Chapter 1
Wren
The old gutters along the front of the house were falling apart and rusted in sections.
It didn’t matter how long I spent staring up at it, squinting through the bright sunlight was unfortunately not going to magically repair the gaping holes in the metal.
There were little puddles of water pooling everywhere around the house, rotting the wood, creating muddy patches where the water had settled, having nowhere else to go.
“Miss?”
I turned to see Kyle, the plumber I had repeatedly called over the past month. His shirt was dirty, and flecks of mud and grime were splattered across his face, but he was grinning triumphantly from ear to ear.
“Fixed,” he said proudly.
I stared up at the holes.
“Not the word I would use,” I said dryly.
“I meant that the pipe in the laundry room shouldn’t be leaking anymore.”
I smiled, because leaking was a modest description, to say the least. A full-blown explosion was more like it.
“Well, I suppose one thing at a time,” I said.
Kyle stared up at the gutters, shielding his eyes from the sun with a stained hand.
“This will need replacing too,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can pick up supplies later today?”
“Please. Although I think a family of sparrows is taking up residence somewhere along the left side of the roof.”
Kyle whistled. “There’ll be a lot more than sparrows nesting around this house.”
I shuddered at the thought of creepy crawlies, and quite possibly opossums or racoons, invading the house.
“I can hear things at night, moving around in the roof.”
He considered for a moment.
“Could be haunted.”
“That would be the least of my worries,” I said. I’m the only one here who is haunted.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I waved my hand at him. “Thank you for coming out so often. The owner really appreciates it.”
“Real nice thing you’re doing for Gill, you know, fixing this up. This house has been here for as long as I’ve been alive.”
“I think it’s probably been a bit longer than that,” I said, laughing. “Gill has been really good to me, letting me stay, so it’s the least I can do.”
Kyle picked up his toolbox and threw a wrench into it before shutting it with a snap.
“I’ll be back tomorrow with the supplies.”
He began heading toward his truck but then paused a moment, looking at the front door with its chipped paint and the mesh screen full of holes. The hinges on it were so red with rust that the door was barely holding on.
“You know, my father always used to say that a fresh coat of paint could fix anything.”
I stared hard at the front door. “He’s probably right.”
I watched as Kyle made his way down the cobbled path to the front gate, opening it and disappearing into the street.
Sighing, I looked back at the house, examining its steep gabled roof, arched eaves and Oregon pine trimmings weathered by time.
It had to have been a beauty at some point in its life, with its big bay windows and large front porch, complete with a swing.
I hoped that underneath the house’s crumbling railings, somewhere in its weed-infested yard, past the shingles falling off the roof, there was still some charm left.
If I restored the fir floors, wiped away the dust, shined the ornate brass, and repaired the stained-glass dormer windows, then maybe the house would come back to life.
I had to believe this. I had to believe that things that were once broken could become whole again.
Perhaps Kyle was right, maybe a fresh coat of paint would be the best place to start.
I was up to my arms in sawdust on the porch when I heard my name. It was Gill standing by the fence.
“Afternoon,” he smiled. “I just saw Kyle. He said he’s picking up some new gutters.”
He looked up at the house, giving it a nod like they were two old friends.
“Word travels fast around here.” I took off my safety goggles and put the circular sander down on the workbench I’d fashioned out of a couple of old sawhorses and some plywood I’d found forgotten in the shed.
Gill shrugged. “Oh, you know how small towns are.”
I just smiled in acknowledgement and pushed open the gate to welcome him in, steering the moment away from myself.
I had told Gill I was from the East Coast, but apart from this had only given him the barest of details about myself.
He’d taken this in stride, never pressing me for more. I liked that about him.
“Everything okay?” I asked. “Is it the gutters? You don’t want me to replace them?”
“Oh, everything’s fine, just fine.” He rocked back on his heels lightly, his hands in his pockets. “I was just out for an afternoon stroll and thought I would check in on you, see how the house is coming along.”
