“It’s my house,” Summer said, steeling herself for the moment she’d been dreading.
“Mr. Caleb asked me what I thought about it,” Queenie said.
“What did you say?”
“I said nothing, of course.”
“Well, what do you think about it?”
“I don’t understand it. Why do you need a dollhouse? I’ve got six thousand square feet right here.”
“I just like the idea of my own space.”
“Your own space?” Queenie repeated, looking back at the behemoth behind her, as if she were checking the house was still there. “I’m not using at least five thousand square feet of this. Help yourself.”
“Thanks, Queenie, but I have my house and I intend to live in it.”
“The nearest train yard is ten miles down the road.”
“I thought I’d live in it here on the property.”
“Do I hear a dog?” Queenie raised her eyebrows, somehow sidestepping Summer’s declaration that she planned on living in the caboose.
“Yes,” Summer said, relieved for the diversion, and getting Shortie out of the backseat. “This is Shortie.”
Shortie shook his body from the tip of his nose to his tail, luxuriating in the stretch. He gave Queenie a quick appraisal, then started sniffing around the yard. Queenie spent more time considering him than she did the tiny house.
“I know you don’t like dogs, but I couldn’t very well leave him behind,” Summer said, trying not to whine.
“I don’t recall ever saying I don’t like dogs,” Queenie said.
“Every time Grandpa and I tried to bring one home, you said no.” Summer could feel her voice reverting to that of a petulant teenager. “You’re famous for not liking dogs!”
“Well, isn’t that something!” Queenie said. “I’m nearly seventy years old, I’ve worked every day of my life. I’ve helped run a business, not to mention getting this town back on its feet, and I’m famous for not liking dogs. A life fully lived.”
“Can we do this tomorrow?” Summer said, suddenly exhausted.
“Just keep an eye on him,” Queenie said. “I’m not sure how Andre is going to feel about this.”
Summer’s eyebrows shot up. Andre? Did Queenie have a new…she could barely form the word in her brain…boyfriend?
“Who is Andre?” Summer squeaked.
“My Great Dane,” Queenie said.
Summer gasped.
“You’re not the only one full of surprises, I guess,” Queenie said.
There went that eyebrow again.
“I guess!” Summer said, scooping Shortie up. Andre was certainly a wrinkle she hadn’t anticipated. A big wrinkle.
“Let’s go in. I made some peanut butter cookies,” Queenie said, leading the way into the house. “Just trying them out for the bakery.”
Summer grinned. She was happy some things never changed.
I love you, too, Queenie.
With a backward glance at the caboose, she grabbed her backpack and followed her grandmother into the house.
Chapter 11
Andre was stretched like a sphinx on the front porch. A majestic brindle, Andre appeared to have practiced the bored, regal expression of his matriarch. As Queenie and Summer climbed the porch stairs, Andre rose to his feet, calm and cool as Will Smith in an action movie.
At the sight of the other animal, Shortie started flopping in Summer’s arms like a fish. He barked at Andre from his safe perch.
Have some dignity, dog!
Queenie introduced them without missing a step into the house.
“Andre,” Queenie said, “This is Shortie…and my granddaughter, Clarisse.”
“Summer,” Summer said to the Great Dane as she followed her grandmother inside.
No use starting bad habits.
Summer stepped through the front double doors into the foyer. She knew she could count on Queenie to keep the house in Victorian splendor. The dark wooden staircase, with original trim, swept up the entire three floors of the house, gleaming with a century of wax. Small stained glass windows let in prisms of red, blue and gold light onto each landing. Summer reflexively dumped her backpack on the bottom step. She looked up at the rounded tower nook, which held an antique bench throughout Summer’s life, and now embraced a small piano. Had Queenie taken up piano? Summer was about to comment on the instrument but held her tongue. Andre was enough of a surprise for one day.
The house showed its contempt for so-called open concept. The parlor, with its ornately tiled fireplace opened through pocket doors onto the living room. Summer never knew the difference between the parlor and the living room; they were about the same size and only company was invited to sit in either. Marching directly through the living room, they came to the dining room: a massive expanse with a table that could hold twenty people. Queenie had painted the walls and ceiling since Summer was here, but the three-tiered chandelier and the gleaming sideboards were still in place.
Summer could smell the cookies as they arrived in the kitchen. Summer was relieved to see the brick floor was still in place. The large kitchen in the Murray house was always getting a makeover with all the latest appliances, but the brick floor was a constant. Summer was surprised to see the kitchen was spotless. Usually, when Queenie was cooking, it was wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling flour. Now, a jar of peanut butter and a sole large spoon with the remains of a dollop of peanut butter sat on the enormous kitchen butcher-block island. Andre, who was following Summer through the house, suddenly bolted around her. He practically knocked her down, ditching his regal demeanor as soon as he spotted the spoon. Queenie held up the spoon.
“Sit,” Queenie said.
Andre sat.
Shortie started to whimper as Queenie let Andre lick the spoon clean.
“Put the dog on the floor,” Queenie said, pulling a clean spoon out of a drawer and scooping out some more peanut butter.
