1. My Rock Bottom has a Hot Cowboy #2
In all of those daydreams, the house had been, at minimum, standing up straight.
In reality, we found a structure that looked less like a home and more like an abandoned building on the verge of demolition.
The only thing “killer” about the view was the way the salty air and persistent ocean wind had conspired to peel the paint down to a patchwork of sun-bleached wood and spongy, moss-green trim.
We stood on the porch—well, I stood, Maverick hopped from one rotting floorboard to the next as if the wooden slats were part of The Floor is Lava game he was playing—and I took it in with a mixture of crushing disappointment and the kind of dark humor that comes from surviving years of life’s cruel curveballs.
“Charming,” I said, to no one in particular, as a seagull circled overhead and delivered a strategically timed bomb onto the already-stained mailbox. Maverick, delighted by the seagull’s aim, giggled.
With more trepidation than I wanted to admit, we stepped inside, and the house greeted us with the smell of dust, mildew, and something distinctly animal. I dropped my tote bag in the front room that was a time capsule of 1970s furniture with a clashing overlay of 1990s neglect.
I walked further inside and saw that the kitchen was a museum exhibit dedicated to Retro Appliances That Should Be in Hospice Care, including an avocado-green stove and a refrigerator so old the only thing chilling inside it was the malevolent presence of whatever had lived and died in its crisper drawer.
I’d turned the utilities back on and put them in my name with Mr. Blackburn’s help. I found myself holding my breath as I turned the knob of the kitchen sink which delivered a gasp of air and a belch of rusty water before the stream turned clear water. I exhaled, at least there was running water.
Off the kitchen, was a small laundry/mudroom where it looked like an Some animal the size of a Shetland pony had made a nest in the crawlspace and, judging by the mess, was engaged in a turf war with an equally tenacious family of starlings.
The back deck listed so far to the left it could have doubled as a skateboarding ramp.
Standing in the center of the front room, the reality of our situation sank in, we were officially home.
“Welcome home to us!” I announced, infusing the declaration with as much optimism as I could muster. The house shuddered in response, as if to protest my cheerfulness.
Something thudded down the darkened hallway, an area of the home we hadn’t yet toured—a heavy, deliberate bang, like furniture being rearranged by a poltergeist with a grudge.
Maverick’s eyes widened, but not with fear.
“Do you think there’s a ghost?” he whispered, equal parts hopeful and incredulous.
My first instinct was to lie, but I reminded myself of the parenting book that said honesty was the best policy. “Maybe,” I admitted. “But if there is, I bet it’s a friendly ghost. Like Casper.”
At this point I’d rather take an ethereal housemate than one of the animal or human variety.
He nodded, satisfied. “I hope Casper likes cowboys.”
Maverick had been on a cowboy kick recently.
He dressed up as Woody from Toy Story last Halloween, and the second the toy lasso got in his hand, it was as if he’d found his purpose in life.
He was obsessed with all things cowboy related.
When I told him our new house shared a property line with a dude ranch, and there were horses, cows, goats, chickens, and a bunch of other animals, he’d been so excited he barely talked about anything else for the past two days.
If he knew I’d applied for an event planner position at the ranch through ZipRecruiter, his head might explode, so I kept that information to myself.
I didn’t want him to get his hopes up that he’d have unlimited access to the animals.
My hopes were already high enough for both of us.
Working next door, which on this farm was a mile away, would be very convenient for a single mom, or any person, really.
Another sound came from the back of the house.
I checked the front closet for a broom, or something I could use as protection from whatever creature was currently residing in our home, so I wasn’t at the mercy of my three-month Krav Maga training as my sole source of protection. I found a tennis racket. Good enough.
“You stay here,” I instructed Mav. “I’m going to go check things out in the rest of the house.”
Maverick must have picked up on my hesitation because he handed me his Bullseye stuffed animal, which had been renamed Deputy Neigh Neigh. “Neigh can go with you.”
“Thanks.” I took his stuffie, tucked him under my arm, then headed down the narrow hallway, wielding my tennis racket like a sword.
