I nodded. There was no point in going into how I was named for my grandfather, a British pilot who’d won the heart of a little American lass who’d been with family in the UK throughout the war. The name was quite British if what Gee-Gee told me wasright. It was quite the romance. Gee-Gee loved to talk about him. I missed my grandmother so badly it stole my breath. She was all the family I’d had and now she was gone…
“Now, let’s move onto the bungalow out on the Milly Moth Road,” Camille said, breaking into my moment of utter despair. “It’s only ten minutes from the shop! You could ride a bike in the summer.” She led me past the old chair back down the unsteady metal steps, through the back door of the shop, and then out the front. “We’ll work on the paperwork for the shop and the bungalow after we return.”
“I’ve not said I’d take the bungalow,” I reminded her but she was off, click-clacking down the alley in her high heels, talking a mile a minute about the little house with the picket fence that was just perfect for me. I’d seen the images of the cabin online already and had fallen in love with the tiny place tucked back amid some towering Ponderosa pines. The windows were round, the fence white, and the exterior stone. It reminded me of a home for a hobbit in many ways right down to the smoke rising from the rock chimney and the tiny garden filled with potato plants.
“Oh you will. It’s perfect for a man of your refinement and education.”
Refinement? I peeked down at the old sweater I’d pulled over a worn tee with a stack of books on it, a pair of corduroys, and my favorite scuffed leather boating shoes even though we were thousands of miles from the sea. My brown hair was overgrown, out of shape, and in need of a comb I never could seem to find. She spoke like I was a university professor and not just a dude with a bachelor’s degree in American literature with a heavy concentration on American Western poetry. But hey, if she wanted to think of me as a Rhodes scholar then who was I to tell her otherwise? It felt good to have someone think well of me now Gee-Gee was with her flyboy once again. Maybe movinghere to start over would be just the thing my tender heart needed after all.
Oh yeah,this little bungalow was perfect. Perfectly perfect.
Not only did it resemble—in my mind at least—a fairy-tale cabin looking out from the pines to see a crystal blue sky, it had a pond. A pond! Not a big thing. No, just a small one that could hold a pair of koi once it was redone. An expense that would cut into the inheritance from Gee-Gee but one I was fully prepared to spend. Who needed socks? I’d get blisters if I could have an enchanted pond.
The inside was cozy, which in realtor-speak meant small and cramped, but it was ideal for a single man. A single man who had plans to be a reclusive hermit for the rest of his days. Could men be spinsters? No, I didn’t think so. For some reason women were looked down on if they spurned marriage. A confirmed bachelor then. And that meant no romances with big, burly men who always turned out to be jerks. I was done with love in all its forms when dealing with the male sex. No way, no how, no more. Done. Hank had torn me to bits with his infidelity. My plans were to live my life working at my new store, coming home to my wee domicile, and feeding the koi I would one day have in my burbling pond. Maybe a cat. Every bookworm needed a cat. And the cat could come to the shop with me every day because every bookstore needed a cat. I’d have to come up with a good name for him or her. Dewey perhaps…
Camille let me mosey about the little house, poking into the closets, the tiny laundry room that would hold one of those stackable units and maybe an ironing board, and the single bedroom that was the largest room in the bungalow.Large windows overlooking the underbrush of the pines. I could envision a bench back there, maybe a rock path leading to the bench, and a birdfeeder. Sitting out there with a good book, a cup of peach tea, and a cat curled up beside me would be nirvana. I went outside to peer into the old shed but there was a padlock on the door so I couldn’t open it. The windows were thick with fly poo so no seeing through them. There was a broken cat flap in the door but even kneeling down to peek through it showed me little other than an old rototiller. I gave up trying to see in and gave the shed a quick walkaround. It seemed sound enough. In need of paint, which I could do when the weather warmed up, but otherwise a decent storage space.
I walked through the place once more then made my way to Camille texting someone on her phone. She looked up from her cell.