Summer obeyed and put Shortie on the floor. She had no idea what was going to be required of him. Shortie could not take his eyes off the spoon. He stood on his back legs in an attempt to reach it. Summer bit her lip in anticipation of how wrong this experiment might go.
“Sit,” Queenie commanded.
Shortie lifted his paw for a handshake. Then he lay down. As the two women stared at him, he rolled over.
“Sit,” Queenie said again, with more authority.
Queenie upping the authority quotient would get the attention of any creature. Summer found her heart starting to pound. She was about to apologize for Shortie, when the little dog got it right. He sat and whimpered.
“I could do without the whining,” Queenie said. “But good enough.”
She bent over and let Shortie eat the peanut butter. She looked at Summer.
“I probably should have asked this first…” Queenie said.
“Sometimes,” Summer said, cutting Queenie off.
“Sometime, what?”
“Sometime, I let Shortie eat people food,” Summer said. “Isn’t that what you were going to ask me?”
“No,” Queenie said, taking both dogs’ spoons to the sink. “I was going to ask you if he was allergic to peanut butter.”
“I didn’t know dogs could be allergic to peanut butter.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Queenie asked. “Allergies can strike people and animals anytime.”
Had her grandmother become some sort of piano-playing animal-loving allergist since she’d seen her?
“Well, he’s not,” Summer said. “Although I do try to limit his junk food.”
“Peanut butter is not junk food,” Queenie said, rinsing off the spoons and putting them in the dishwasher. “It’s a good source of protein, Vitamin E, and potassium. So there’s no need to attack peanut butter.”
“I’m not attacking peanu
t butter,” Summer said, exasperated.
The kitchen door squeaked open and the bizarre peanut butter lecture came to an end. The dogs and Queenie turned toward the door. Keefe entered without knocking.
Summer looked at him. He seemed very comfortable breezing into Queenie’s house. She wondered if this was business as usual, or if he was looking for an excuse to see her.
“Just checking in,” Keefe said, picking up a peanut butter cookie and chewing thoughtfully. “These need something. They taste like peanut butter.”
“That’s because they’re peanut butter cookies,” Summer said fiercely, in defense of her grandmother.
Had everyone gone mad since she’d been here?
“I know,” Keefe said, still chewing. “But if I want peanut butter, I’ll just eat peanut butter. If I want a cookie…it’s got to have….something else.”
“I thought about raisins, but figured that’d been done to death,” Queenie said.
“Maybe there’s a reason,” Keefe said, winking at Queenie.
Summer blinked in surprise. Keefe was teasing Queenie? As far as she knew, no one had ever teased Queenie.
“I’ll try again tomorrow,” Queenie said as she stared at the plate of cookies. “Back to the drawing board.”
Summer reached for a cookie. She bit into it vigorously, to prove Keefe wrong, but as she chewed, she became aware that the cookie was…horrible. It was dry and crumbly…almost an impossible combination for something mixed with peanut butter. And yet, there it was.
Had Queenie lost her golden touch as the best baker in the Pacific Northwest? She caught Keefe’s eye and noted the concern. He knew something was off.
Queenie gave each dog a cookie before Summer could stop her. It was too bad the dogs couldn’t be customers, because they appeared to love the cookies, which disappeared in one bite (Andre) and three bites (Shortie).
Outside, lightning lit up the evening sky. Thunder followed, then the sky unleashed one of its Pacific Northwest dramatic downpours. Shortie ran to Summer and she scooped him up. He shivered in her arms. Andre, as a native Washingtonian, sat down on the kitchen floor and resumed his bored expression.
“I made a calamari casserole,” Queenie said, pulling a glass baking dish from a corner of the counter, a dish towel covering it. “It should be heated in about forty minutes.”
A lump rose in Summer’s throat. Every year, when Summer arrived with her parents, Queenie would welcome them with a calamari casserole. There was nothing better than the fresh seafood of the Pacific Northwest, but somehow the calamari casserole had faded along with so many of Summer’s fond memories of her childhood and teenage years.
“Sounds good,” Keefe said. “Listen, Summer, I don’t think you’re going to be able to get your tiny house set up even if the rain stops. It’s going to be muddy as hell.”
“It can wait a day,” Queenie offered, slamming the oven door. “She can sleep in her own room for one night.”
Summer was about to protest, but who could argue with calamari casserole?
Keefe busied himself setting the table, while Summer stood watching them. Clearly, Queenie and Keefe had a rhythm to which Summer was not yet attuned. Her cheeks reddened as she thought back to her suspicion that Keefe was just looking for an excuse to visit. It was obvious now that Queenie and Keefe had dinner together often. Possibly every night! It was if Keefe were Queenie’s family instead of her.
And who was to blame for that? She asked herself accusingly.
“Can I help with anything?” Summer offered, pathetically hoping to make up for lost time.
“We’ve got it,” Keefe said.
“I guess I’ll go up to my room then,” Summer said.
“Do you need Keefe to run and get anything from your truck?” Queenie asked, peering out from the open refrigerator.
“It’s pouring out there,” Keefe said in mock horror. “What about my hair?”
Summer couldn’t help smile. Keefe might be kidding, but he did have great hair.
