Page 50 of Once Upon a Fall

I come to a stop in front of it and bend over, planting my hands on my thighs as I try to slow my breathing.

It’s overcast this morning, and the charred trees and the dark windows of the empty house make the whole place feel ominous.

“Hello, neighbor,” I hear someone say and find Wendell standing on the porch waving at me with one hand and holding a broom in the other.

“Hello,” I say, waving back, still trying to catch my breath. How have my lungs gotten out of shape so fast?

“Thought that was you. Haven’t seen your car in a while.”

Right. I’ve been busy working on an inn.

“You sweeping?” I say, asking the obvious.

“The porch gets leaves,” he says, holding the broom out as evidence. “Vivian never could stand leaves on the porch.”

I smile and nod. Cleaning the porch was one of my summer chores.

“Thanks for keeping that up,” I say, like that covers it.

He waves it off. “She figured she’d be back in a year or so.”

That was six years ago.

He goes back to sweeping. “Have you figured out what you’re going to do with the farm?”

I knew that question was coming, and it still makes something tighten in my chest.

Or maybe the indigestion is back.

“I think I’ll be selling,” I say.

Even from the sidewalk, I can see the disappointment in Wendell’s expression.

I could be projecting. Because saying it out loud to him, while standing in front of the farm, makes that answer feel wrong.

It’s the easy one. The simplest choice. I sell the property—raccoons and all—put the money in a trust for my mom, and hope somehow Ed doesn’t figure out a way to get his greedy hands on it.

He will, though. My mom will take the money out and hand it over to him. That’s her pattern. Well, it is when she has money.

“Well, you’ve got to do what’s right for you,” he says. “If I could afford it, I’d take it off your hands myself.”

“I think Vivian would have loved that,” I say.

Maybe finding the right person to own the farm is the answer. Someone who’d put in the work. Someone who’d fix what’s broken instead of tearing it all down.

He’ll know what to do.

Or maybe my grandma had a lot more faith in me than she should have.

Later that evening, Rosie and I are in the Rapunzel room painting it the color Wisteria Hysteria, which is the actual name and not one Rosie had made up like I accused her of doing.

She’s humming something while I tape the baseboards.

“The color is perfect,” she says, taking a step back from the section of wall she’s just been working on.

“It’s purple,” I say, though the ceiling fan light is giving it a slightly blue hue.

“Shhh,” she says. “You’re ruining the moment.” She looks at the wall reverently and then smiles to herself as if she’s remembering something.