15. Community Support #3
“Mrs. Walton,” she said, pointing to a circled ad.
“It’s a beautiful place, it’s clean, it’s furnished, and it’s available immediately.
Mrs. Walton is a friend of Mom’s. Her son and his new wife just moved out.
The house has its own entrance, and Mrs. Walton makes the best blueberry cobbler you’ve ever had in your life.
She’s won the county fair blue ribbon three years and counting.
I already called and told her about your situation.
She’s holding it for you if you want it.
It’s a block from Main Street and faces the Anderson’s hay fields. ”
I looked at the ad—a simple two-bedroom guest home, walking distance from the school and downtown. The rent was reasonable, especially with the insurance settlement I’d hopefully be receiving. It wasn’t the cottage, but it was a place to start over.
“It sounds perfect.”
An hour later, Levi and I were standing in the doorway of what would be my new temporary home.
The guest home was perfect and charming, with hardwood floors and tall windows that let in lots of light.
The furniture was simple but comfortable—a couch, a dining table, a bed that looked like it had been made with actual care rather than mass-produced efficiency.
“What do you think?” asked Mrs. Walton, a woman in her sixties with kind eyes and sensible shoes.
“I love it. It feels like home.”
She beamed and handed me a set of keys. “Wonderful. Take all the time you need to get settled. And don’t worry about the paperwork and all that stuff right now—we can work that out once you’re settled in.
You can rearrange anything you want.” She paused at the door.
“I make soup on Thursdays, and if you need anything, I am only a hop and a skip away.” She smiled and winked at Levi.
After she left, Levi and I stood in the living room, taking in the space that would be mine for however long it took to figure out what came next.
“It’s good,” he said, walking to the window that looked out over the back fields. “You’ll be able to walk to school, and you’re close to everything.”
“It’s not the cottage,” I said wistfully. The cottage had been perfect for what I needed when I first settled in Everwood. A place to land, to figure out who I was outside of my mother’s dreams. This house was different: a place to build from, for whatever came next.
“No. It’s not.” Levi pulled me into his arms for a hug. “But it’s yours.”
Over the next few hours, we ferried box after box from the inn to the guest house, setting up my new space with the donated supplies and the few possessions I’d managed to save.
It was like a very specialized form of interior decorating—making a home from other people’s generosity and a lot of creative problem-solving.
Levi unpacked boxes and organized the bookshelf while I rearranged kitchen supplies and tried to figure out the optimal coffee-making setup.
We worked mostly in comfortable silence, but there was something different about the quiet now—less tentative, more settled.
Like we’d moved past the careful politeness of a new attraction into something deeper and more certain.
“Hand me that hammer?”
I passed it to him, and our fingers brushed in the exchange. Such a small touch, but it sent warmth shooting up my arm. He looked up at me with a slight smile that suggested he’d felt it too.
“Almost done here. What do you want me to tackle next? Here I’ll get that?”
“Perfect,” I said, though I was looking at him rather than the box he was lifting onto the counter.
By evening, the house was starting to look like a real home. Books filled the shelves, kitchen supplies occupied the cabinets, and the donated blankets and pillows had transformed the old-fashioned furniture into something cozy and welcoming.
I made coffee using my new coffee maker, and we sat on the couch, watching the last of the daylight fade over the fields. Snow was still piled high along the hay bales, but people were out and about again.
Life was returning to normal after the storm.
“Thank you,” I said, carefully curling my feet under me. “For everything. For taking care of me during the storm, for helping me move, for making all of this feel manageable.”
He set down his mug and turned to face me more fully. “You don’t have to thank me, Cassie. This is what people do for each other.”
“Not where I come from.”
“Then you weren’t in the right place before.”
I studied his face in the lamplight—the strong line of his jaw, the gentle way he was looking at me, the calm certainty that seemed to radiate from him like warmth from a fire.
“What happens now?”
“Now you live,” he said. “You keep teaching those kids who clearly adore you. You let your bruises heal and your insurance company sort out the cottage. You take it one day at a time.”
“And us?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, but I didn’t regret asking.
His smile was soft and sure. “Us too. One day at a time.”
He reached over and took my hand, threading our fingers together with the same careful attention he’d brought to stocking my bookcase. Like I was something precious that deserved his best effort.
“I’m not going anywhere, Cassie. Whatever you need, however long it takes—I’m here.”
I believed him. More than that, I felt it—the solid, unshakeable truth of it settling into my bones like warmth.
Outside, Everwood sparkled under its blanket of snow, beautiful and peaceful and exactly where I belonged. Inside, in my new house filled with gifts from my community and the man who’d become so much more than a neighbor, everything felt possible.