Tiny House on the Hill

by Celia Bonaduce

  “Wow!” he said. “Baylor University. Where is that?”

  “It’s in Texas,” she said.

  “Texas,” he said.

  “But this is just my acceptance letter,” she said quickly. “I don’t have to go!”

  “Why wouldn’t you go?” he asked, looking at his feet.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I thought maybe I could go to college around here.”

  “In Cat’s Paw?” he looked up, surprised. “I don’t think so.”

  Was he laughing at her?

  “Not in Cat’s Paw,” she said. “But Seattle. Or even Portland. So I’d be….closer.”

  “Closer to me, you mean?”

  Her face burned.

  He doesn’t want me to stay.

  “Don’t make any decisions based on me, Summer,” he said, handing her the letter back. “We’ve had some good times, but this is your future. You need to get serious.”

  I thought we were serious.

  Shortie startled her back into the present, barking as Keefe strode toward Big Red. His smile was as bright as ever.

  It appeared you could go home again, even when you didn’t want to.

  Chapter 10

  Luckily, the lure of the caboose brought more people than just Keefe to look over Big Red. Summer jumped out of the truck, released Shortie from his car seat and accepted the attention of the town. She pretended Keefe was not among them.

  “Is that you, Summer?” Doreen, the woman who owned the hardware store asked. “It’s been a million years since you’ve been here!”

  “Ten years, actually,” Summer said, accepting Doreen’s kiss.

  “Might as well be a million,” Mr. Caleb, the owner of the Cat’s Paw Chronicle said.

  The impartial eye of the journalist was still not Mr. Caleb’s strong suit.

  “You have time for a story and a photo?” he asked. “My editor will kill me if I don’t get one.”

  “Your editor?” Summer said. “I thought you were the editor.”

  “Not for the last three years,” Mr. Caleb said. “Turned it over to Sherman.”

  “Sherman!” Summer tried to look pleased instead of startled. “Isn’t that something.”

  Sherman Caleb was Mr. Caleb’s son. Summer hadn’t thought about him in years. With his blazing red hair, he was always painfully timid. He would come into the bakery and whisper his order. His face turning beet red in the process, almost matching his hair. Whenever Keefe called him “Shy Sherman,” Queenie would frown and tell Keefe he was unkind, reminding him that not everyone was born with an outgoing personality like Keefe’s.

  “Thank Sweet Baby Jesus for small favors,” Grandpa Zach would say.

  Summer couldn’t imagine Sherman being the editor of a paper, even one as small as the Cat’s Paw Chronicle.

  “So what do you say?” Mr. Caleb said. “Help keep me in good with the boss?”

  Summer really had to get up to Queenie’s place, but what could she say? Mr. Caleb snapped a close-up with his phone before she could even smile.

  “This is certainly the grand entrance after all these years,” said a woman about her own age.

  The woman looked familiar. It took Summer a moment to place her after so many years.

  “Evie?’ Summer gasped.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” Evie said.

  “Of course I remember you,” Summer said. “I just had my mind on…”

  “Parking?” Evie said, casting a glance at Big Red and the caboose.

  “Something like that,” Summer smiled.

  She hoped the smile looked genuine instead of threatened. Keefe’s ex-girlfriend was back in town? Eventually, Summer learned that Keefe and Evie broke up because Evie wanted to go to Cincinnati to work in her uncle’s restaurant. Keefe said it was never a serious relationship and Summer believed him.

  But in those days, Summer believed everything Keefe said.

  “You’re back,” Evie said.

  “I could say the same about you,” Summer said. “And you look great.”

  There was no denying Evie looked better than ever. Her straight corn-silk hair was tied up in a ponytail. She had a slight tan and freckles dotted her nose. The legs still went on forever. The effortless effect was maddening.

  “I’ve been back for five years,” Evie said. “I came back for your grandfather’s funeral. I thought I would have seen you there, but your grandmother said you were away.”

