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“He doesn’t look thrilled,” I note.
“He will be when he sees his new digs.” Phil arranged for a neighbor to take the last of his livestock—including the goat, thank God—which frees up the pen for our raccoon. And of course, we have no choice but to take him, according to Jonah. If we leave him here, he’ll get into Barry’s crops and Barry will shoot him.
I shake my head. “Remember when you said he wasn’t a pet?”
Jonah closes the distance. “Remember when you said I was an asshole?”
“Jury’s still out on that one,” I tease.
He leans over and captures my lips with a soft kiss. “Almost forgot this.” He pats the coffeemaker on the counter. “You want to carry that or him?”
“I’ll take the one that won’t claw my leg, thanks.” My hand smooths over the plastic, reminiscing. It’s a cheap appliance that was an integral part of my father’s simple daily routine. I made the worst pot of coffee known to mankind one morning, using this machine. Dad drank the entire cup without complaint.
“All right, all right … relax.” Jonah retrieves a chattering Bandit.
Both of our gazes roll over my father’s kitchen one last time, each caught in a moment’s reflection of our own memories here.
Jonah looks to me. “Ready?”
To leave what I know of Alaska, for something entirely unfamiliar and new?
I take a deep breath. “Yes.”
With a silent, firm-lipped smile, Jonah leads me out.
* * *
“I thought he was supposed to be gone,” I whisper. My eyes don’t know where to land first.
The front door was unlocked when we arrived. The long, narrow hallway is still lined with coats and shoes and scarves. The worn couch and side tables still fill the living room. Plates and glasses still sit in the dish drainer. The forlorn moose and pair of deer still stare morosely at me from their predicaments on the wall.
Jonah’s boots leave snowy tracks on the plank floor as he strolls over to the kitchen counter, to where the pile of keys sits, next to a piece of paper. His brow furrows as he scans the handwritten note. “Phil’s gone. Left on a flight this morning,” he confirms, dropping the page on the counter with a heavy hand. A grim smile touches his lips. “He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d leave everything.”
“No shit,” I mutter. I wander over to the fridge where glossy pictures of little boys—strangers—stare back at me. I guess I’m supposed to throw these out? “This is weird.”
“Yup,” Jonah agrees. “But I guess it’d be a lot for him to clear all this out by himself. Probably hard, too, with all those memories of his wife here.”
I open the fridge. “Yeah, I’m sure this half-eaten sandwich was way too sentimental to throw out.” My voice is thick with a mixture of bitterness and frustration. There are bite marks in it. Next to it is a jug of milk, a few loose processed cheese slices, and several jars of preserves—pickles, beets, jam … eggs? Smears of grease and food drippings coat the bottom shelf. Nothing has been wiped down.
Jonah opens a cupboard to reveal an array of spices and canned goods. The cupboard beside it is equally full, this one with mismatched mugs and glassware. He slowly spins in a circle. “At least he cleaned up the kitchen a bit.”
I cringe at the dried soap suds and crusted food particles at the bottom of the sink. “Jonah, this place is filthy!” And something tells me cleaning products to tackle the mess are the only thing Phil didn’t leave for us. The dull ache in my head that appeared halfway through the bumpy flight here blossoms with my dread for the work ahead of us. I pinch the bridge of my nose to quell the pain. “How are you not snapping?” Because I’m ready to scream, or cry, or both.
As wary as I was about buying Phil’s place in the beginning, I’ve been imagining this day with excitement since we signed the papers a month ago. I pictured us strolling into our new house, the rooms barren, the walls bare, our gazes greedily taking in all the empty corners, spotting little secrets and imperfections previously hidden. We’d start making a mental list about what we’d tackle first as we toasted to this exciting new beginning. I even packed champagne flutes in my purse.
This is not at all what I pictured.
Jonah comes up behind me, roping his arms around my waist. “It’ll take no time for the two of us to get through this. And I’ll bet there’s a lot we can use. That cold cellar was full of preserves the last time we checked.”
“And what about all the stuff we can’t use?” Decades of it, I’d imagine. They were married for fifty years! They’ve lived in this house since 1985!
“We’ll donate or dump it. Or burn it. We can have a big-ass bonfire. Looks like there’s a nice pit down by the lake.”
He’s far too even tempered right now.
I rest my head against his chest, trying my best to focus on the positives—I’m in Alaska with Jonah, and we’ve bought our first home together. A place that’s going to see so many important milestones for us. It’s a bit of clutter, some dirt. Nothing we can’t easily deal with. Nothing compared to what we’ve already faced together.
“I am so damn annoyed,” I growl.