“I have enough in my backpack to get me through the night,” Summer said. She turned on her heels and headed out of the kitchen. She put Shortie back on the floor as they approached the staircase. As she reached for her backpack, she saw Shortie eyeing the staircase with suspicion.
“You can do it,” Summer said. “You gotta get used to this, little man. This is nothing compared to the circular staircase that is your future.”
Shortie eyed the staircase one last time than hurled himself at the first step. Summer laughed as he passed by her and scampered up to the first landing, He looked down at her, panting and wagging his tail in triumph. She caught up with him and they both looked over the bannister to see Andre looking up at them from the foyer.
“Do you want to come, too?” Summer said.
Andre took the steps two at a time and followed Summer and Shortie down the hall. Summer stood in front of her old room, flanked by her two sentinels. She touched the smooth dark wood of the door. It was ridiculous, but she felt all the defenses she’d built up over the last ten years were going to dissolve as soon as she went into the room. She wasn’t going to lie to herself – the attraction to Keefe was as powerful as ever. She couldn’t let herself be vulnerable – she didn’t have the excuse of being a kid.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
It was Bale.
Her hands were vibrating as much as the phone as she tried to answer. She fumbled, almost dropping it over the banister. Her room was only steps away, but she wasn’t sure her legs would get her there. She sat down on a lavishly upholstered bench in the hallway.
“Hello?” Summer said.
“Hey, it’s Bale,” he said.
“Hi!” Summer said as the dogs watched her.
“You sound out of breath,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s great,” Summer said. “I just…climbed a bunch of stairs.”
“I guess that means you’re not in the tiny house,” Bale said.
“Far from it,” Summer looked around her grandmother’s opulent house and relaxed. “I just got to my grandmother’s house.”
“You made it,” Bale said. “That’s great! I’ve been thinking about you.”
Summer paused. She wasn’t sure what to make of this. Did he mean he was thinking about her as a client or as a friend or as a potential more-than-a-friend? She decided to go for broke.
“I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Bale said. “Well, I’m glad you arrived safely.”
That sounded ominously like the conversation was coming to an end.
Think of something to say!
“Thanks for the purple sweater,” Summer said, grateful for the surprising presence of mind. “When I finally get around to felting, it will be the first one I work on!”
“It was the least I could do,” Bale said. “How’s my buddy Shortie?”
Summer smiled. He didn’t want the conversation to end either.
“He’s great,” Summer said, looking at Shortie, who stared at her, ears cocked. “He knows we’re talking about him.”
“Say hi for me,” Bale said.
“I will.”
There was another pause. Summer panicked. Except that she had everything to say, she had nothing to say.
“Listen, Summer,” Bale said, his voice growing more serious. “I meant it when I said I was thinking about you.”
“And I meant it when I said I was thinking about you,” Summer whispered.
Old habits of hiding romantic conversations from her grandparents died hard.
“I just wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be intruding if I asked to see you when I’m up in Seattle for the tiny house show.”
“I’d love that,” she said.
“Okay,” Bale said. “So
I’ll see you soon. I’ll be in touch.”
“Please do,” she said.
Summer gripped the bench to keep from jumping up and down. She practically floated toward her room. She stopped in front of her closed door, as she came back to reality. It occurred to her that perhaps Queenie had given her room a makeover. Why keep a room ready for someone who hadn’t set foot in the house, let alone the state, in a decade? Behind the heavy wood door, perhaps her demons had been vanquished by a new computer setup or second floor sitting room? Summer opened the door.
As the dogs scooted past her, Summer stood stock still in the doorway. The room looked as if she’d just walked out of it ten days ago rather than ten years. To give Queenie her due, the décor was actually suited more to an adult than a child. The walls were papered in sedate beige with tiny mint sprigs. The hardwood floor was covered by a Turkish rug in subdued pastels. The windows had dark grey fabric draped on finials. The fabric didn’t close—there were shutters over the four windows for privacy—but cascaded to pool on the floor. Queenie’s one nod to this being a girl’s room was an enormous canopy bed, albeit a grey wrought iron with the same grey as the window treatments draping the corners rather than flouncing over the arc of the whole bed. The featherbed was covered in a muted sage and grey quilt. No girlie-girl pink for Queenie.
Shortie sniffed every corner while Andre made himself at home in the middle of the bed. As Summer stood back, determining if Shortie would be able to get himself up to the mattress, she saw him out of the corner of her eye as he took a running leap, up onto the sage-green and grey trunk at the foot of bed, before lunging forward toward the quilt. Summer closed her eyes as he overshot and sailed off the right side of the bed, landing with a yelp. She rushed to him as Andre peered over the side.
“Are you alright?” she asked as she scooped Shortie up.
She tested his little legs. He wagged his tail, signaling his hearty good health and squirmed to be put down. She put him gently on the bed next to Andre.
“Everything okay?” she asked him, but his attention had turned toward Andre, who sat impassively as the little dog sniffed at him.
“Everything okay?” Summer jumped at Keefe’s voice in the doorway. “It sounded like you’re rearranging the furniture.”
Tiny House on the Hill Page 9