  “I was away,” Summer said. “Very far away. Eastern Europe away.”

  Why was she being so defensive?

  “Oh, I know,” Evie said. “Anyway, it was a lovely funeral. It was a sad day for Cat’s Paw, but wonderful to reconnect with…you know…all the great people here.”

  Who spoke like this? Was Evie running for office? Summer blinked. Did Evie mean she and Keefe reconnected? Was he the “great people?”

  Summer wasn’t sure if this was an entirely friendly observation.

  “It’s hard to sneak into town pulling a tiny house,” Summer said. “Not that I was sneaking into town, of course.”

  “Of course. Those tiny houses are getting so popular!” Evie said in an I-wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-in-one tone. “Did you know that there’s going to be a tiny house convention in Seattle?”

  “I did know,” Summer said. “As a matter of fact, I have a good friend, actually the friend who built my house, who’ll be there with several of his houses.”

  “That’s cute,” Evie said.

  Wow, she’s good.

  Just thinking about seeing Bale again gave Summer a little boost.

  “It’s nice to be going back to the bakery,” Summer said. “Working with Keefe. Just like old times.”

  Summer noticed Evie color slightly.

  Score!

  “Are you…staying?” Evie asked.

  “For a while.”

  “I see,” Evie said. “I have an ice cream parlor where the old drugstore used to be.”

  Summer was about to say, “I will,” but realized Evie hadn’t invited her to stop by.

  “Every town needs ice cream,” Summer said instead.

  “And a bakery,” Evie said. “Cake and ice cream; natural allies.”

  Allies?

  Was this war?

  “I’m glad I had a chance to say hello,” Evie continued. “I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again.”

  “Who is this you’ve brought with you?” asked a young woman whom Summer didn’t think she knew. The woman was pointing to Shortie.

  “This is Shortie,” Summer said, holding the dog up for everyone to admire.

  People applauded.

  “And what’s that you’ve brought with you?” Mrs. Bell, the postmistress’s voice rang out.

  Summer could hear ripples of curiosity.

  “It’s a tiny house,” Summer said, looking at the caboose as if for validation.

  “Looks like part of a train,” came another voice Summer didn’t recognize.

  She realized there were going to be a number of people she didn’t know, which came as a shock to her. Ten years ago, anyone Summer didn’t know was a visitor. Now she was the visitor.

  “It’s just the design,” Summer said.

  “Designed to get you out of town fast,” Keefe’s voice said.

  She jumped as the crowd laughed. She spun on her heels as people surged toward the caboose. He was right behind her. As the townspeople climbed around the caboose, taking selfies and discussing how it worked, Summer faced up to the fact that she was finally here and would have to deal with Keefe.

  “Hi Keefe,” she said. “You’re looking well.”

  You’re looking delicious.

  “You too, little girl,” Keefe said, leaning against the wheel well of her
truck.” Summer jumped at the sound of his voice. She remembered how much she used to hate it when he called her “little girl,” but now the name wrapped around her like a favorite blanket.

  “So what brings you back?” Keefe asked.

  Was it possible he didn’t know? She decided to play it cool.

  “Just dropping by,” Summer continued, trying on her nomadic-life-on-the-run persona she’s wanted so much to become. “I’m just making the rounds.”

  “Of what?” Keefe said, looking around.

  “The United States,” Summer said loftily.

  “I can see where you might want to start with Washington State,” Keefe said. “You know, when you live in Connecticut.”

  Summer knew she sounded ridiculous. She just hopped in an oversized truck pulling a color-coordinated caboose three thousand miles to drop by? But she was stuck with her trajectory now.

  “Lived in Connecticut,” Summer said. “Past tense. Now I don’t live anywhere.”

  She meant it to sound daring and fearless, but it just sounded sad.

  “I’m just teasing you,” Keefe said. “Whatever you want to do with your life is your business.”

  So basically nothing has changed.

  “Good to hear,” Summer said.

  “And I’m really glad to see you,” Keefe said, moving a step closer.

