Page 2 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

Mav’s voice snapped me out of my mental vision-boarding. “Mama, are we there yet? ’Cause my foot’s asleep and it’s making my brain do jumpy things.”

“Almost, bud.”

A left at the church, a right at the public library, and the Downtown district was in the rearview. As I followed the GPS directions, I noticed there were houses tucked into the hillside like secrets.

“Your destination is in point five miles on your left,” the automated voice announced.

My heart pounded as the finality of arrival was upon us. A tiny part of me still expected the house to vanish in a puff of smoke, or to wake up in our old apartment, sunlight slicing through the crooked blinds, everything the same as it ever was.

But as I continued driving, there it was. 17 Driftwood Lane, weathered gray and abandoned at the end of a short driveway with a faded red mailbox barely clinging to the post at the road. I tried not to panic that it looked like the haunted house version of the charming cottage the lawyer had forwarded to me. I’d never been catfished by property before, only men, and this was a lot scarier.

My throat pinched. I parked and sat for a moment, hands white-knuckling the wheel. Maverick unbuckled himself and clambered into the front seat to peer through the windshield and point excitedly.

“That’s our house?” he asked with breathless enthusiasm, clearly not seeing what I was seeing. I wished I had his same optimistic outlook on our new dwelling.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yep, it sure is.”

He grinned, exposing his gapped front teeth. “Race you to the door!”

Before I could respond, he shot out of the passenger side like a bullet. He made it to the porch first, of course, and waited with exaggerated patience for me to catch up. I fished out the key the lawyer had sent and braced myself for whatever “vintage charm” looked like when left unsupervised for half a decade. Uncle Walter spent his last five years in a senior care facility.

The door stuck, but a hard shove got us inside where we were met with the unmistakable aroma of dust, old books, and something else—wet dog, maybe, or unwashed dishes. From the doorway, I could see the front room was compact, a combination of dark wood and faded flowered wallpaper. Someone, I would assume my uncle, had attempted to install recessed lighting but abandoned the project halfway, so the ceiling was a polka dot of empty sockets.

Uncle Walter’s lawyer had described the home as “charming coastal cottage with vintage flair” and “rustic, but with good bones, and a killer view of the Pacific.” My very optimistic—or possibly willfully delusional—imagination had filled in the gaps with window boxes overflowing with geraniums, a porch swing, and maybe a pie cooling on a windowsill.

In all of those daydreams, the house had been, at minimum, standing up straight. In reality, we found a structure that looked less like a home and more like an abandoned building on the verge of demolition. The only thing “killer” about the view was the way the salty air and persistent ocean wind had conspired to peel the paint down to a patchwork of sun-bleached wood and spongy, moss-green trim.

We stood on the porch—well, I stood, Maverick hopped from one rotting floorboard to the next as if the wooden slats were part of The Floor is Lava game he was playing—and I took it in with a mixture of crushing disappointment and the kind of dark humor that comes from surviving years of life’s cruel curveballs.

“Charming,” I said, to no one in particular, as a seagull circled overhead and delivered a strategically timed bomb onto the already-stained mailbox. Maverick, delighted by the seagull’s aim, giggled.

With more trepidation than I wanted to admit, we stepped inside, and the house greeted us with the smell of dust, mildew, and something distinctly animal. I dropped my tote bag in the front room that was a time capsule of 1970s furniture with a clashing overlay of 1990s neglect.

I walked further inside and saw that the kitchen was a museum exhibit dedicated to Retro Appliances That Should Be in Hospice Care, including an avocado-green stove and a refrigerator so old the only thing chilling inside it was the malevolent presence of whatever had lived and died in its crisper drawer.

I’d turned the utilities back on and put them in my name with Mr. Blackburn’s help. I found myself holding my breath as I turned the knob of the kitchen sink which delivered a gasp of air and a belch of rusty water before the stream turned clear water. I exhaled, at least there was running water.

Off the kitchen, was a small laundry/mudroom where it looked like an Some animal the size of a Shetland pony had made a nest in the crawlspace and, judging by the mess, was engaged in a turf war with an equally tenacious family of starlings.

The back deck listed so far to the left it could have doubled as a skateboarding ramp.

Standing in the center of the front room, the reality of our situation sank in, we were officially home.

“Welcome home to us!” I announced, infusing the declaration with as much optimism as I could muster. The house shuddered in response, as if to protest my cheerfulness.

Something thudded down the darkened hallway, an area of the home we hadn’t yet toured—a heavy, deliberate bang, like furniture being rearranged by a poltergeist with a grudge. Maverick’s eyes widened, but not with fear. “Do you think there’s a ghost?” he whispered, equal parts hopeful and incredulous.

My first instinct was to lie, but I reminded myself of the parenting book that said honesty was the best policy. “Maybe,” I admitted. “But if there is, I bet it’s a friendly ghost. Like Casper.”

At this point I’d rather take an ethereal housemate than one of the animal or human variety.

He nodded, satisfied. “I hope Casper likes cowboys.”

Maverick had been on a cowboy kick recently. He dressed up as Woody from Toy Story last Halloween, and the second the toy lasso got in his hand, it was as if he’d found his purpose in life. He was obsessed with all things cowboy related. When I told him our new house shared a property line with a dude ranch, and there were horses, cows, goats, chickens, and a bunch of other animals, he’d been so excited he barely talked about anything else for the past two days.

If he knew I’d applied for an event planner position at the ranch through ZipRecruiter, his head might explode, so I kept that information to myself. I didn’t want him to get his hopes up that he’d have unlimited access to the animals. My hopes were already high enough for both of us. Working next door, which on this farm was a mile away, would be very convenient for a single mom, or any person, really.

Another sound came from the back of the house. I checked the front closet for a broom, or something I could use as protection from whatever creature was currently residing in our home, so I wasn’t at the mercy of my three-month Krav Maga training as my sole source of protection. I found a tennis racket. Good enough.