“What do we think?”
She knew what I thought. I suspected the glow of finding a new home that could be my healing place had to be showing on my face. Gee-Gee always said I hid nothing well, which was why she always knew when I’d been in the cookie jar as a kid.
“I think this is ideal. The faucet in the bathroom sink leaks, so that needs to be fixed, and the linoleum in the laundry room is peeling up by the backdoor. Oh, and the backdoor sticks so badly it won’t open. Also, the shed has a lock that needs to be cut off. Can we have those items noted in the bill of sale?”
“Of course! There are tons of handymen around. So shall I get the sold placard out of the back of my car?”
I nodded.
She grinned and shook my hand with such exuberance that my glasses slipped down my nose.
“Wonderful! I just know you’re going to love being here in Chance. The town needs a bookstore,” she gushed.
“Every town needs a bookstore.” I said as she pumped my arm. “So, are there any animal shelters nearby?”
If I was going to be a reclusive old bibliophile at twenty-five I should embrace it fully. Bring on the cat!
A weeklater I was moved into my new home. The bookstore was also in the process of being taken over by a slightly crazed man who had never owned a thing in his life and now was the owner of two things. Twobigthings! And those two things had run me ragged. The store more so than my little cottage because the store had to be ready for a late April grand opening. My house could sit with boxes scattered around. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to see me living out of a box or tote for a few weeks. My bedroom was my new sanctuary. I loved it, my head filled with ideas of how to make it the warmest room in the house. And not just in terms of heat but in welcoming and loving vibes for me. God knows I needed them.
The first night in my new home I had some trouble falling asleep. New place, new noises, new worries. But around midnight I conked out from sheer exhaustion.
I came awake at 6:17 the next morning to the loud cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster. Right outside my window. I sat up in bed, blind, and stared at the blurry gold something perched on the saggy back porch railing.
“What the ever-loving hell?” I asked while pawing on the table for my glasses. Once I found them I slid them behind my ears and…yes, there stood a rooster. Massive. Gold as a nugget, bright red comb and dangly wattles. Crowing his dang head off. Beside him on the rail sat an orange tabby cat. He was not crowing. He was licking his balls. Ah, so two guys. Smashing, asthe Brits would say. What they were doing there I had no clue but when I stood up and padded to the window they both tore off as if they’d seen a ghost. Hurrying outside I caught the long tail feathers of the rooster as he dove through the busted cat door.
“Wonderful,” I sighed, hopping from one foot to the other in a fresh dusting of light snow, the hem of my pajama pants getting wetter and muddier the longer I stood out there barefooted. “Wonder what they’re paying for rent.”
The rooster crowed from inside the shed. New things to add to my chaotic list: Call the realtor to ask about cat/rooster combo, find someone to come cut the lock off the shed door, and stop at the feed mill outside of town for rooster and cat chow. I recalled saying I wanted a cat but nowhere did I remember a danged rooster being part of that request…
Chapter 3
Hoyt
Adrive that should have taken about twelve hours took me two days.
After Clay had sprung me from the hospital with a look of deep concern and a handshake that screamed “It’s been nice knowing you” I set off for Chance, Colorado. Just me, my beat-to-shit ’83 Dodge quarter ton maroon pickup, and a rusty pink two-axle horse trailer minus the horses. Yep, I was living the high life.
I drove for about an hour then had to pull over at a truck stop to eat something substantial then take a pain pill. Within an hour of that tablet I was parked in a rest stop along I-25 north with an itchy nose, a case of the weepies, and the desperate need for a nap. That time I just locked the doors and crashed after crying myself to sleep. The next time, about seven hours later, after driving for about three hours I was at another rest stop feeling all kinds of sad loopy. I vaguely remembered a burly truck driver sucking my dick in the men’s room of that rest station but if the orgasm was good or not escaped me. Probably not if I was simpering over the fact my agent had officially textedme his resignation along with the news I no longer had any sponsors.
