No romantic little side hideaway while I oversee the main house.
Just me, a dirty first-floor bedroom, and a dog I picked up off the side of the road.
I stand in the grass between the house and the carriage building and laugh once, quietly, because if I don’t, I may start screaming.
This is what I bought.
This is what I came for.
This is the thing everyone warned me about.
And somehow, under the mildew and the damage and the stench and the way my plans are already reshuffling themselves under real conditions, I still feel it.
The pull.
The certainty.
This building is hurt. It is not finished.
Neither am I.
The dog barks once from the porch, and I turn. He stands there in the open doorway of the first-floor bedroom, wrapped in his clinic towel, crooked tail low, watching me with deep suspicion.
“Well,” I say. “You’re either the worst decision I’ve made in six months or the only good one.”
He sneezes.
“Helpful.”
I spend the next two hours making the room barely livable. I open every window on the first floor and let the sea air do what it can. I drag a trash bag through the bedroom and bathroom. Haul away the mattress and leave it leaning against the porch rail to be dealt with later. Scrub one corner of the bathroom sink before deciding I need real supplies, not optimism and hand soap. Set out food and water for the dog, who sniffs everything suspiciously before finally eating like he’s afraid the bowl might disappear if he looks away.
By late afternoon, I have sweat running down my spine, dirt under my nails, and a clearer understanding of exactly how much I’ve underestimated the first phase of this job.
I also have no paper towels, no disinfectant, no bedding, no groceries beyond what’s melted in my cooler, and no intention of sleeping another night in my car.
So I scoop the dog back into my arms, lock up, and head for town.
The grocery store sits on the edge of Main Street, bigger than I expect, bright and clean and blessedly air-conditioned. At first, I planned to leave the dog in the car with the windows down, but it breaks my heart to leave him there alone. Instead, I wrap him as inconspicuously as possible in a clean towel and carry him inside.
I grab a cart and start filling it with all the practical things my life currently lacks. Bleach. Gloves. Paper towels. Trash bags. Bottled water. Bread. Peanut butter. A cheap throw blanket. The dog food recommended by the vet. A squeaky toy I absolutely donot need and buy anyway because the dog has finally stopped growling every time I look at him, and I’m not emotionally stable enough to resist.
By the time I make it to the produce section, the cart is full, and my arm aches from carrying the dog against my hip. He insists on being held. The second I try to put him in the cart, he climbs back toward me with offended determination.
“Okay,” I mutter, shifting him higher. “This is an absurd way to live.”
“Only if you don’t get him one of those little kid seats in the buggy.”
I look up.
The woman standing beside the tomatoes is somewhere in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, with warm brown eyes, hair highlighted and twisted into a clip at the nape of her neck, and an open expression that suggests she’s either extremely kind or about to ask me a deeply personal question.
Possibly both.
She smiles at the dog first, then at me.
“He looks offended by the concept of walking,” she says.
I glance down at him. “That’s accurate.”
