Page 22 of Manors & Mischief

9

EMBER

The new gleam of the ultra-white interior of the ancient refrigerator almost winks at me. I step back in triumph. “Ha!”

The cleaning powder coated washcloth hangs from my grip. I tried liquid cleaner. I tried sponges. I tried a mix of baking powder and vinegar but nothing would touch the last remaining stubborn stain the shape of South America in the interior of the fridge until just now. I pull up finger guns and mock shoot it. “You’re my bitch today, fridgey.”

Lord, I need new people to talk to. If my family could see me now. No chance there, though.

I holster my finger guns and check my watch. It’s been hours since lunch. Surely Devon has an estimate by now.

The tap runs cold at first but then gradually gets warmer as I rinse the washcloth then wash my hands with the liquid pump soap I placed near the sink earlier. A magnet mirror on the fridge, decaying with age, helps me arrange my hair after I take off the handkerchief. I need to hit up the mayor’s office before it closes, but I’ll have a chat with Devon before I go.

My stomach does a little flip. I tell myself it’s because the lengthy time he’s had to inspect the porch means a big price tag, but it’s also because of the way he looked at me earlier. His gaze latched on to me like his eyeballs had claws sinking into my flesh.

Sounds like a haunted house attraction.

I run my fingers through my hair a few more times and make sure I don’t have any more smudges on my face like the one he took care of earlier, and then walk toward the front door.

Now that the sun shines in through the windows with the heavy drapery pulled to the side, the house lights up like a new penny. It feels lived in. Cozy. Like you stepped into your grandparents’ house with all the antiques lying around. But they don’t make houses like this where I’m from. Sleepy Hollow Manor is a gem.

My stomach pulls tight as I step onto the porch, avoiding the hole and quickly making my way down the steps. No sense in tempting fate by putting more weight on the porch than necessary. I spin around, searching out grumpy Devon. I walk to one end of the porch, then the other. When I come up empty, I face the porch from the sidewalk, the overgrown grass tickling my calves. “Devon?” I clear my throat because that was a half-assed way to call for someone. “Devon?” I shout.

The only answer is a slight echo reverberating off the manor itself. I check the street for his truck, and it’s not there either. What in the world? Did Devon the Grump abandon me? Or he left for the day without saying anything. Or had an appointment. Or an emergency. Or literally a bajillion other things.

I swear I will never understand that man. From the very first moment, he’s behaved the exact opposite I’ve expected him to.

My phone starts to ring. I pull it out, expecting it to be Devon. Instead, it’s my mom. I check the time and cringe, immediately rejecting the call. I need to get to the mayor’s office before they close. Whatever life advice she wants to give me can wait.

I pull up the text thread with my mom and use speech to text to send, “Sorry, Mom. I’ll call you later. I’m heading into town to talk to someone about repairs.” I start walking down the sidewalk and decide to backspace through repairs. Even though that sentence is completely true, my family already thinks I’m bonkers for being here. I don’t want to give them unnecessary worry on top of them already thinking I’m crazy. I type out the house instead, then press Send.

The sun still clings to the sky as if trying to outlast the slight chill in the air. When that disappears beyond the horizon, it’ll be a cold night. House after house I pass, I admire their neatly kept lawns, flower beds, the single flag waving in the breeze off their porches. I hope I never get tired of seeing views like this. It warms my belly like drinking a gigantic pumpkin spice latte after a long day at work.

Children play up and down the street, passing me on bikes, and my new neighbors wave to me while bringing groceries in from the car. Can it get any better than this? I haven’t met a mean person yet. Strike that. I’ve only met one unpleasant person. Though, I’ve seen hints of the genuine guy underneath. The way he spoke to me about the picture on the wall, for example. The way he cupped my face…

Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I decide to shelve any thoughts of that. I’m about to meet with his mother for crying out loud. And just because he has a light touch and muscly forearms doesn’t mean he’s a good person.

This time when I walk inside the town building, I have time to take it in. It’s on the older side but well maintained. The layout is still a mystery to me, but I make sure to utilize the plaque when I first walk in that says where the mayor’s office is. Suite 1A. Makes sense for the most important woman in the city.

An arrow tells me to take a left, so I do. Muted cream walls highlight black and white pictures of Harvest Falls’ downtown and surrounding areas from different time periods. I spot one of the square from 1910, another of a country view with some sort of small structure on it from 1936, but I don’t have time to study it because a photo from 1890 catches my eye of Sleepy Hollow Manor.

The black and white old-timey feel sends a shiver up my spine. The haunted house look is in full force in this image, even though it’s obvious the house is in much better shape. Pristine paint, lawn well-maintained with pops of darker colors in the flower beds, but it’s as if I can imagine a spirit standing in one of the windows, a ghost of a smile on her face for the camera.

Maybe it’s because this version of the manor is so unfamiliar to me, but I have to swallow and look away, an eerie feeling settling in my chest. Quickly, I walk past the other photos and then pass the city clerk’s office and some bathrooms before coming up on Mayor Lachey’s office. Her door is ajar, showing only a sliver of the room. I’m about to knock when I hear a male voice inside. A familiar male voice.

It stops me in my tracks because that same voice should be at my house right now giving me an estimate on my porch.

“You don’t understand, Mom.”

“Oh, pish posh. You’ve been telling me that I don’t understand since you were a teenager, Devon. I understand completely. Life doesn’t turn out the way we want it to sometimes. We just have to do the best we can with what we’ve got.”

“You act like I’m just throwing a fit about not being able to take Stacy Carpenter to the Jingle Ball when I was in ninth grade. This is much more serious.”

“That was serious. Her father was a good-for-nothing⁠—.”

I press my lips together to keep from laughing and miss whatever comes next, but Devon interrupts her anyway. “Mom, we’ve been over this. He just didn’t want to donate his crops for the Fall Spectacular. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big deal!” Her voice raises an octave. “In Harvest Falls, we support each other. We rally around one another. That’s why I won’t hear another word about you not helping Ember O’Malley.”