Aubrey #2
The inside was cozy, which in realtor-speak meant small and cramped, but it was ideal for a single man.
A single man who had plans to be a reclusive hermit for the rest of his days.
Could men be spinsters? No, I didn’t think so.
For some reason women were looked down on if they spurned marriage.
A confirmed bachelor then. And that meant no romances with big, burly men who always turned out to be jerks.
I was done with love in all its forms when dealing with the male sex.
No way, no how, no more. Done. Hank had torn me to bits with his infidelity.
My plans were to live my life working at my new store, coming home to my wee domicile, and feeding the koi I would one day have in my burbling pond.
Maybe a cat. Every bookworm needed a cat.
And the cat could come to the shop with me every day because every bookstore needed a cat.
I’d have to come up with a good name for him or her. Dewey perhaps…
Camille let me mosey about the little house, poking into the closets, the tiny laundry room that would hold one of those stackable units and maybe an ironing board, and the single bedroom that was the largest room in the bungalow.
Large windows overlooking the underbrush of the pines.
I could envision a bench back there, maybe a rock path leading to the bench, and a birdfeeder.
Sitting out there with a good book, a cup of peach tea, and a cat curled up beside me would be nirvana.
I went outside to peer into the old shed but there was a padlock on the door so I couldn’t open it.
The windows were thick with fly poo so no seeing through them.
There was a broken cat flap in the door but even kneeling down to peek through it showed me little other than an old rototiller.
I gave up trying to see in and gave the shed a quick walkaround.
It seemed sound enough. In need of paint, which I could do when the weather warmed up, but otherwise a decent storage space.
I walked through the place once more then made my way to Camille texting someone on her phone. She looked up from her cell.
“What do we think?”
She knew what I thought. I suspected the glow of finding a new home that could be my healing place had to be showing on my face. Gee-Gee always said I hid nothing well, which was why she always knew when I’d been in the cookie jar as a kid.
“I think this is ideal. The faucet in the bathroom sink leaks, so that needs to be fixed, and the linoleum in the laundry room is peeling up by the backdoor. Oh, and the backdoor sticks so badly it won’t open.
Also, the shed has a lock that needs to be cut off.
Can we have those items noted in the bill of sale? ”
“Of course! There are tons of handymen around. So shall I get the sold placard out of the back of my car?”
I nodded.
She grinned and shook my hand with such exuberance that my glasses slipped down my nose.
“Wonderful! I just know you’re going to love being here in Chance. The town needs a bookstore,” she gushed.
“Every town needs a bookstore.” I said as she pumped my arm. “So, are there any animal shelters nearby?”
If I was going to be a reclusive old bibliophile at twenty-five I should embrace it fully. Bring on the cat!
A week later I was moved into my new home.
The bookstore was also in the process of being taken over by a slightly crazed man who had never owned a thing in his life and now was the owner of two things.
Two big things! And those two things had run me ragged.
The store more so than my little cottage because the store had to be ready for a late April grand opening.
My house could sit with boxes scattered around.
It wasn’t as if anyone was going to see me living out of a box or tote for a few weeks.
My bedroom was my new sanctuary. I loved it, my head filled with ideas of how to make it the warmest room in the house.
And not just in terms of heat but in welcoming and loving vibes for me. God knows I needed them.
The first night in my new home I had some trouble falling asleep. New place, new noises, new worries. But around midnight I conked out from sheer exhaustion.
I came awake at 6:17 the next morning to the loud cock-a-doodle-doo of a rooster. Right outside my window. I sat up in bed, blind, and stared at the blurry gold something perched on the saggy back porch railing.
“What the ever-loving hell?” I asked while pawing on the table for my glasses.
Once I found them I slid them behind my ears and…
yes, there stood a rooster. Massive. Gold as a nugget, bright red comb and dangly wattles.
Crowing his dang head off. Beside him on the rail sat an orange tabby cat.
He was not crowing. He was licking his balls.
Ah, so two guys. Smashing, as the Brits would say.
What they were doing there I had no clue but when I stood up and padded to the window they both tore off as if they’d seen a ghost. Hurrying outside I caught the long tail feathers of the rooster as he dove through the busted cat door.
“Wonderful,” I sighed, hopping from one foot to the other in a fresh dusting of light snow, the hem of my pajama pants getting wetter and muddier the longer I stood out there barefooted. “Wonder what they’re paying for rent.”
The rooster crowed from inside the shed.
New things to add to my chaotic list: Call the realtor to ask about cat/rooster combo, find someone to come cut the lock off the shed door, and stop at the feed mill outside of town for rooster and cat chow.
I recalled saying I wanted a cat but nowhere did I remember a danged rooster being part of that request…