7. Clara
Chapter seven
Clara
C losing day finally arrives, but it’s already off on the wrong foot.
Although I hired a moving company to transport and unload my furniture, my parents were planning to drive down to Noel for the day to see the cabin and help me unpack. Unfortunately, my mom came down with the flu yesterday. Of course, I insisted my dad stay home to take care of her. Madison is out of town visiting her sister, so that means I’m flying solo for the first major purchase of my adult life. Well, minus that college degree I’m still paying off.
My nerves are buzzing as I make the drive down to Noel. Dawn will meet me there to sign closing papers, but then she has to head straight back to KC for an open house this afternoon. The moving truck is supposed to arrive at the cabin around 11:00 a.m., giving me enough time to sign the papers and hopefully walk through my new “home” for the first time before the chaos of unloading begins.
As I get closer to Noel, I’m slowly immersed in woodsy scenery. I leave the interstate for a smaller highway, which occasionally winds along the Deer River. The fall leaves are still hanging on to the trees even in late October, so lovely they bring tears to my eyes. Or maybe it’s the overflowing wellspring of emotions causing that moisture.
I slow down as I enter the city limits of Noel. Although, “city” might be a generous term. The town appears to be tiny, but I do notice the grocery market and small coffee shop right next door as I drive down Main Street. Paint is peeling on many of the buildings, some showing even further signs of neglect. But it also looks to have all the trappings of a tight-knit community. On the bank of the river are several picnic benches and a playground, while a bar and grill advertising “drive-up boat service” connects the edge of Main Street to the river bay.
Dawn’s car is already parked outside the small real estate office, so I park behind her and head inside. Twenty minutes doesn’t seem like nearly enough time to sign away part of your life. Yet that’s all it takes to finish the closing papers and receive the keys to my new cabin. This surreal moment deserves more fanfare than a simple exchange of signatures for keys. But Dawn’s enthusiastic hug will have to suffice.
“I’m so, so sorry I can’t come with you to see the cabin,” she says when we walk out to our cars. “I’ll already need to speed a little to make it back in time for the open house.”
“Please, Dawn, since when do you speed a little? You always speed a lot !” I tease. She laughs with me. “Seriously though, thanks for making the trip down here for closing. And for finding this place! Words can’t express my gratitude.”
She gives me another quick hug before hopping into her car. I take a moment in mine to stare at the new keys in my hand, smiling to myself. Maybe I was crazy to do this, to buy a house I’ve never seen before. But right now, all I’m experiencing is excitement.
I punch in my new address and follow the GPS on a winding road to the outskirts of town. The layered cliffside juts out over the road in one section, creating a shaded canopy and dripping spring water on my windshield. I take a left that turns into more of a U-turn onto a steep road leading up to the top of that cliff. The driveway is poorly marked, causing me to drive right past it. To-do item one: new numbers for the mailbox, I mentally note.
Reversing the car, I pull into the drive and follow the beaten path around a wide circle to park in front of the cabin. I scooch as far to the side as possible to leave a wide berth for the moving truck. Hopefully it can make it up that steep incline—I’m extra glad I hired professional movers now.
Body trembling with adrenaline, I walk along the rustic stone pathway to the front porch. The cabin looks just as cozy as it did in the photos, at least from the outside. The full, mature trees give the illusion of total seclusion, although I know I drove past a few neighbors’ houses along the road.
The front door has both a traditional lock and a keypad, so I make another mental note to update the code today. I turn the key in the lock, take a deep breath, and swing the front door open.
Daylight streams through the windows, and I survey the open concept living room to the left and kitchen to the right. The fixtures and hardware in the kitchen are outdated, but with time I can replace them with my style. The hardwood floors give that true log cabin ambiance, while the large stone fireplace adds a homey touch to the living room. I walk behind the central fireplace to the hallway behind, where the sunroom is the first space you see.
Tears fill my eyes again as I step into the room, fully able to appreciate the warmth of the sun flooding through the windows. The fall leaves create a backdrop so picturesque it could be misconstrued as computer-generated.
This is even better than the listing photos.
I continue down the hallway to see the bathroom door on the left, most of the space taken up by a gigantic soaking tub. The previous owners must have been fans of hot baths, a circumstance I’m happy to capitalize on. Beyond the bathroom is the single bedroom, with the perfect amount of space for a queen bed, night stands, and a small dresser.
A massive sigh of relief escapes my lungs. Although the inspection didn’t turn up any structural concerns, it was still a gamble to purchase this place without seeing it in person. But I feel as though I’m holding a royal flush—I can’t even imagine a more perfect writing retreat.
