Tiny House on the Hill

by Celia Bonaduce

  “Why are you whispering?” Keefe said, lowering his voice to match hers. He looked around the hillside. “There’s nobody else here.”

  “Sorry,” Summer said, turning up her volume with effort. “I guess I’ve been living in the city too long.”

  “Or long enough,” Keefe said. This time it was his voice that was barely a breath on the wind.

  Summer wasn’t sure what to make of that statement. It was dark and she couldn’t really see more than his shadow standing outside the tiny house. Memories of talking to Keefe in the dark came flooding back. Her heart beat faster.

  She snapped on the porch light, snapping herself out of her dangerous walk along memory cliff.

  “Want some coffee?” she asked brightly.

  Keefe followed her into the caboose. For the first time ever, Summer was sorry her coffeemaker was so convenient. She could stand some frittering time in order to gather her thoughts. But once she’d put the K-Cup in the coffeemaker, there was nothing to do but face him. She couldn’t even offer him a place to sit.

  “This place is insane,” Keefe said, looking around. “I mean, in a good way.”

  “Thanks,” Summer said. “I know it’s not for everybody, but I think it’ll be great for me.”

  “Yeah,” Keefe said, smiling. “A house on wheels. Ready to roll out at a moment’s notice.”

  She was about to protest, but had to admit, that was a pretty accurate description.

  The coffeemaker sputtered to a stop. She knew he took his coffee black. Should she pretend she’d forgotten? While she was deciding, Keefe reached around her and took the cup himself. He was so close, she could see a small nick from his morning shave. She was dizzy with him standing so close. She closed her eyes, and by the time she opened them, he was looking out the front window.

  “I’m really glad you’re here,” Keefe said, without turning from the window.

  “You are?”

  You are?

  “Yeah,” he said, facing her. “Zach would be so happy you were living up here on the hill. He loved it up here.”

  “I know,” Summer said. “And I hope you’re right. I hope Grandpa would be happy I’m here.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I guess because…” she wasn’t sure what to say. “Because when he died, so many things were…unresolved.”

  “I don’t think Zach was unresolved,” Keefe said. “He understood you were starting a new life. He was proud that you went out and made something of yourself.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Summer said, looking into her inky coffee.

  Especially since the two of you made me go.

  “Sun’s almost up,” he said, finishing his coffee and putting his cup on the counter. “I’d better be heading out to work.”

  “I’m going with you,” she said.

  Keefe looked so surprised, she found herself stuttering.

  “I mean,” she continued, “Queenie did call me to say there was trouble at the bakery.”

  “I told you there wasn’t.”

  “But it’s Queenie’s bakery.”

  “Meaning it’s your bakery?”

  “No!” she said. But then, upon reflection, said, “Well, yes. I guess.”

  “I don’t understand why we’re even discussing this,” Keefe said. “Let’s just go ask Queenie what she was talking about.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Summer said.

  Neither wanted to confront Queenie, especially when she was acting so weird. They glared at each other.

  “Do you want to go with me to town,” Keefe said. “Or drive in yourself?”

  Just the thought of riding behind Keefe on his motorcycle made her dizzy. Memories came roaring back. She remembered riding behind him on his ancient Honda Nighthawk 450, flying through town and into the hills. She relished everything about those trips: the wind, and this being Washington, the rain on her hair; the disapproval of the older townspeople; her arms around Keefe’s waist. She would think: I’m such a badass!

  Queenie had never liked the idea of a motorcycle.

  “Those things are dangerous,” Queenie said as Summer raced off the porch to meet Keefe. “You’re going to get hurt!”

  Queenie proved right, even though it had nothing to do with the motorcycle.

  Summer told Keefe that she really wanted to bring Shortie to town, so she couldn’t possibly hop on the back of his bike. She’d take her truck and meet him at the bakery. It wasn’t easy to hide behind a seven-pound wiener dog but Summer managed.

  As she headed into town, she shot a look at Shortie, strapped in his car seat. He looked back at her, the tip of his tongue hanging out, the picture of innocence. She didn’t feel like a badass now.

  I’m such a coward!

  Chapter 18

  It was disconcerting to be back in town before dawn. In the daylight, it was clear the town had moved through time, but the building silhouettes looked just as they had the day she left. The shadows seem to have memories all their own. Big Red’s tires crunched loudly on the asphalt, the only sound on the street. As Summer got Shortie out of the back, she could see a light coming from the bakery. She looked through the window. The front of the shop was empty, but the sweet, promising smell rising like yeast meant Keefe was already at work in the kitchen. She stood still, holding onto Shortie, afraid if she lost her grip on him she’d be sucked back in time. She wondered if that would be so bad—to discover love and have her grandfather back.

  To have all that heartache ahead of me? No thank you!

  “This is why I stayed away!” she hissed at Shortie, as if he had asked.

  She wondered if the door would be open. As a teenager, she’s begged her grandparents for her own key. Queenie refused.

  “This is a business, Summer,” Queenie said. “Keys can’t be handed out to everybody who wants one.”

