4. Chapter 4
Dean
Finding the castle lacking, the prince set out to find his own lodgings. But what he found was also . . . lacking.
I feel sort of guilty as I drive away from the inn.
I’m not sure why. It’s not as if I signed a contract or promised I’d stay for the entire month.
I should feel relieved to never have to see her or that place again after the whole shower-curtain debacle.
Walking down those stairs, dripping wet, wrapped in frilly pink, isn’t something I’m going to forget for a long time.
I’m still not sure how Rosie thought gluing the rod to the tile was her best option.
It took me thirty seconds to drill it in.
Even so, I can’t seem to shake the guilt.
I think it was the way she looked at me when I told her.
Like I’d just broken something important of hers.
Or smothered all her dreams. It was in the way her face fell, and how those eyes of hers turned down at the corners.
She seemed fine when I offered to pay for a week. Relieved even.
But it’s just not going to work. The mattress was so uncomfortable that I hardly slept, and I now have a kink in my neck.
Then there was the noise from the renovations this morning when I pulled out my laptop to do some follow-up for my last contract, not to mention the lack of breakfast. If she’s trying to run a business, that’s not how you do it.
I realize I was her first guest, and I know she’s got a lot of things to iron out.
I’m just not the guy to try things out on.
Actually, I sort of am, since I’m a consultant. And honestly, at three in the morning when I couldn’t sleep, I even made a list on my phone of ways she could improve the place. But I couldn’t bring myself to share it when I told her I wouldn’t be staying. I’m not that rude.
Anyway, she’ll be fine. I’m sure someone else will need a place to stay in Autumn Ridge in September.
Now I feel like I’m trying to make excuses. What is with all these feelings? I’m probably hungry. I should have snagged one of those pastries.
Or maybe it’s this town. And the reason I’m here.
As I drive to my grandparents’ farm, I try to prepare myself for how everything will look there. And hope that when I see it, I’ll instantly know what to do like my grandma said I would.
Please, let it be that easy.
I know the apple orchard burned down, which is going to be hard to see.
I have so many great memories there. When I was younger, it mostly meant running around while my grandpa worked.
But when I got older, he had me pruning dead branches and painting the tree trunks with white latex to prevent sun damage.
I never got to see ripe apples since they ripen in the fall.
But I did see the budding of tiny ones and even tried to eat them once in a while.
They were sour and gave me a stomachache.
The farmhouse sits on a rise above the road, overlooking what used to be the orchard.
The rows of trees are still there, but now they’re nothing more than blackened trunks and dead branches.
Tall grass and weeds have taken over between them, along with what looks like the beginnings of a few young saplings.
Behind it, the barn still stands. One side of the barn’s front is charred from the fire. I was told everything inside was spared, though there wasn’t much in there from what I remember.
I park in the crumbling driveway of the house. It’s a semblance of what I remember. Like the bones are still there, but the heart is missing.
I clear my throat, not expecting to feel the sting of it. I’ve felt more in the last two days than I have in a long time. Wow. Maybe I was heartless like that woman said, and this place is making the thing start beating again.
Or . . . it could be indigestion again.
One thing is for sure: Nothing dawned on me when I got here. No lightning bolt of understanding for what she wanted me to do.
Maybe the house itself will offer me some answers. I get out of the car, and, pulling the keys out of my pocket, I walk toward the front door of the farmhouse-style home where I spent so many summers of my life. The paint is peeling in places, but the porch looks like it’s been swept recently.
“Hello, there,” someone says, and I spin around to see a shorter man with graying hair and warm brown skin walking up the path. He’s wearing a tropical button-up shirt that has no business being in Vermont in September.
“Hello,” I say in return, not recognizing the man.
I really hope he’s not here to sell me something.
“Wendell Castillo,” he says, with just a hint of an accent, holding out a hand toward me, and I shake it briefly. “Are you here to fix something on the Alden house?”
I shake my head. “I’m . . . Dean Alden,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh,” he says. “You’re the grandson.”
“I am.” I give him a quick nod.
He points to himself. “I’m the neighbor. Vivian asked me to keep an eye on the house while she was gone. Told me she would be back in a year or so, just as soon as she figured out how to sneak out of the nursing home.”
