Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
EVIE
Once upon a time, I used to love road trips. The snacks, the music, the endless stretch of road ahead of me.
But that was before I drove seven hundred miles with one arm stretched into the backseat, hooked over the edge of Juno’s rear-facing car seat so she could hold onto my fingers. Or so I could retrieve her pacifier or stroke her forehead or tickle her shoulder in what were mostly fruitless attempts to calm her fussing.
Not to mention the fifteen billion times we stopped at rest stops to nurse or change diapers or question every decision I’ve ever made in my life.
Now that I’m finally standing outside my new home in Harvest Hollow, I’m pretty sure I never need another road trip for as long as I live.
All things considered, it probably could have been worse. Juno slept a lot more than I expected, and we had good weather the entire way. So I said a few more swear words than I should have when I stopped to change Juno’s diaper in rural Virginia. It’s fine! We survived! Plus, she did shoot poop all the way up to her shoulder blades, so I kinda feel like at least sixty percent of those swear words were justified.
And now we’re finally here in Harvest Hollow—a town I’d never even heard of until I stumbled across the listing for an apprenticeship that triggered my move. When I was researching the city, the internet told me it’s a top destination in the fall both because of the fall leaves covering the Appalachian mountains, which are admittedly gorgeous, and because Harvest Hollow goes all in on celebrating the season. I drove down Maple Street on my way in, which appears to be the town’s main thoroughfare, and quickly concluded that the internet doesn’t lie. Pumpkins and hay bales on every street corner, fall leaves in every window display, twinkle lights overhead. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I might not believe a place like this actually exists. It’s picturesque to the point of seeming like it could only exist in a Hallmark movie.
And yet, here it is.
As long as my family is in White Plains, a part of my heart will always be in New York. But I’m liking the change and challenge of being out on my own. If only because I’m more ready than ever for a fresh start.
Or, fresh- ish? I can’t completely start over when I’m financially dependent on my mother-in-law. Ex- mother-in-law now, I guess. But I wouldn’t be here without her, and honestly, I’m lucky she still wants to be involved at all.
After her son basically signed over his parental rights in the divorce, giving me full custody of Juno, not every mother-in-law would want to be.
Devon is the youngest in his family, a surprise baby ten years younger than his closest sibling. His dad passed away a few years back, but his mom, Karen, is an active, busy grandma. Her three daughters are all married, all living in the same coastal Oregon town where they grew up, and they’ve given Karen seven grandkids that she sees all the time. But she still flew out to see me right after Juno was born, still talked to me like I was as much a part of her family as I was before the divorce. Best of all, she apologized profusely for her son’s ridiculous behavior and promised she would help me financially for as long as I needed it.
It killed me to take her up on the offer. My identity is rooted firmly in self-sufficiency, and having someone send money every month simply because I believed all the lies her son told me feels wrong. Like I’m taking advantage.
If I only had to think about myself, I probably would have declined. But I’ll swallow any amount of discomfort for Juno.
Besides. I can’t make this apprenticeship work without her help, and I really want it to work.
First order of business?
Make the house in front of me look as cute as it did in the rental listing. It’s mostly what I saw in the pictures. Same front porch, same bright blue shutters. But the overflowing flowerpots are nowhere to be found. Same with the porch swing and the neatly manicured front lawn.
I was excited about that porch swing. I thought it might be a nice place to sit with Juno.
I take a deep breath and look back at the car.
It’s going to be fine.
It has to be fine, because I’m here, and I’m definitely not driving back to White Plains.
And really, I shouldn’t be so critical of the house. I just need to warm it up a little. I can’t exactly expect spring flowers in the middle of fall. But if I add a few of those pumpkins I saw all over Maple Street and some brightly colored mums, the house will be halfway to what I expected, just like that.
I move back to my Honda and pull Juno’s carrier out of the back seat. She was asleep when I pulled up, but she’s awake now, staring up at me with wide blue eyes. She smiles when she sees me and kicks her pajama-clad feet.
Just looking at her stills some of the panic creeping into my heart. Nothing calms me faster than knowing I have to be calm for her.
With Juno’s carrier looped over one arm, I step back up to the front seat and grab my violin—the only other thing I won’t leave in the car—then head up the sidewalk to my new porch. I pass the enormous moving pod sitting in the driveway, ignoring the sense of overwhelm that creeps in whenever I think about unpacking it by myself. I’ll at least have help moving it all inside, but after that, I’ll have to come up with some sort of system. Unpack a box, feed the baby. Unpack another box…feed the baby again.
When I reach the porch, the boards on the bottom step look like they’ve been recently replaced, which makes me feel a little better about the empty flower beds and leaf-strewn lawn.
And the street looks nice too. All the Craftsman-style houses are small, including mine, but they look loved and well maintained, with wide sidewalks on either side and a line of maple trees with bright yellow leaves shading the pavement.
The front door has a coded entry, so I pull up the latest email from my landlord to retrieve the code. I read over his message one more time.
Hi Evie, I hope you find all in order once you arrive. The code is the same for the front door and the garage. There’s a key in the kitchen drawer that will open the back door in case you ever need it. The back door sticks when it rains, so you might have to pull extra hard on those days. Also, watch out for the bottom step on the front porch. I didn’t notice it was rotten until I was on my way out of town, but I’ll fix it next month as soon as I return. I’m backpacking in Yosemite until October 20th, so I’ll have limited access to cell service, but I’ll check messages as often as I can. The code for the door is 7412. Cheers— John
I look back at the step, which is definitely not rotten, and frown. If John didn’t do it, who did?
“Hello?”
I spin around to see an elderly woman with deep brown skin and striking gray hair making her way up the front walk. She’s carrying a tinfoil-covered pie plate in her hands, and she smiles wide when we make eye contact.