Returning to the sunroom, I open the sliding door and step onto the deck. To-do item three: find some cozy porch furniture. Closing my eyes, I listen to the silence, punctuated only by a pair of cardinals calling to each other. My mouth widens into a grin as I tilt my face to the sun and twirl in a circle, arms held wide.
Thank you, Aunt Gloria. This is better than any dream.
I’m ready to collapse from exhaustion after a long day of directing the movers. Okay, let’s be honest—I carried half the boxes in myself. I couldn’t idly stand by while they were working. I heat a cup of noodles in the microwave and quickly devour it, eager to take a long soak in that giant bathtub.
I kept shower cleaner in an easily accessible box so I could give the tub a good scrub first. After using the attached shower head to rinse away the cleaner residue, I turn up the water temperature and add a healthy dose of pumpkin spice bubble bath to the running water. I don’t prefer drinking pumpkin spice lattes, but I don’t mind smelling like one. Humming to myself as the tub fills, I arrange my hair products and soap along the ledge. I hang a fluffy towel and my favorite cozy robe on the nearby hooks.
I queue up my Dave Barnes Christmas playlist on my phone, turn on the overhead heat lamp, and ease myself into the sudsy water. I close my eyes and lean against the back of the tub, grateful for the large size accommodating my 5’ 8” frame. The standard shower/tub combo in my apartment doesn’t lend itself to relaxing baths for tall-ish people.
I did it. I’m doing it. I’m making my dreams real.
After thirty minutes of bliss, my pruned fingers tell me it’s time to get out of the repeatedly reheated water. I use the shower head to wash and condition my hair, carefully brushing through the curls while wet.
While the water drains, I wrap myself in my velvet robe and use an old t-shirt to scrunch water out of my hair before working in curl cream. I wipe my hand over the fogged mirror so I can apply serums and night creams to my face.
After such a long day, I should be ready for bed, but I’m wide awake now. I smile at my reflection in the mirror, picturing myself in my overstuffed chair in the sunroom with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book. Or maybe my laptop? Are the creative juices flowing to write tonight, or should I wait until I’m mentally fresh tomorrow?
I turn off the heat lamp and twist the door-knob.
The door doesn’t budge.
Brow furrowed, I pull harder. Nothing.
I wipe my hands on a towel, ready to put my full strength into my next effort. I turn the doorknob, then pull as hard as I can. This turns out very unfortunately for me when the doorknob comes clean out of the door. I topple backward with the full force of my pulling strength.
Oh no.
I try to put the knob back into the hole in the door, jiggling it around, as if that would magically make it click back into place. I then abandon the knob altogether and try to grab through the circular hole to pull on the door.
No. No. Nonononononono. This can’t be happening.
It’s my first night in my perfect writing retreat cabin, and I’m stuck in the bathroom. Literally stuck in the bathroom. The small window opens, but it’s clearly made for ventilation, not escape purposes.
I quickly dial Dawn, praying she’ll answer. Just when I’m certain I’m about to hear her voice mail recording, she picks up. “DAWN! I’m trapped in the bathroom and the doorknob came off and I can’t get out and I don’t know anyone in town to call to help me and what do I do?” I frantically ramble.
Dawn slows me down for an explanation, so I give her the specifics of my predicament.
“Well, that’s . . . unfortunate,” Dawn replies.
“Yes, fully aware how unfortunate this is, Dawn,” I retort. “Now tell me what to do.”
“Let me call the seller’s agent and see if she has a suggestion of someone who can come over to get you out,” Dawn says. “I’ll call you right back.”
I pace the approximate distance of a 5K back and forth in the bathroom waiting for my phone to ring. I can’t believe this is happening. Of course, this day was too good to be true.
I’m staring at my phone, so the ring tone doesn’t even sound before I’ve answered Dawn’s incoming call. “Well?”
“Don’t worry, Clara. The agent gave me the number of the town handyman. I called him to see if he could help. He’s going to come over and get the door open for you. I just need you to text me the code you set on the front door so he can get in,” Dawn tells me.
“How do you know this person is trustworthy? I’m supposed to hand over the proverbial keys to my house to a complete stranger? What if he’s a serial killer?!” The octave of my voice rises as a new wave of panic sets in.
“The seller’s agent was perfectly nice—you met her, remember? I hardly think she’s going to risk her reputation, or the town’s, by sending a serial killer after you. Text me the code, and then text me later to let me know you’re alive and not in a ditch somewhere,” she replies, an eye roll in her voice.
“How will you know it’s me texting you and not the serial killer throwing you off his track?” I counter.
“Use the code phrase, ‘My nonsensical imagination had nothing to fear’ when you send me proof of life,” she says.
I huff, but don’t argue.
“Code, please?”
“Fine, two-five-one-two.”
“Okay, just hang tight. Help is on the way—and his name is Clark.”