The upstairs bedroom called to me the moment I reached the landing. Sunlight poured through tall windows, falling across a quilt that looked hand-stitched. A blanket that called to my inner book-loving, windowsill-sitting, coffee-drinking self. Beyond the glass stretched a field dotted with wildflowers, and further still, the line of mountains rose like guardians.
I plunked my tote on the bed and spun in a slow circle, dizzy from equal parts exhaustion and awe. Penny’s master bedroom was definitely the right choice.
“This will work,” I told Pumpernickel, setting his carrier on the dresser. He huffed.
From my tote, I pulled my familiar arsenal: a mismatched mug withWorld’s Okayest Vetin flaking paint, a stack of sticky notes, and my planner already bristling with tabs. I set them on the nightstand like talismans against chaos. Then I opened to a fresh page and scribbled:
Tomorrow’s To-Do:
Learn neighbors’ names.
See what kind of animals we have—domestic and wild.
YouTube:How to make bread?
Unpack.
Explore house and land. Especially the stables and the goat.
Downstairs, Austin’s voice carried up—low, precise. Probably cataloging something already. My chest gave a little flutter at the thought, which I immediately stuffed undernew-place excitement.
The floors creaked behind me. Austin called up from downstairs, “Rooms are yours to choose. I’ll take the one near the entry.”
Of course, he would. Practical, Numbers Man to the core. Penny was right about him being in finance.
“Fine by me!” I called back, a little too brightly. “I’ve claimed the sunny kingdom up here.”
Later, neither of us had the energy to pretend we could cook. My stomach growled loud enough to earn a raised brow from Austin.
“Pizza,” I suggested. “I can call in for pick-up from in town,” half-joking. Austin agreed without hesitation, and 30 minutes later, he was back with pizza, and I had set the table. I was a little surprised by Aunt Penny’s taste in plates. Two different sets. One: China, the second: a step up from plastic. No middle ground.
So, our first meal in the grand Thomas estate was two cardboard boxes balanced between mismatched plates in the rustic kitchen. The counters gleamed under the soft glow of pendant lights, copper pots hung in neat rows above the stove, and shelves brimmed with jars labeled in Penny’s looping script—peppermint tea leaves, wildflower honey, even somethingcalleddandelion cordial.It was spotless, yet full of her fingerprints.
Austin ate with neat precision, one slice at a time, crusts lined up evenly on his plate. I devoured mine with greasy fingers and didn’t care.
We traded small stories to fill the silence: his childhood dog that once chewed through a couch leg, my disastrous attempt to keep goldfish alive in middle school. For a man who carried himself like steel, Austin’s laugh, low and brief, was a blanket of warmth.
Inspector appeared halfway through the pizza, leaping onto a chair, tail curling in judgment. He stared until I caved and offered him a crust. He sniffed it, then vanished just as silently.