  Summer could do nothing but stand her ground.

  “How about a picture of the two of you?” Mr. Caleb asked. “You know, like the good old days?”

  What good old days?

  Keefe put his arm around her as Mr. Caleb, who had somehow retrieved an old digital camera from the nineties, approached. Time may march forward in Cat’s Paw, but it marched slowly.

  “Come on, smile,” Mr. Caleb said testily.

  Since Keefe was already grinning from ear to ear, he must be talking to me, Summer thought.

  The challenges of coming home were mounting. It was hard enough to process dealing with Keefe and Queenie. She’d forgotten that every adult from her past was still going to boss her around as if she were a child.

  “And turn that dog toward me,” Mr. Caleb commanded.

  She obeyed. Summer was grateful to have Shortie in her arms, so she didn’t have to put her arm around Keefe. But the touch of his hand as it encircled her waist took her by surprise. It felt alien yet somehow perfect. She smiled for the camera and wondered if she and Keefe both stood just a moment longer together than was absolutely necessary.

  “Okay, Summer,” Mr. Caleb said. “Can I run a few questions by you?”

  Keefe dropped his hand and bowed as if to say, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Coward,” Summer said with a hint of a smile.

  She was shocked that it was so easy to fall back into playful banter.

  Summer watched Keefe head back to the bakery, barely aware of the answers she was giving Mr. Caleb. She stuck with her mythology that she was planning on touring the states with her tiny house, reasoning that if Queenie hadn’t mentioned to Keefe that she’d commanded Summer to return, she probably hadn’t alerted the whole town. Before long, half the town seemed to be circling her for an impromptu question and answer session. Questions ranged from the personal, to the tiny house to Shortie. Finally, the crowd seemed satisfied and Summer was left standing with Shortie still cradled in her arms by her truck. She looked up the street and saw Keefe coming back out of the bakery, this time locking the door behind him. He had a motorcycle helmet in his hands. She tried to turn away before he saw her looking at him, but it was too late. He lifted the motorcycle helmet in greeting and walked toward her.

  “That dog’s paws ever touch the ground?”

  Summer realized poor Shortie had been in her arms for nearly a half hour. She dropped him to the ground. Shortie ran immediately to Keefe, not playing hard-to-get in the least.

  “You going up to the house?” Keefe asked.

  “I drove into town because I thought Queenie would still be at the bakery,” Summer said.

  Keefe’s smile faded.

  “She hasn’t been coming to the bakery much the last couple weeks,” Keefe said. “But I can’t get a straight answer as to why.”

  “When was the last time anybody got a straight answer from Queenie?”

  “If you want to follow me,” Keefe said, “I’ll lead you up to the house.”

  “I know how to get to my own grandmother’s house,” Summer said.

  “No you don’t,” Keefe said. “There’s been a lot of changes since you were here…including a new route to Queenie’s.”

  “I’m sure the GPS will get me there just fine,” Summer said.

  “The GPS is out of the loop,” he said. “About four years ago, the creek behind the old mill flooded. It washed out the road up to Queenie’s. They rerouted her whole mile-long driveway. You now enter up in front of the house instead of behind it. Looks good, but we lost the mill and the old schoolhouse.”

  Summer nodded somberly. In her mind’s eye, she could clearly see the old mill and the schoolhouse, and could certainly see Keefe’s apartment over the garage at the farm, but couldn’t for the life of her visualize a new route to Queenie’s. She had been gone a very long time.

  “Okay,” Summer said. “I’ll follow you.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said.

  I am so not your girl.

  “I’m on the Fatboy,” Keefe said, nodding toward a gleaming black motorcycle in front of the bakery.

  “Nice bike,” Summer said, giving him a thumbs up. All those days on the road, at truck stops and at Wal-Mart parking lots meant she knew her motorcycles as well as her RVs and fifth wheels.