  “That’s right,” Grandpa Zach would chime in. “We turn away thousands of people demanding keys to the bakery. A croissant and a key, please!”

  Queenie won, as always, but Keefe managed to get around the rule by leaving the door open for her once he got to work. She shook her head at the thought. Queenie might have been a little too prudent refusing to give her own granddaughter a key, but leaving the place open before business hours was just crazy. Still, she couldn’t resist. She took a deep breath and tried the knob. The door was open.

  Keefe had remembered.

  Summer wondered if she should turn around and go back to the caboose. She didn’t owe Keefe Devlin anything. But then, why was she even in Washington if not to sort out what was going on at the bakery? She put Shortie on the ground, feeling rebellious that she’d forgotten his therapy jacket, and pushed open the door to the shop. If driving into town brought back memories, stepping through the threshold felt like stepping into her past.

  Everyone said places that were important in your childhood looked smaller than you remembered. It was true. Summer felt like Gulliver as she looked around the café and counter section of the bakery. It had loomed so large in her life and had taken on an almost mystical aura over the years. The glass cases, the assortment of small tables and wrought iron chairs, the white towers of paper boxes behind the counter, all seemed shrunken.

  But the pastries…they were still the foodstuff of which dreams are made. When Summer walked out the door ten years ago, Queenie was still the monarch of the pastry shelves. A tray of Napoleons, stuffed with clouds of whipped cream and thinly sliced strawberries had already been set in a place of honor in the front display case. Keefe had obviously been a good apprentice.

  What was going on with Queenie? No matter how hard it was going to be, she needed to find out what was going on. While she wasn’t quite ready to confront her formidable grandmother, perhaps she and Keefe could be civil enough to each other long enough to figure out a game
plan or an approach.

  The case was still mostly empty. It was a Murray tradition that all baked goods be made daily and it was still very early. Summer could hear the oven doors opening and closing in the back of the store. She sniffed the air—French bread and something with cinnamon was being created back there. As hesitant as she was to work alongside Keefe in such a small space, there was no resisting the sweet temptations of the kitchen. It suddenly occurred to her that Keefe must have been holding down the fort completely alone since Queenie bailed on the bakery. Summer’s heart went out to him; running a bakery by yourself was nearly a super-human feat!

  A knock on the front window startled her. It was barely dawn! She whipped round to see Mrs. Pendergrass, from Pendergrass’s Coffee Shop standing at the window. Mrs. Pendergrass waved and opened the door.

  I should have locked the door behind me.

  Mrs. Pendergrass was as nosey as Mr. Caleb, without the excuse of being a reporter. Summer realized she needed to smile. Like it or not, Summer was a representative of her family. Coming across as a scowling teenager would not do. What if Queenie heard? Summer had to keep reminding herself that she was an adult. That image of herself kept slipping.

  “Hi, Mrs. Pendergrass,” Summer said, bending over to receive the older woman’s hug.

  It was difficult, not only because Mrs. Pendergrass had shrunk at least four inches since Summer had been in Cat’s Paw, but she was balancing two mugs of coffee.

  “How have you been?” Summer said, as Mrs. Pendergrass pushed her way into the room.

  “I don’t know if your grandmother told you, but I have bursitis, and osteoporosis and a touch of arthritis,” Mrs. Pendergrass said. “Can’t complain.”

  Can’t complain?

  “I brought you a cup of coffee from the shop,” Mrs. Pendergrass said, looking around the bakery.

  “That’s very sweet of you,” Summer said, reverting against her will to the eighteen-year-old who left Cat’s Paw. “But you know, we have coffee right here.”

  “Oh, I know,” Mrs. Pendergrass said, putting the steaming mug in Summer’s hands. “But I didn’t want you to go to the trouble of brewing it on your first day back.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  Now please leave.

  Mrs. Pendergrass took a seat at one of the café tables and sipped at her coffee. Apparently, she was going to settle in for a chat. Summer didn’t know what to do. She knew Grandpa Zach would have just sucked it up and humored her, and Queenie would have thrown her out. Summer thought it would be best to emulate her grandmother. Summer needed to let the town know that she was no pushover. And she should start with Mrs. Pendergrass.

  Who am I kidding?

  She sat down at the table. Summer wanted to smack the triumphant look off Mrs. Pendergrass’s face.

  Maybe Queenie was ornery for a reason.

  “I was so surprised when I saw that tiny house being pulled into town yesterday,” Mrs. Pendergrass said. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw it was you driving that thing! Of course, I couldn’t even get near you, you drew such a crowd. You surprised the whole town!”

  “I don’t even know the whole town anymore,” Summer said, not sure if she was deflecting a compliment or a complaint.

  “I guess Keefe is already hard at work,” Mrs. Pendergrass said, looking at the kitchen door.

  “He is,” Summer said, not believing her luck. She had the perfect out! “And I really need to go help him. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

  “Why?” Mrs. Pendergrass asked.

  “Why?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Pendergrass said. “Why is this a big day?”

  “Because…” Summer was at a loss for words. “Because, as you just said, this is my first day back. I’m probably rusty.”

