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She stares up at Stan, delight illuminating her features. The broader she smiles, the deeper her dimples get. Finally she throws her arms around his neck, squeezing and making excited noises.
“This is so great! You really saved the day!”
“Well… you're welcome,” Stan shrugs, looking around with confusion and alarm. Even though he thinks of himself as the hero in every story, it got to be weird to have someone admiring him so obviously.
“So… you want to see your new house?”
“Hell, yes, I do!”
“All right, well… right this way!” Stan chuckles, offering her his elbow to take. He leads her back out of the woods toward the orchard, and we all trek out between trees, passing by rows and rows to older parts. She squeals with excitement when the cabin comes into view and I glance at Hank, grimacing.
It's not much of anything, really. She should probably be grossed out. It's literally a one room log cabin in the middle of an orchard, but the way she's skipping toward it you'd think it was a magical gingerbread house. As we approach, I catch sight of Tom and Charlie, banging around the blue pickup truck off to the side. They wave when they see us, trotting forward to greet us.
“What's going on?” Charlie asks, smiling when he catches sight of Vanessa's excited gait.
“Apparently we've got a new tenant,” Hank explains.
“Seriously?” Charlie asks. “I thought you guys were hitting the road. What brought this on?”
“Stan is experiencing some kind of temporary insanity,” Hank says wryly.
I punch him lightly in the shoulder. Or, I thought it was lightly, but the way he starts rubbing at it maybe I misjudged my own strength. “Shut up, man. Vanessa's parents need to take off or something, so I guess she is going to be staying here.”
“With us?” Tom asks.
Stan turns around, raising both his hands.
“No. By herself,” he enunciates. “The cabin is hers, got it? All of our arrangements are the same. She lives here, for as long as she wants.”
“Really?” Vanessa grins breathlessly. She sweeps her arms out as she looks around at the weedy flower garden, the split rail fence around the slate patio. “You don't mind if I stay here?”
“It's practically just a shack, Vanessa,” Stan shakes his head apologetically. “I don't think it's much to get excited about. It just seemed like the best solution at the time…”
“My hero!” she exclaims. “Can we see the inside?”
Chapter 8
Vanessa
It's absolutely perfect. The guys march me down one of the orchard rows and it just appears out of nowhere, like I wished it into existence. The dirt path turns into stone, curving in a sinuous S between slightly overgrown flowerbeds, maybe with a couple of scraggly tomato plants here and there. It doesn't look like anybody's lived here in a while, but it is still completely gorgeous.
The stone chimney is straight and thick, and the shingle roof looks completely sound. It's weathered and squat, looking like something straight out of an old-timey photograph. The porch is deep, cast into shadow by the wide eaves but I can make out the wide front window and a couple of rocking chairs.
“There's indoor plumbing,” Stan grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But that's the only real improvement. Don't get your hopes up here, Vanessa, it's really pretty rustic.”
“Oh my God!” I yelp in spite of myself. “It has a cellar!?”
“Oh, geez, you don't want to go down there,” Charlie says, wiping the engine grease from his hands on the front of his bluejeans, which stretch across a beautiful set of hips. “Let's just walk around the living room, okay? Hopefully we are not going to surprise any raccoons or anything.”
But I can barely hear him. I'm completely enchanted by all this. Stan pushes open the front door for me and I just walk inside, holding my breath.
There is a big, oval woven rug in the middle of the living room and an overstuffed sofa with two small tables in front of it. The kitchen is small but serviceable, and the stone hearth is wide, taking up almost a quarter of the room. It's black with age, streaks of soot running toward the ceiling.
“Did people really cook here?” I ask, running my finger over the wrought iron hook.
“Yeah. Our great-great-grandparents built this house first. They cooked here, lived here for years. They had babies here.”
“Seriously?” I ask, trying to figure it all out. Of course they did, but it seems so strange. “This is really, like, where your people are from? Like right here in this same space?”