I was about to respond when a loud screech erupted from what sounded like the vicinity of the attic. Gill raised his eyebrows.
“Or perhaps I should say what needs to be moved along.”
“Opossums,” I said. “Or raccoons, I’m not sure yet.”
“Ah, I know it’s the strangest thing, but Edith always liked opossums. Never could understand why. Ugly buggers.”
A look passed over his face then, just for a moment, so fleeting that most would miss it. But I knew the look, the ache of remembering.
I had met Gill in Sam’s, the local diner.
After arriving in Everston without a plan, I had been staying at a local motel, barely able to keep track of the time or the days.
One morning, I decided to venture out from the stuffy motel room, sat down in a booth at Sam’s, and ordered pancakes.
Lucy had a habit of asking for a stack of three pancakes with butter, maple syrup, and a dash of sea salt.
To even things out, she said. It was her go-to order, and as the waiter set the stack in front of me it turned out this was how they were served at Sam’s.
Anything could remind me of Lucy and would send me spiraling—a fresh bouquet of orchids, the smell of cinnamon, her favorite song on the radio, moonlight shining through the window in the middle of the night, honeybees.
Especially honeybees, because she always liked to call me Bee.
Sometimes I could hold it together, but other times it felt as though I’d had the breath knocked right out of me.
Staring down at those pancakes that day reminded me that she would never enjoy them again.
She would never look at me from across the table with a glint in her eye and insist it was the only way to properly enjoy pancakes.
It broke me all over again, and I sat there, sobbing over my stack.
Gill had been sitting at the counter, and he turned around at the sound of my sniffling, setting aside the newspaper he’d been reading.
“You know, tears are like pancakes. They’re best shared with someone else,” he told me.
I gave him a weak smile and, with my wet napkin, gestured for him to join me.
“Dear, now why are you crying over a stack of pancakes?”
I thought for a moment about what I should tell him.
I’d only just met this man, but I instinctively felt like I could trust him.
Plus, it had been weeks since I’d had a real conversation with anyone.
I had refused all calls from my publisher and agent.
I texted my family periodically only to let them know I was still alive.
I told him the truth then, that they had reminded me of someone I loved who was no longer here. I didn’t need to say anything else because Gill clearly understood.
From that day on, I met with Gill for breakfast each morning at Sam’s.
Sometimes we talked and other times we just sat together in comfortable silence.
I learned Gill was a simple soul. He loved freshly baked apple pie with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of nutmeg on top.
He liked football and religiously attended the local high school team’s games every Friday during football season.
He enjoyed fishing because, as he said, it brought him peace like nothing else could.
Gill was a grandfatherly type, handing the local kids a few dollars for ice cream with a wink.
He loved to play chess, and I had the feeling he was inclined to let his opponent win a game or two.
He had been married to his high school sweetheart Edith for almost forty years.
After she passed, he told me, everything became harder and the world looked duller, sounded muffled somehow.
He still made their bed every morning with military-like precision, and he used Edith’s favorite teacup for his coffee.
But now that she was gone, he felt the pain in his knees more acutely, became aware of his slower pace, and that he’d somehow gotten a half inch shorter.
It became more difficult to maintain the old house where he and Edith had spent their lives together.
Cracks began to spiderweb across the foundation, overgrown ivy threatened to cover windows, and the gutters filled with leaves.
Gill knew it was time to move on; he was due to join some of his friends in the local retirement home.
“It will be good for me,” he told me. “I am too old to be standing on a ladder, fixing the damn roof and patching holes. I’ll fall and break a hip and that’ll be the end of me. Besides,” he winked, “I’ll have plenty of people to play chess with.”
“You don’t want to sell it?” I protested when he suggested I live in the house.
He shook his head slowly, eyes turning glassy.
“I’ve had real estate agents come through.
Photos, listings, endless back-and-forth.
They all say the same thing: ‘You’ll get a good price if you just stage it right.
’ But every time someone walks through, poking around like it’s already theirs, it just breaks me. ”