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One
Then
From: Emilia Bonacci
To: Emilia Bonacci
Subject: So excited!
Dear Emilia,
I know it’s strange writing emails to myself, but the most amazing thing happened today, and I know I’ll want to remember this day forever.
I met a boy…
“The house is over ninety years old and needs some fixin’, but it stands strong as ever and could be worse.”
Emilia Bonacci stood before the rag-tag rural cottage and wrapped her arms around her ribcage, the unfamiliar older man speaking from her left. His faded delivery van stood parked just behind her, her faded red Pinto next to that. All she really knew of him was his name, Frank Cooper, and that he and his wife owned the grocery store in town.
The cottage’s ancient, banged-up exterior pulled at the tension surrounding her heart. So much for agreeing to rent a place sight-unseen, but what choice did she have?
Despite the bad omen, the Minnesotan countryside, with its sprawling gold-green and sun-drenched hills, offered redemption. But even that redemption wasn’t so clear-cut.
No. Unlike any normal person, the quaint spring scene didn’t lend her total comfort. The added solitude here offered equal parts privacy with the potential for her uninterrupted and violent death.
That’s only if he finds me. He might not find me.
She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a breath. No one in Harlow knew her story. She had to control her fear, or this man beside her would guess something was wrong.
She opened her eyes and looked for a positive. The cottage’s timber walls housed sizable windows with cornflower-blue shutters. Perfect. Simple. Sweet. Small panes of glass sat between those shutters, a grid of squares, some stained in a mix of joyful jewel tones. The wheat and grass plains as a sparkling spring backdrop didn’t hurt.
She cleared her throat, her voice rusty from days of having nothing but her own company. “I can work with this.”
A lie. She’d rarely held a hammer, much less repaired a house. At 5’4” with an oft-reported “prim” demeanor, she couldn’t blame Frank for his dubious sidelong stare.
Still, her heart danced with a glint of excitement for the first time since leaving Los Angeles. Maybe her new life wouldn’t be so bad. Living in an apartment had never suited her, and the cottage reminded her of the rickety house she’d grown up in long before her family’s “good fortune” ruined everything.
“I wouldn’t go fallin’ in love just yet.” Frank trudged up the tapered dirt path, his heavy work boots crunching gravel. “The last tenants didn’t treat her good, so the inside’s not so great.”
Her stomach sank. Love or not, she’d already paid her rental deposit and invested too much into staying in Harlow. This cottage was her only option.
She padded behind Frank, not inclined to make waves, like the good little woman she’d been raised to be. Being invisible could be a literal lifesaver.
A cool gust swept over the hill, pushing dark brown curls from her eyes. The sun beat on her cheekbones just a fraction too strong, and the cottage in its ramshackle state added to the discomfort. This was the second last place in the world she wanted to sleep tonight, and she would have loved to mumble a peeved, “Fuck my life,” but even swearing wasn’t in her MO.
So, double “fuck my life.”
In reality, all she did was groan under her breath and make her way up the veranda steps, where Frank held the front door open and allowed her in first. An eyeful of a rough-and-tumble hallway greeted her, and dust particles caught the light ahead while white powdery debris coated worn floorboards. Meanwhile, the wall’s yellowed plaster bore a gray tinge that made her poker-straight spine slump.
“Ya, I figure they didn’t know how to unblock a chimney.” Frank’s voice had her turning toward him, the man rubbing the back of his neck, his lips pinched on one side. “Smoke marks on damn near everything. I fixed the blockage, but the place still needs a good clean.”
She snapped her shoulders back again and lightened her expression. “There’s a fireplace?”
The apartment hadn’t had one of those. Besides, Frank here didn’t need to feel any worse about this place than he already seemed to.
“Right this way.” He led her through a door to the right, into a cozy living room—messy but still inviting. “So, I saw from the I.D. you supplied that you’re from LA. What made you choose little ol’ Harlow?”
She made a show of inspecting the room, of running her fingertips over the dark wood mantle, her fingers collecting gray, chalky residue—all an attempt to distract herself, and Frank, with her room-gazing. First thing, she would open some windows and let some fresh air in. Well, after she found the bathroom and did something about her dusty fingers.
