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The house was at 18 Sycamore Street and it might be a little bit smaller than it had looked in the realtor’s photo. It was ten times as adorable in person, however. The tiny two-bedroom bungalow was painted mint green. It had a red door and black shutters framed the leaded glass windows. Icicles hung from the roof and glinted in the sunlight as they dripped onto boughs of the cedar greenery that was artfully arranged in the window boxes.
“Welcome to your home.” The real estate agent, a beautiful woman named Charlotte, unlocked the door and handed me the key.
“My home for the next month,” I added.
“That’s what everyone says.” Charlotte grinned and raised her eyebrows at me. “Next thing I know, you’ll be calling me to buy a place, not just for a short-term rental.”
“I wish.” I set my bags down on the jute runner and looked around the room feeling pleasantly surprised. “It’s just like the photos,” I gushed.
“Of course. We’re not in the business of photoshopping white picket fences into our pictures.”
The feeling of stepping into my new, albeit, temporary life was a little overwhelming, and I turned to see that I had completely missed the picket fence. “It’s adorable,” I spoke quietly, almost to myself.
Charlotte rested her hand on my arm and spoke in a kind voice. “You will be responsible for shoveling the front pathway.” She patted my arm and then held up a shovel that had been propped in the corner of the mudroom. “We have a property maintenance company that will do the driveway and the roof if it needs it.”
I nodded. “Got it.”
Charlotte set down the shovel. “Is there anything else?”
I knew that I’d think of ten thousand questions the second that Charlotte O’Hare left, but at the moment my mind was blank. “I… I don’t think so. Thank you, Charlotte.” I shook her hand. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Welcome to Chance Rapids, Julia.” Her smile was warm, as if she knew I was embarking on a journey and needed encouragement. “The diner has the best greasy food, Sugar Peaks has the best coffee, and there’s a craft beer house on Main Street called the Beardog.”
“So much has changed.” I had been shocked when I saw the downtown core of Chance Rapids. “Except for the diner, I remember that place.” I smiled at the bittersweet memory I had of the diner that was attached to the gas station.
Charlotte tilted her head. “Changed? Have you been here before?”
I drew in an audible breath as I decided how much of my ridiculous story to tell the extremely well-put-together small-town realtor. We had set up the rental over email and she hadn’t asked why I was spending the month in her town. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing in Chance Rapids either, but at thirty-five, I felt like I was too young for a mid-life crisis. “I came here on a ski trip ten years ago.”
Charlotte smiled. “That was when the ski hill first opened. You’re right, things have changed since then.” She slung her Prada handbag over her shoulder and put on her leather gloves. “Except the Last Chance Tavern. It’s exactly the same. Don’t go there on Tuesday night.”
I hadn’t gone to the Last Chance Tavern the first time around. “What happens on Tuesday?”
Charlotte laughed. “It turns into the only adult entertainment facility in town.”
“Strippers?”
“Yep. And local amateurs.”
“Wow. Thanks for letting me know.” I wasn’t a prude, but a small-town strip club wasn’t exactly my scene.
“With the right crowd it can be a lot of fun…to watch,” Charlotte added. She didn’t seem like the type to swing around a pole after one too many glasses of Chardonnay, but, based on my past two relationships, I wasn’t exactly the best judge of character.
Charlotte scrolled through her phone with a furrowed brow. “Julia. I have to go. Call me if you have any questions. There’s a book on the coffee table filled with information, but if you have any issues, I can be reached day or night.”
Charlotte rushed out the door toward her Cadillac SUV.
“Thanks again, nice to meet you,” I shouted and waved.
My realtor returned the wave as she spun to look at me. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you again. It is Chance Rapids after all.”
After Charlotte drove off, I explored every room in the small house. The main bedroom could barely fit the queen-sized bed. Also, it was a good thing that I had packed lightly because the closets were tiny. The décor was quaint, not quite ski lodge, but not quite country farmhouse either. Handmade quilts were folded in a pile on the end of the beds, and a beautiful round stone fireplace took up the entire wall in the living room. I ended up in the kitchen and leaned against the white farmhouse sink to pull back the lace curtains to look into the backyard. The snowbanks were almost as tall as the deck and a hot tub took up most of the space, steam escaping from beneath its cover.
I smiled as I opened the brass doors to the fireplace. Someone had left kindling and wood on top of some crumpled-up paper, ready to light. An antique matchbox was affixed to the wall next to the fireplace. I struck a match and tossed it into the paper. The satisfying crackle of the cedar kindling catching on fire made me smile.
A tea kettle sat on the stove and I used one of the matches from the fireplace to light the gas burner. I leaned against the counter and waited for the water to boil, wondering what to do next.
I bit my nail and started to wonder what I was going to do with myself for an entire month. I’d brought ten books with me, but could I honestly curl up in front of a fire and read for an entire month straight? I hadn’t skied since the last time I’d been in Chance Rapids. My ankle throbbed with the memory of the last day I’d spent on skis. That day had ended in a broken ankle—and heart.
