Chapter 9 - Callie #2
I chew on my bottom lip, mulling things over. I don’t love the idea of just showing up at a stranger’s property, but I also don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to rent the place—especially if Frog Lady is my only alternative.
“I mean, it’s up to you,” Sutton shrugs, “but places like that don’t last long around here. I bet it goes pretty quick.”
She confirms what I’m already thinking. I make note of the address. “I could swing by now on my way home, if you think that’s okay? ”
“I think that would be fine,” Sutton rushes to say, a gleam in her eye. “But you better get going. Want me to bag up your food?”
I eye the mutilated pancakes and shake my head. “That’s okay. I’m finished.”
“Well, good luck with the rental,” Sutton tells me, as she walks me to the door, practically shoving me out of it. “Let me know how it goes, okay?”
—
The napkin Sutton wrote the address on flutters in my lap as my 4Runner bounces down an unpaved road, the warm breeze blowing in from my open window.
Once you get outside the main drag, Dayton Springs becomes a little more rural.
I’ve always had a soft spot for the Alabama countryside, and I missed it terribly while I was living in New York.
Now, driving down this road, it feels a lot like finding something you thought you’d lost or remembering you put something away for a rainy day and now it’s a rainy day. It’s comforting.
The road widens a bit, opening up to a clearing, where an old, but charming farmhouse is nestled next to a sprawling grove of trees. There’s a large barn situated off to the side and beyond that, about a half mile down the road, sitting next to a small pond are three RVs.
I turn down a smaller, more narrow lane that will bring me around to the pond.
One of the RVs, an older Spartan Manor style, looks like it might already be inhabited.
There are several potted plants tucked just outside the door and there’s a colorful carpet and rocking chair set up under a small awning decorated with pink solar string lights.
There’s even a sign posted by the door that says, “a spoiled rotten cat lives here.”
The second RV is a vintage Gulf Stream Cruiser, and I can’t help but admire the faded, mint green accent paint that gives it a cheerful demeanor despite its age.
The last RV is from the listing Sutton showed me. I immediately fall in love with its bulbous shape and the silver metal siding that has been polished so much I can see my reflection in it.
I pull my 4Runner up next to the Airstream and get out, my breath catching as the golden afternoon rays of sunshine glint off the surface of the pond, making it sparkle. I feel that old familiar itch and wish I had a paintbrush in my hand.
It’s beautiful here and peaceful. I can imagine myself sitting out near the water’s edge at twilight, my mind already thinking of what colors I’ll need to mix to perfectly capture the rolling green of the hills, the glint of the sun on the water’s surface.
It catches me by surprise how quickly my mind paints the image in my thoughts. Tapping into my artistic side hasn’t been easy lately, but here, inspiration beckons .
The door to the RV is locked—which I expected. No matter, I have a really good feeling about this place, and I can already tell it’s the perfect spot for me.
I get in my car and head back down the lane toward the farmhouse. The sooner I introduce myself to the owner, the sooner we can, hopefully, get the rental process started.
Parking under the shade of a looming silver maple, I open my car door. There’s a streak of white as a big fluffy dog jumps off the porch, runs over, and practically leaps into my lap.
“Hello there,” I coo, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Where’d you come from? Do you live here, too?”
The dog gives my cheek a sloppy kiss in response which makes me laugh. I get out of my car and the dog immediately flops over on her back, exposing her tummy for belly rubs.
“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” I bend down and oblige her, rubbing my fingertips back and forth.
Behind me, there’s the familiar squeak and slam of a screen door opening and shutting and then heavy footfalls growing closer. I give the dog one last belly rub and stand, wiping the dirt off the front of my jeans.
I whirl around, excited to meet the owner of the RV and ready to sell myself as their new tenant. “Hi, I’m—”
The words die in my throat as I realize “stupid, hot, kissed the hell out of me and then ghosted me” Jensen Shepherd is standing there looking just as shocked as I am to find me standing in— oh sweet magnolias —what is apparently his front yard.
“Callie? What are you doing here?”
The words are gruff, and I bristle at the tone.
I open my mouth to answer, but the white dog, clamoring for more attention, takes that exact moment to jump up on me, catching me off guard.
I step backward, tripping over my own two feet, and down I go, like a tree in a thunderstorm, nearly taking the dog out with me.