20. Chapter 20 #2
It takes us about forty minutes, with Dominic making a quick trip home for a piece of wood to replace the broken one. Before long, the bed is fixed, and I’m making it back up like nothing ever happened.
“Thanks again,” I tell him when everything is done.
He looks at the bed. “Is it me? Or is it still dipping in the center?”
“It’s not you.”
He huffs out a laugh. Then he stands there a second, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Let’s not mention this to her,” I say.
“Good idea,” he says.
He grabs his toolbox and starts toward the door, but then stops.
“Hey,” he says, looking out the window. “Thanks. For helping her out this month.”
I shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was to her.”
That lands harder than it should.
“She needed help. I had time,” I tell him.
“Right,” he says. “Well. Thanks anyway.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon at the farm, looking through the rest of the kitchen, and find a couple of things—my grandma’s recipe box and a pocket knife my grandpa used to keep in his pocket. The knife goes in the save pile, and I bring the recipe box back with me.
Because I ran out of time to make dinner, I stop by the market and get tomato soup, a couple of kinds of cheese, and some crusty bread.
“This is the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had,” an exhausted Rosie says, sitting at the island.
“I doubt that,” I say.
“No, seriously, it’s so good.” She takes another bite of the soup and makes a satisfied humming sound.
“How was Pumpkin Day?”
“Long,” she says, and then yawns. “The FFA students won the pumpkin weigh-in against Farmer Joe. It was a big . . . thing.”
She trails off at the end, and I look over to find Rosie asleep with her head in one hand and the other holding the spoon.
“Rosie?”
“Huh?” She shakes herself awake.
“You fell asleep there for a second.”
“I didn’t,” she says. “I was just thinking about something.”
“You were snoring.”
Her eyes widen. “I was not,” she says, but then she laughs when she sees that I’m teasing.
“Maybe you should go to bed.”
“I can’t. I still need to get the parade numbers together, print the talent show sheets, and make sure all the lawn-game stuff is actually where it’s supposed to be.”
“Can I help with anything?” I ask her.
“No,” she says, reaching over and patting my knee. “You made me dinner. That was helpful enough.”
She takes another bite of soup and then takes off once again.
On Thursday, I never see Rosie once.
I spend the morning at the inn, making sure everything is going okay and that there are no more breaking beds. I give Willa my number and tell her to call me if there’s a problem, so she doesn’t bother Rosie.
The rest of the day is spent at the farm, going through each room and putting the things I want to keep in the save pile to take with me. It’s strange dismantling the place I used to cry about leaving every summer.
A box of pictures from my grandpa’s closet goes into the pile, and I take the other family photos out of the frames hanging on the walls and keep those too.
I find some of my grandma’s old jewelry and take a few pictures to send to my mom, asking if she wants any of it. She texts back that she doesn’t, telling me it’s nothing but junky costume jewelry anyway.
Rosie has a potluck she’s going to tonight, so instead of making dinner, I stay at the farm and work until late.
When I get back to the inn, it’s quiet, so I check on Rosie to see if she’s still up working on festival things for tomorrow.
She’s not in the kitchen, so I check her room and that’s where I find her, face down on her bed, fully clothed, her shoes still on.
And she’s snoring. For real this time.
I smile to myself as I go over to her.
I slowly pull off her shoes, one at a time, trying not to wake her. Then I manage to wrestle the blankets out from underneath her with little cooperation on her part.
Pulling the covers over her, I tuck her in.
“Dean?” she asks, her voice groggy with sleep.
“Shhhh,” I say. “Go back to sleep.”
“Marry me,” she says, the words slurred.
I chuckle. “You’re talking in your sleep.”
She mumbles something unintelligible, nestling into the covers.
And then she’s fast asleep again.
On Friday, I meet Owen at the farm.
“Everything’s ready for the junk haulers, I think,” I tell him as we stand on the porch. “What’s next?”
He looks at his notepad. “We get the crew in, have the house cleaned out, then we’ll get photos once the place is empty.”
“How much do you think we can get for it?”
He shrugs. “Hard to say. The acreage is really what’s carrying the value. Similar properties are selling between one seventy-five and two twenty-five. I’d list at two hundred.”
“Right,” I say, understanding the subtext.
No one is buying this place for the rundown house, the partially burned barn, or what’s left of the orchard. Whoever buys it will most likely tear everything down and start over.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
I do the math before I can stop myself. Whatever I give my mom is going to end up with Ed. How long would that last her? Two years. Maybe three, if she’s careful.
She has never once been careful.
She texted me yesterday from Vegas. A picture of her and Ed in front of some casino, both of them smiling like this move was the best decision they’d ever made. I wanted to ask if she still hated the desert, but didn’t.
I thought once I got the raccoons out, and the things I wanted to keep, I’d feel better about my decision.
Instead, I just feel empty.
“When do you want the listing to go up?” Owen asks. “Crew will be here Monday, and I can get the photographer in probably midweek.”
“Whenever it’s ready,” I tell him. I leave Tuesday, which means I won’t be here to see the sign go up.
That’s probably for the best. Still, “probably” doesn’t make me feel any better about it.
Rosie doesn’t come home Friday night.
There’s a parade, then a tailgate, then a football game, and she’s going to all three.
I make myself dinner anyway—a Cajun pasta I found in my grandma’s recipe box.
I put a plate in the fridge, cover it with foil, and write Rosie’s name on it. I’m not sure why; there’s only one other person who uses this kitchen. I just figure it’s something she might like. I wish I could see her face when she sees it. Her eyes will probably light up the way they always do.
The inn is quiet. All of the guests are out doing festival activities, and I sent Willa home at six since there was nothing for her to do.
I leave the kitchen and wander into the front entry, where one of the pictures hanging beside the stairs is slightly crooked. I straighten it without thinking.
Four days until I leave Autumn Ridge. The rooms are done, the festival is running, and the farm is ready to list.
As a kid, I used to dread leaving my grandparents at the end of every summer. I’m beginning to think leaving Autumn Ridge this time might be even worse.