unkempt-yet-kempt hair, and that holey shirt of his.
As if sensing her, he started to look up, and she turned on her heel.
The percolator light turned on, and she poured the steaming coffee in her mug. The clock on the stove said it was 7:02 p.m. The sun’s last beams filtered through the window, and she watched it melt into the blue hue of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She frowned as the pink clouds started to dim.
Abingdon was still new to her. She had less than a bicycle to her name and was as valuable as a mannequin onstage—and even that was being ripped away. Her housemate was becoming an off-the-grid junkie, a maniacal dog wanted to kill her, and a taunting, handsome-yet-maddening neighbor lived twenty feet away. She should leave now.
She could.
She could leave the house to Evie and get out now.
Her fingers slid across the laminate counter as she watched the sky.
Even now, though, she could hear Nana’s words in her ear. Feel the press of her hugs, the smell of oatmeal-raisin cookies wafting from the old stove right where she stood the first time Nana met her as an eleven-year-old stepgranddaughter. She could smell the incoming rain swirling from those clouds hanging over the Blue Ridge Mountains. See them both slipping on rain boots to splash in the puddles that came. Her eyes drifted to the umbrella stand where the old, frayed polka-dot umbrella of her childhood still stood beside Nana’s tattered one.
She didn’t want to get rid of it.
She never would get rid of it.
Nana’s love still lived in this home. Though Bree had merged with her stepfather’s family at the ripe age of eleven, and Nana had a dozen full-blooded grandkids, Bree had never felt like anything besides Nana’s own granddaughter. Bree had taken to her more than any of the others. Partly because they were so similar. Partly because, unlike the other grandkids, she never took Nana for granted. And partly, she suspected, because Nana had known what it was like to merge with the unconditional love of another family.
Some kids went to camp in the summer. But Bree? Here was where she went. Even through her teen years, this was where she always went.
How could she ever let this place, these memories, go?
Her throat stung, and she swallowed a sip of coffee to force it away. She gave the old laminate a final tap.
Okay then. New plan.
She just had to figure out a new job. Yes, a new job. If she wanted to stay in Abingdon, in this wonderful old house, then that was exactly what she needed.
Bree walked back into the living room with purpose, armed with her laptop. She looked around and suspected their furnishings were disappearing a little at a time, as Evie had taken to quipping, “If it’s made of plastic, it’s not fantastic,” and “Empty the home, fill the heart,” from her latest book, Minimalist Life for Dummies. She toted things to their overflowing trash can daily; neighbors were starting to rummage at night like raccoons. Evie seemed to be missing a vital point in the minimalist lifestyle, though, because as each frying pan and dining room chair headed out the door, the UPS man brought packages of books and essential oils and beekeeping starter kits and other “minimalist essentials” now piling up in corners.
Bree moved to the couch (which she had dragged back from the street, twice) and set her laptop on her knees. She opened her browser and double-clicked on a familiar desktop document.
The List.
She had created The List three years ago, two months after her thirtieth birthday, when Cassie and her mother banded together to convince Bree to visit a career counselor.
She’d learned a lot in those three sessions. One of the lessons was to write everything down. Master the résumé, keep track of the job history, and see