This makes me chuckle. That sounds like something she would say. It also makes my chest feel a little like it’s squeezing.
“I was sorry to hear she passed last year.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. It’s the only answer I’ve been able to offer when people have given me their condolences. It’s a strange thing to say, when I truly think about it. Thank you for being sorry that my grandma is gone.
“So, I’m guessing the place is yours now,” he says, knocking on one of the wood posts on the covered porch.
“It is,” I tell him. “I was just about to see what shape it’s in.”
“Well, let’s see it, then,” Wendell says with a nod toward the door.
“Oh,” I say. I was kind of hoping to do this myself, but I’m not sure how to let this now-eager man down. I feel like I’ve done my share of letting people down today already. “Okay, sure.”
I unlock the door with the key and twist the knob, pushing it open.
The first thing I notice is how stale and dusty it smells. It’s also dark; all the window coverings are shut. I try to switch on a light, but the bulb only flickers once and then dies.
“It’s dark in here, no?” Wendell says, stating the obvious.
I walk over to the large window in the living room, the one that faces the orchard, and open the curtains, dust puffing from the heavy material.
Light fills the room, and it looks like we’ve stepped into a time capsule.
Everything is where it’s always been in the living room.
The couches are covered with sheets—something my grandma did often to protect the material.
The cabinet full of her trinkets sits against the wall in the same space.
The only things that look different are the pictures, with new additions of me graduating college and times I came to visit for a weekend just before my grandpa passed away.
Off to the right is the entrance to the kitchen, and down the hall to the left are the three bedrooms.
It’s dusty, and cobwebs hang from all the light fixtures, but it’s not terrible. And with a little cleaning, I could probably stay here and not have to worry about driving back and forth between here and Burlington.
The thought brings me some peace. It’ll give me a better chance of figuring out what my grandma wanted by actually being here.
“I’m so glad we caught the fire before it reached the house,” Wendell says as he looks around. He pats the top of the couch, and a little cloud of dust erupts from it.
“You were here for the fire?” I ask. I never got a lot of details about it, just that it happened, taking the orchard completely, but they were able to stop it before it finished off the barn or got to the house.
“I called the fire department,” he says, looking a little proud of himself.
“It was lightning, right?” I ask. That’s what my grandma said when she called to tell me.
That was a hard call to receive. She was crying, and there wasn’t anything I could do to help. I came to visit her as soon as I could and even offered to take her to see it, but she refused, not wanting to have that picture in her mind forever. She said she wanted to remember it like it was.
Wendell nods solemnly. “It was a dry season that year. The ground was easy kindling.”
“Well, thank you for making that call,” I say to him.
“What do you plan to do with the place?” he asks.
Good question, Wendell. Maybe I should ask him if he has any idea what my grandma wanted for this place.
“I still need to figure it out,” I say. “I’ll probably stay here for the month and weigh my options.”
“Great idea,” he says. “If you need help with any painting, I’m your guy.
” He reaches into his back pocket and hands me a business card that says Castillo and Sons Painting.
“Never had any sons, only three daughters. It just rolled off the tongue better, you know? Castillo and Daughters Painting is a mouthful. Plus, none of them were ever interested in painting.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the card and pocketing it. I want to point out he could’ve just dropped the “and Sons” and saved himself the rebrand, but I bite my tongue. Old habits die hard. Not everyone wants a stranger’s opinion on their business name within five minutes of meeting them.
“I’ll let you get settled in, then,” Wendell says. “If you need anything, I’m the yellow house just down the street.”
A scratching noise, followed by some scurrying overhead, has Wendell and me both looking up at the ceiling where I’m assuming the sound is coming from.
“Uh-oh,” Wendell says. “I think there might be something in the attic.” He points a stubby finger at the ceiling above.
Wendell, it seems, has a knack for stating the obvious.
We both go quiet, waiting to see if we will hear it again, me hoping maybe we heard wrong and it was coming from outside. But when the distinct sound of scurrying happens once more, it’s glaringly obvious where it’s coming from.
“Better check that out,” Wendell-the-obvious states.