CHAPTER 3
Lauren
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, a delightful British drawl cutting through the hum of the plane.“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just landed at Birmingham International Airport. Local time is 2:17 p.m. Welcome to England.”
He informs us about the weather and finishes with ‘the thanks for flying with us’ spiel, but through it all I’m almost afraid to breathe. Eventually the plane lands and taxis to a halt and the cabin erupts in movement—seatbelts clicking, overhead bins snapping open—but I just sit there, frozen, my hands clenched around the armrests. My stomachis a knot, twisting tighter.
This is it. I’m here.
My adventure starts right here and now.
I shuffle off the jetway with my carry-on, a small, green beat-up suitcase. It rolls behind me, its wheels clattering against the tiled floor. The airport is gray and sterile, smelling of coffee and disinfectant. Voices bouncing off the walls in accents and languages I have never heard of. Outside the glass walls the skies are gray and it’s raining steadily. I’m jet-lagged, my eyes feel gritty, and my legs are stiff from six hours crammed in economy, but there’s a buzz under my skin—nerves, yeah, but the excitement too.
I told myself I’d give this a shot, one honest go. Worst case, I hate it, sell the place, pocket the cash and use it to fix my life back in the States. Best case… maybe this is the change I’ve been looking for. I’ve quit my job, burned through half my savings to get my affairs in order before leaving, and now I’ve got no clue what I’m walking into.
Please, God, don’t let it be a nasty surprise.
The rental caris a tiny Ford Fiesta. I wrestle my suitcases into the trunk before sliding behind the wheel. Right side of the road—shit, that’s gonna take some getting used to. The GPS spits out directions to Berrygrove, a name I heard of for the first time on the lawyer’s paperwork, some speck in the Midlands an hour and a half from here. Google images showed a quaint market town with a cobblestone town centre, pretty and oh so English. It is surrounded by gorgeous green countryside, but at the moment the view around me is pretty dreary.
The route’s a slog—motorways first, the M42 droning with lorries and rain-slicked asphalt, wipers squeaking against the windshield. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, heart thudding as I lean forward and mutter curses at every roundabout.
“Left, no, fuck—right!” A horn blares impatiently. “Oops, sorry, sorry.”
I’m a mess, second-guessing every turn, but then the rain stops and the green starts creeping in—fields, hedgerows, sheep scattered like dirty cotton balls. It’s Instagram-worthy picturesque, and normally I would have been stopping to take selfies, but I’m too wired today.
The roads narrow, twisting into lanes barely wide enough for even the tin can of a car I’m in. Branches scrape the sides, and I flinch, imagining dents I can’t afford. My phone signal drops to one bar, then none—great, stranded in nowhere. The GPS lags, but finally, a sign: Berryhill, 2 miles. My chest tightens, breath shallow. Google earth was useless so I’ve got no idea what this cottage looks like—cute little stone thing? Total wreck? The lawyer said it was“rustic”. Whatever that means. I just hope it’s not a money pit. I’ve got enough for a few months, maybe, if I’m stingy. This has to work.
The village sneaks up on me—stone cottages, a pub called The Fox they’re sales-manager hands, good for typing quotas, not hauling dirt. Still, I picture it—me out here, sweaty and tanned, tearing out the junk, planting seeds, coaxing this disaster into something alive. A garden I could sit in, beer in hand, watching the sun dip behind those rolling hills. My breath catches, a stupid lump rising in my throat. Grandma must’ve stood here once, maybe saw the same thing before it all went to shit. Did she give up, or did it just slip away?
I feel a spark—a hope, faint but stubborn, rooting itself in me. This space is wide open, screaming for a purpose.
A thrill of excitement flows through me as the realization hits home. All of this space is mine! It is not a lease Ihave tobleed blood and guts for. It belongs to me. And only me.
Sure, the yardisa wreck now, but I could make it really mine. I could build something good. The thought settles in me, warm and fragile, rays of hope sneaking in through the ruin around me.
I glance up, past the tangled mess of my yard, and catch sight of the manor again—sleek and magnificent, its stone walls glowing in the late afternoon light, a fairy-tale beast dwarfing my little wreck. My chest tightens, not with defeat, but with something fiercer. Something I’ve never felt before in life. I decide right then, standing in those beginning rays of English sunset, and with my boots sinking in the mud, that I’ll make my cottage as beautiful as that manor, or hell, even better. Not just pretty—breathtaking, alive, mine.
“One more instance where size doesn’t matter,” I mutter to myself, and a dry chuckle slips out. I can almost hear Sandy laughing with me, and it’s enough to prepare me to fight for my plot of chaos.
“I’ll never give you up,” I whisper to the wind as it blows in the direction of the manor.