“You must be Evie,” she says.
“Um, yes?”
She climbs the steps and stops in front of me. “I’m Ruth. I live a few houses down.”
“Oh. Hi. Nice to meet you.”
She looks down at Juno’s carrier and smiles. “And this must be Juno.”
There is nothing even a little bit creepy or uncomfortable about this woman. Everything about her vibe is friendly and kind, but it still feels a little weird that she knows my name and Juno’s name.
“I’m sorry, do we—was it the landlord who told you about me?”
Her eyes widen like she’s just remembered something very important. “Oh! I skipped right over that part, didn’t I? Look at me, walking up here like we’re already friends when I’m nothing but a stranger to you.”
“No, I’m so happy to meet you. Just a little confused.”
Ruth smiles. “We have friends in common. My nephew, Malik, he’s the manager of the Appies hockey team. He told me one of his players had a friend moving in who might be looking for a little bit of help with the baby.”
My heart speeds the slightest bit at the thought. “Alec?”
She nods. “That’s the one. I met him when he was here fixing your steps the other day. I tell you what. He’s just as handsome in person as he is on television.”
Alec.
As soon as my best friend Megan learned I was moving to North Carolina, she all but coerced me into letting her older brother, who’s the captain of the pro hockey team based in Harvest Hollow, help me move in. I clearly need it—it’s not like Juno can help me move a couch—but it’s still trippy to think about seeing Alec again.
We’ve texted twice since Megan gave me his number, just enough to confirm what time I would arrive. But we haven’t talked at all, and I haven’t seen him in years. Not since I was eighteen and he watched Megan and me walk across our high school graduation stage.
Back then, I thought the sun rose and set on Alec Sheridan. He was nine years older than me—too old for my crush to ever be anything but a silly fantasy.
But here lately, even before I decided to move, he’s been on my mind all over again.
I’ve always followed his career, watched as his hockey star rose higher and higher and his online presence grew larger and larger. But then, when Juno was three weeks old, cranky and colicky, I was up in the middle of the night, pacing through my parents’ living room trying to soothe her, mindlessly scrolling Instagram reels to keep myself awake. A video of Alec popped up, an interview in which he talked about his favorite parts of the game.
It was only four minutes long, but something about the tone of his deep voice must have soothed Juno because she settled as soon as it started and stayed quiet until it ended. When I scrolled onto the next video, she started fussing again, so we went back to Alec.
It worked like magic.
Three and a half months later, I’ve listened to that four-minute video no less than a hundred times.
Me and a million other fans, apparently. It’s one of his most popular videos.
Alec’s Instagram account isn’t the biggest of the Appies, but he still has over five hundred thousand followers. That’s a lot of people.
But I knew him before.
I know how much he loves his sister. How good and kind and protective he is.
I was there when he got the phone call about his hockey scholarship to Cornell, and I went to countless college games with Megan, the two of us wearing matching jerseys, Alec’s name and number printed on the back. I heard about him signing with the Appies the same day it happened, when Megan called to tell me the good news, and I was there when he graduated from college.
In my mind, Alec was larger than life. Perfect in all the ways a man should be perfect.
It’s nothing short of surreal to think of him coming over here early, checking on my house and fixing my steps.
Apparently, imagining Alec wielding a hammer is more than enough to reignite my long-dormant feelings, because a twinge of something familiar pushes against my ribcage, making my chest flush with heat and my skin tingle with awareness.
Except… no. Those are not feelings I need. I can feel gratitude, maybe even hints of admiration. But now is not the time for a crush, and not just because he’s my best friend’s older brother. Barely a year out from my divorce, I’m not even sure I’m capable of the emotions a relationship would require.
Not that I would actually expect the internet’s favorite hockey captain to ever be interested in me. I’m just saying if he was, I don’t think it would matter. Sometimes I feel like my divorce acted like a factory reset, and I’m having to learn how to love and trust all over again.
The only exception to the very depressing condition of my heart is Juno. Loving her is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Most of the time, I have no idea how to mother her or teach her or raise her into a capable human. But loving her—that’s like breathing.
In the carrier at my feet, Juno starts to fuss, and I pick it up, swinging it back and forth. She’s going to need to eat soon and probably needs her diaper changed.
“Alec is my best friend Megan’s older brother,” I say to Ruth. “That’s why he’s helping out. I’ve known him since I was a kid.”
“Is that right?” Ruth says. “Well, it’s wonderful he’s here and willing to help. Now, I know we’ve just met and you’re under no obligation to be my friend, but I retired last year, after teaching for thirty-seven years. My kids are off living their lives and haven’t given me any grandchildren yet, and my husband passed six months ago, leaving me all alone in a house that’s too empty, too big for just me.”
My heart squeezes at the mention of her husband’s passing, but Ruth blazes on, her expression shuttering just enough for me to sense she’d rather not dwell on it.
“I’ve got a knack for babies,” she continues, “so if you need a helping hand, I hope you’ll call me.” She holds up the pie plate and looks at the bottom. “I taped my phone number to the bottom of the pie plate. Chicken pot pie. Figured you’d need food more than you’d need dessert, what with a baby to care for.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Juno’s crying escalates, so I put her carrier down long enough to check my landlord’s note one more time and type the code into the front door lock.
Ruth sets the pie down on the porch railing behind her and picks up the carrier, swinging Juno just like I was. “Beautiful baby,” she says. “Look at those big eyes.”
Juno quiets at the sound of Ruth’s voice as I push open my front door. It creaks as it swings inward, and a wave of musty, damp air washes over my face. Frowning, I take one step into the living room, and the carpet squishes under my foot, water seeping up on either side of my sneaker.
So…that’s fun.
There’s a lake in my new living room.