Chapter 37 Blythe
BLYTHE
“There’s no rush, my dear,” Martha whispers as we walk through a flat that doesn’t look anything like the photos posted online. Even the realtor is having a hard time trying to be positive.
“I know, but the sooner we establish a routine, the better,” I reply, eyeing an odd brown spot on the ceiling as I walk from the kitchen to the living room. “I definitely don’t think this is the place for us though,” I admit.
She makes a quiet, disgusted noise behind me, and I know she has seen the spot too.
This is the fifth property we’ve looked at this week and by far the worst one. In a perfect world I’d find a house with a little yard, but the two houses we looked at needed far more work than I was willing to do on my own.
Ideally, I would like to have a place before Maggi starts school, but as we walk back to Martha’s car, I’m starting to realize that’s not going to be possible.
I fly home in two weeks to pack up our house and prepare to put it on the market, something I feel sick about.
I know I’m making the right choice for not only Maggi, but for me as well.
I’m just not sure I’m truly prepared for what it all means.
“Maybe the next one?” Martha says cheerfully, not letting my mood defeat her relentless optimism.
The next one has potential. It’s a three-bedroom freehold with a decently sized backyard.
The kitchen is dated, but things have been well maintained.
The modern furnishings, although staged, give me a nice idea of what my things would look like and the set of Jane Austen along with other classics on the built-in bookshelf seems like a sign.
The books Sam gave me two weeks ago and have sat untouched in my tote bag would look great on that shelf.
As would the copy of From Away that arrived last week.
I wonder what Sam would think of this place. Would it suit him more than his Vancouver condo? Not that it matters. But that doesn’t stop me from daydreaming about it anyway.
“What did I say?” Martha squeezes my shoulders as she wanders by. “This place is pretty perfect for the two of you.”
“It’s definitely a contender,” I affirm as we step back outside.
There’s one more on the schedule tomorrow.
Closer to Martha and Thomas’ place but farther from the school Maggi is registered at.
We can walk there from this house. It’s one of the reasons Eric and I bought the house we thought we’d be spending the next decade in at least. Close enough to a school to walk.
When I get to the road, I look back at the house, I can see Maggi bursting out the front door to greet her grandparents and a door that will be the perfect place for a wreath for each season.
I can also hear Eric groan about the age of the appliances and all the painting needed to freshen the entire home up.
“I’m going to put an offer on this one,” I say, getting into the car. “It needs some work, but it seems manageable. And I can walk Mags to school.”
The car starts, and Martha pulls out onto the quiet street where there are kids riding bikes down the sidewalk and others playing in front yards. It’s almost too easy to picture us here. I kind of want to fight the good feeling I have about it. As if anything that feels too easy isn’t right.
My mind wanders back to two weeks ago when things felt too easy. I didn’t fight it then, though. I embraced how good it all felt. A house is an actual commitment, however. There’s no casual hooking up with a house.
“Mommy!” Maggi jumps into my arms when we get back, launching into what she and her grandfather got up to while we were gone.
“You coloured six pictures?” I ask.
“Yep! And Papa only coloured four.”
“Not everything’s a race, Mags,” Thomas grumbles, patting her head as he walks by me to greet Martha.
“It smells amazing in here.” I dramatically sniff the air. “What’s for dinner?”
“Neeps and tatties,” Maggi quips, hopping on one foot down the hall in front of me.
“Neeps and tatties, eh? I thought you didn’t like those?” I tease, bending to pinch her sides.
She squeals and tries to squirm away from my grip. “I love neeps and tatties. All princesses do.”
I release her and take a peek in the oven, where a chicken is turning golden brown. “What about chicken? Do princesses love chicken too?”
“Yep,” she says as she gathers a bunch of paper off the dining table and brings it back, awkwardly holding up each sheet to show me her handiwork.
“Those are very colourful, Roo,” I note, taking in the multicoloured mythical animals on each page.
“Papa’s are boring,” she whispers, side-eyeing Thomas as he joins us in the kitchen.
“Accurate is the word I prefer.” Thomas chuckles while he prepares to take our dinner out of the oven. “Can you clean up our mess while I get dinner sorted, Mags?”
