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“I know. She called ahead.” The old woman who was at least eighty—and looked every bit of it—pushed the screen door aside and said, “The kitchen is this way. You can leave it on the counter.”
She didn’t even try to argue with the woman. Stepping inside the old farmhouse, Vivian took in the décor of colorful woven area rugs, antique furniture, aged photographs of family members that spanned generations. The kitchen itself was dated but clean, with a real butcher-block island and one of those giant metal sink basins overlooking the rear of the property.
Vivian set the pie on the island, her attention drawn to that window, to the picturesque scenery beyond. The sun was starting to set, setting the sky off in brilliant colors of purples, pinks, and oranges that, coupled with the acres of field and tall grasses and old trees, made it look like a Bob Ross painting.
“I love watching the horses run while I wash dishes,” the woman said, breaking into Vivian’s thoughts.
“It’s a gorgeous view. You can’t buy anything like it in the city.”
“I knew you were a city girl the moment I saw ya,” the old woman said, appraising her. “Which city?”
“Chicago.”
This elicited the same reaction Jack had. “Kind of far from home, aren’t ya?”
Vivian merely nodded. “I needed a change of scenery.”
The woman stared into her eyes, intelligence and understanding reflecting back at her. “Well, you came to the right place.”
“Oh, I’m just passing through,” Vivian said yet again. Three times in as many hours. She was starting to feel like a broken record.
“Nonsense,” the woman said, waving her off as if she’d just said the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “It’s getting late. A young woman like yourself shouldn’t be driving around at night, especially in unknown places. You’ll stay here.”
Shocked, her head spinning from the sudden change in conversation, Vivian scrambled to catch up to the woman who was now retreating from the room faster than her weathered body seemed capable.
“I appreciate the offer, but I couldn’t impose,” she argued.
“No imposition at all. My late husband and I used to run this place as a bed and breakfast before he went and kicked the bucket. Now, I just offer up a room now and then when someone’s in need.” She threw a smile over her shoulder as she reached the stairs and rounded the carved banister. “Humor an old woman, would ya? I don’t get company too often these days.” Vivian hesitated, feeling pity for the woman. “Besides, I make a killer breakfast. Not what my old Pete died from, I assure you. That was the tobacco and whiskey habit I’d warned him off of for years.” She started ascending the steps. “Come, bedrooms are this way. There are six. Mine’s on the first floor now, so you can have your pick.”
The pressure was on yet again. How could Vivian say no to such a nice and generous offer? So…she would stay. Just one night because she was tired and a homemade breakfast didn’t sound too bad, and it saved her some money, too, but then she would be on her way.
To not be a pain in the ass, she chose the first room at the top of the stairs, and if it was even half as nice as the rest of them, she was amazed.
Decorated in soft blue and white linens with matching checkered drapes dressing two windows poised on either side of the enormous bed, the room was stuffed with rich antique wooden furniture and accented with soft touches of home: an old wash basin, brass candlestick holders, crystal vase stuffed with a spray of real wildflowers…
If she didn’t know better, Vivian would think the woman had been expecting her and cut them just for her. The pride-filled smile the woman wore, though, made her think she probably cut fresh flowers for each room daily, just to keep things nice.
“This is beautiful,” Vivian complimented her. “You have an amazing home.”
“Thank you. I decorated it myself.”
“You have a good eye.” Hell, in the city, people paid hundreds of thousands to achieve a similar effect, but Vivian could honestly say she’d never seen it this well done. Authentic was definitely the key.
Getting on with it, the woman shuffled over to the bed and turned down the blankets, then made her way to each window, drawing the curtains. “Even in the country, you gotta watch out for peeping Toms.” She winked. “I’ll be downstairs, so you know where to find me if you need anything. Food is in the fridge. Help yourself. As they say down south, mi casa es su casa,” she said with a chuckle.
Vivian couldn’t help smiling at her sense of humor. She seemed like a delightful old woman. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said before the woman could slip away.
“It’s Gretta. And you would be…”
“Vivian.”
“That’s a name you don’t hear too often. But fitting,” she said, giving her the once-over.
That’d happened to her so many times today, Vivian could form a complex if she allowed herself, but she liked her name, and she knew she wasn’t ugly. It was probably just the way people did things around here—inspecting the newcomers.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Ms. Gretta. I promise not to be a bother any more than I already have, and I’ll be out of your hair first thing in the morning.”
“Psssh. Nonsense. It’s no bother, and you’ll hang around long enough to get a proper meal.” She narrowed cloudy eyes at her. “Promise you won’t go sneaking out of here soon as the sun rises?”