  By the time Shortie was strapped down in his car seat, Keefe’s bike was in front of Big Red. They headed down Main Street, creating a mini-parade. Summer waved to the onlookers as they drove slowly out of town.

  Summer’s circuitous route to Cat’s Paw from Connecticut had put more than 3,500 miles on Big Red. She’d seen the lush greens of the northeast, the tangle of trees that seemed to threaten to take over any un-mowed inch of land in the south and the endless plains of the Midwest. It was all beautiful, but, nothing beat the beauty of the Pacific Northwest. The drive to her grandmother’s encompassed everything the terrain had to offer; towering trees, a creek racing beside the road, houses old and new, stately and homey. It was calming and exhilarating all at once. Summer concentrated on following Keefe. She had to admit – she’d never have found the old Victorian on her own.

  Suddenly, they were in front of Queenie’s home. Summer slammed on the brakes, as Keefe disappeared around the corner with a wave of his hand. She knew he was headed back to his apartment over the three car garage. Summer returned the wave but felt her pulse quicken. Was Keefe leaving her to face Queenie alone? She felt abandoned yet again as she stared up at the house. Unlike the cliché that insisted when you returned to your childhood haunts, everything looked smaller, she gaped at how huge the house actually was.

  Nestled in large evergreens, the towering, gingerbread-style mansion was in fine form. The freshly painted exterior, including the wraparound porch, was a brilliant white. The roof shingles and shutters were a slate gray. With three chimneys, a tower, cupola and four gables, the Queen Anne had all the hallmarks of an ornate Victorian. But somehow, Queenie had wrestled it into looking refined.

  Summer remembered as a child, she’d begged Queenie and Grandpa Zach to paint the house the bright pastels of the San Francisco Victorians she was familiar with. But Queenie would have none of that. Queenie always tried to give the mansion an unassuming look, but even in its muted tones, there was no hiding the exuberance of the design. It was like trying to rein in a wedding cake.

  Summer recalled being driven up the coast from Northern California, through Oregon and into Washington. The year she turned sixteen, Summer started driving h
erself. The anticipation of summer in Cat’s Paw didn’t lessen with her jaded teenage years. Thoughts of two uninterrupted months with Keefe might have replaced images of berry picking with Grandpa Zach, but she was always excited at the prospect of time in Washington.

  Staring at the front porch, she could envision Grandpa Zach coming out the door to greet her family as they all tumbled out of the car. He’d always picked her up and swung her around, even when she was too big.

  By the time he’d put her back on the ground, Queenie would come out on the porch, wearing her white Dough Z Dough apron, wiping her flour dusted hands on her backside. Queenie wasn’t big on smiling, but she always had a table laden with the most delectable baked goods. She pretended that she was just trying out some new recipes, but Summer’s dad told her that was Queenie’s way of saying, “I love you.”

  “Why doesn’t she just say it?” Summer asked.

  “That’s one of the unsolvable mysteries of the world,” her father said.

  Summer thought it was impressive having an unsolvable mystery in your own family.

  Summer blinked as Queenie came onto the porch, realizing with a pain so sudden and jarring it took her breath away, that the family tradition of Grandpa Zach appearing first was gone forever. As sure as she was that Grandpa Zach had something to do with the end of her romance with Keefe, it was easier to keep the flames of resentment going from three thousand miles. It just plain hurt, looking at the house and knowing he was never going to step onto that porch again.

  But the rest was picture perfect. Queenie hadn’t aged much in the last ten years. She still wore her hair in an impeccable French twist. Her clothes were perfectly pressed and her white Dough Z Dough apron wrapped smoothly around her trim waist. The apron wouldn’t dare wrinkle.

  Was it possible Queenie hadn’t baked anything for Summer’s arrival? The thought stung. Summer jumped out of the truck as Queenie approached.

  “I see you got here, Clarisse,” Queenie said.

  “I did,” Summer said. “It’s wonderful to see you, Queenie.”

  “Mr. Caleb called,” Queenie said, arching an eyebrow. “He said you were towing a train.”