My heart was pounding wildly with each step, not just because of what might be waiting for me but also because I was luminescence-challenged.
I’d never met a dark room my imagination couldn’t fill with murderers, so I flipped on as many lights as I could.
Unfortunately for my undiagnosed nyctophobia, the house still had a very doom-and-gloom feeling, thanks to the out-of-date wood paneling on the walls.
My legs were shaking, but I forced one foot in front of the other.
I didn’t have a choice. I was the adult in the situation.
I was the first and last defense, no backup.
In each bedroom, I searched closets, corners, and even peeked in the attic, which revealed no critters or squatters that I could see.
I did discover the screen on the back door was slamming against the house, thanks to the wind that had picked up since we’d arrived, which was the most likely culprit of the spooky sounds.
As I shut it, I noted the sky was now covered with grey clouds that had rolled in during the short time since we’d arrived, giving the atmosphere an ominous feel.
“Mama?!” Maverick shouted from the front room.
“Coming, bud.” I sighed in relief that my investigation found zero intruders, animal or human. I walked back down the hallway only to find Mav’s tiny face looking up at me with the same fear and trepidation I felt about this entire experience.
I had to, “Suck it up, Buttercup,” as Uncle Walter used to say.
It was one of the few things I remembered about my visits with him.
Walter was my dad’s uncle and after my dad passed away when I was six, he began sending Christmas cards and birthday presents.
He also came to Seattle for my eighth grade and high school graduations.
Thanks to my parents’ substance abuse problems, I became a ward of the state when I was three.
My mom was in and out of rehab until I was ten and she passed away from a heart attack.
My dad died from an overdose when I was six.
Walter Foster was the only blood relative I knew, and I used to daydream about him showing up at one of my foster or group homes, telling me to get in the car, and bringing me back to his picturesque farm to live in Valentine Bay, like a rural Daddy Warbucks. But that never happened.
It was surreal to be standing in the space I used to spend hours, weeks, months fantasizing about living in. It definitely wasn’t how I’d pictured it.
“What’s back there?” Mav pointed down the hallway I’d just come from.
“Just a lot of dust and empty rooms.”
Maverick’s shoulders relaxed, and I noted his exhale before he began bouncing on his feet and asked, “Is one of them my room?”
“Yep, you can pick out whichever one you want.”
In a rush of excitement, he raced down the hall, and there was banging of doors until I heard him yell, “This one!”
He’d chosen to claim the room with the bunk beds.
I was pretty certain he hadn’t even noticed how big it was, or that it had a gorgeous view of the ocean.
I would bet my life savings, which wasn’t much, the only thing he saw was the bed.
He’d always wanted bunk beds, but I’d never had a good enough reason to spend the money and get them since he was an only child.
This was his chance to sleep on the top bunk, once I made sure it was secure.
“Okay, let’s go get our stuff!” I exclaimed, hoping to make the day seem as fun and not scary as possible despite the horror-movie-sky and haunted-house dwellings.
The moment we set foot back onto the porch to unpack the car, we were greeted with a single, monstrous clap of thunder.
Seconds later, rain began to fall in sheets.
It truly felt as if the entire Pacific Ocean was being poured onto Valentine Bay.
I told myself that since it was good luck if it rained on your wedding day, maybe the same applied for your start-a-brand-new-life-by-moving-to-a-town-you’ve-never-even-visited day.
“Ready?” I asked Maverick as I opened the front door, he nodded and I smiled widely. “Set, go.”
We raced to the SUV. Mav grabbed his art supply duffle and beloved collection of plastic horses. The wind caught the passenger door of the back seat where I was grabbing a box and a moving bag, and nearly ripped it out of my hands, slamming it shut with a noise like a gunshot.
“This is good luck, this is good luck, this is good luck,” I muttered, struggling up the slick walk while rain pounded against my cheeks.
The trips were many since I was the sole adult unpacking the car. Maverick helped to his four-year-old capacity, but it was times like these I wished that I had a partner, someone to share the load and also commiserate with.