Maggi doesn’t need to be asked twice, she rarely has to be when her grandfather asks her to do something.
“What can I do?” I offer, giving my hands a quick wash.
“If you can take the plates out,” he nods toward a pile of dishes sitting on the counter. “I told Mags that she can put out the forks.”
“She loves to set the table.”
Thomas sets the perfectly roasted chicken on the stovetop, jiggling a leg with bare fingers as if the bird wasn’t straight from the oven.
“Eric was the same way. He hated to clear, but the boy loved to set out the cutlery. I considered getting him a butler stick for Christmas one year so he didn’t have to measure everything by eye. ”
My eyes snag on Maggi as she reaches across the table for a rogue crayon, imagining little Eric at the same table carefully placing cutlery next to plates. I’m happy that I still get to find things out about him. Especially when someone points out something Maggi does that reminds them of him.
“I can’t imagine not having a piece of him with me always,” I say quietly, my hands pausing on a water glass. “I’m so grateful to you and Martha for keeping him present for us.”
I don’t hear Thomas approach, but the next thing I know, he’s pulling me in for a hug.
“We’re grateful that you let us,” he murmurs, his accent thicker when he’s quiet. He leans back. “Are you sure you don’t want one of us to come with you next week?”
I shake my head, determination so set in my bones at this point it’s fused with my marrow. “No, I need to do it on my own.”
The task ahead of me is daunting. I’ve booked a storage unit and movers to get all the things I don’t sell into storage.
A realtor has already been hired to handle everything once the house is empty, and my visa application is with the right people.
Thankfully, Colin has helped by putting me in contact with the person on his team who deals with foreign players.
So really all I have to do is what I’m told, and things should go smoothly.
“Mommy,” Maggi whispers mid-storytime the night before her first day of school.
“Yeah, Roo?” I close the book and look down at her. Those dark brown eyes full of curiosity looking up at me, and I can sense the question before she asks it.
“When can we see the prince?” I made the mistake of telling her we’d see him again one day, and now she asks the same question every couple of days. I’m hoping that once she starts school, she’ll get distracted, and I’ll stop having to lie to her.
“I don’t know, baby,” I reply as honestly as I can without dashing her hopes.
It’s not nearly as bad as when she used to ask where Eric was, but there’s a similar emotional burden that comes along with the question.
I miss Sam, but I doubt it would be as bad if Maggi hadn’t gotten so attached to him as quickly as she did.
This is probably why people wait so long before introducing them to a new partner.
The thing is, I had no idea that I’d get attached to the man after Maggi did.
I wasn’t prepared for how I’d feel three weeks after we said goodbye, and I hate it.
In my bed I lie awake staring at the ceiling, going through a mental checklist of all the things happening in the next week.
I signed paperwork on the house, my offer was accepted today.
I take possession in a month, but we won’t move in until fall break because I don’t want to introduce another huge change for Maggi until we have more than a weekend to adjust. In the meantime, when I get back from Canada, I’ll paint and furnish the place and make it feel as homey as possible with everything I ship over from our Canadian house.
“What do you reckon. Is she going to be a drama kid or a jock?” Eric asks as we watch our three-year-old’s interpretive dance to the Sportscentre theme song.
“Why can’t she be both?” I ask, handing him his coffee and sitting next to him on the couch.
“Well, she’ll need the drama training if she decides she wants to play football.
” I groan, and he laughs. “Sorry, soccer.” He sets his coffee on the table next to him and reaches for me, pulling me onto his lap, his lips wasting no time finding my neck.
“Maybe this country will get it together and she’ll fall in love with rugby. ”
I take his face in my hands and press a kiss to his chin. “As if she’s going to have a choice when it comes to rugby.” My kisses move up, teasing him by kissing everywhere but his lips. “You’ll finally have someone to watch it with.”
Maggi’s giggle draws our attention toward the TV in time to see her attempt to twerk like the football player they’re showing on the screen.
“How do we keep her this age forever?” Eric ponders aloud. “My coworkers with kids all warned me about three, but I love this age.”
“If she stays this age she can’t go to school.”
Eric sighs, resting his chin on my shoulder. “True. I can’t wait for her to come home telling us about everything she learned.”