  “You probably are,” Mrs. Pendergrass agreed. “But that doesn’t really matter. Keefe has it covered. He’s a hard worker.”

  “He is,” Summer agreed, although she really wasn’t in a position to know this, not to mention she didn’t want to be singing his praises.

  He dumped me!

  “He’s such a good boy,” Mrs. Pendergrass continued.

  “He has his moments,” was all Summer could muster.

  “He’s been just great running the place since Queenie…” Mrs. Pendergrass’s voice trailed off.

  “Since Queenie what?”

  “Since Queenie stopped coming to town a few months ago.”

  “It’s been months?” Summer asked.

  “Didn’t you know?” Mrs. Pendergrass’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Of course you didn’t. You didn’t stay in touch.”

  Summer needed to remain calm. Perhaps Mrs. Pendergrass knew what was going on.

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” Summer said.

  “So you are,” Mrs. Pendergrass said, patting Summer’s hand. “So. You. Are.”

  Mrs. Pendergrass continued to look around the bakery, shooting her eyes toward the kitchen from time to time, whenever Keefe so much as rattled a pan. Why was she so interested in the goings on at the bakery? Surely there was more interesting gossip in town.

  “Are you going to replace Keefe as manager?” Mrs. Pendergrass asked suddenly.

  Keefe was manager? Of Dough Z Dough? Summer bristled. She knew it was a knee-jerk response. What was her grandmother supposed to do? Make her the manager from three thousand miles away?

  “Nothing has been decided yet,” Summer said. “I think right now, we’ll just work together.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet,” Mrs. Pendergrass giggled. “Just like the old days.”

  Summer breathed in. This old bag really knew how to get under her skin. Suddenly, Mrs. Pendergrass let out a squeak and leapt out of her seat.

  “Something touched my leg!” she shrieked.

  Mrs. Pendergrass and Summer looked at the floor. Shortie was standing beside Mrs. Pendergrass, waiting for attention.

  “What is that?” Mrs. Pendergrass said, pointing at the dog.

  “That’s Shortie,” Summer said. “He’s a Dachshund-Chihuahua mix.”

  “He’s not supposed to be in the store,” Mrs. Pendergrass said. “There are rules…”

  “He’s a therapy dog,” Summer said, grateful she’d made Shortie legal. “I just forgot his paperwork and vest. I can bring them over to the coffee shop tomorrow. Shortie and I would love to come visit.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Pendergrass said, visibly paling at the thought of a dog in her shop. “Welcome back, Summer.”

  Mrs. Pendergrass gathered up the coffee cups and headed to the door. Summer watched her go. For an old woman with bursitis, osteoporosis, and a touch of arthritis, that woman could move!

  “You know she’s going to be telling all her customers that she spent the morning with you, right?” Keefe’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  She turned to face him. He was standing in the doorway, a crisp white apron covering his clothes, pulled tautly over his waist. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. Summer could see he’d developed the muscular forearms of a serious baker.

  A man who used his hands.

  “Why would anybody care that she spent time with me?” Summer asked, turning around to face him.

  “Bragging rights,” Keefe said. “For all the changes, this is still a small town. Everybody’s pretty curious about you.”

  “I think I’ll keep my distance,” Summer said. She smiled. “Keep the mystery alive.”

  “Why change now?” Keefe said.

  Summer’s smile faded. She realized there still seemed to be activity in the kitchen.

  “Have you gotten some help?” Summer asked.

  “Yes,” Keefe said, furrowing his brow. “It would have been impossible to do all the morning baking by myself.”

  “I’
m not criticizing you,” Summer said. “I was just asking!”

  “Hi Summer,” Evie said, sticking her head out of the kitchen.

  Summer tried not to gasp.

  “Evie. This is a surprise.” Truer words were never, ever spoken. It was obvious that Mrs. Pendergrass did know where the hot gossip was in Cat’s Paw.

  “Oh, I’ve just been lending a hand,” Evie said, wiping her hands on a Dough Z Dough apron and coming into the bakery. “I need cookies for my ice cream sandwiches and cake for my ice cream cakes, so you could call it self-preservation.”

  That’s not what I’d call it.

  “That was very thoughtful of you,” Summer said. “But I’m here now. We’ll make sure you get your cookies.”

  “And cake,” Evie said.

  What was it Evie had said? “Cake and ice cream, natural allies?” But Summer preferred to keep her ice cream and cake separate.

  The two women stared at each other, but one of them was trespassing. Without a word, Evie took off her apron, handing it to Keefe.

  “I’ll need two dozen extra-large chocolate chip cookies and a full vanilla sheet cake by noon,” Evie said to Keefe.

  “Uh…thanks,” Keefe said, looking at the apron in his hand as Evie stormed out of the shop.

  “What just happened?” Keefe asked.

  “Shall we get to work?” Summer said, suddenly all business.

  “Sure,” Keefe said, standing back so Summer and Shortie could precede him into the kitchen. “Do you remember how to make Nanaimo Bars?”

  Summer smiled to herself. The Nanaimo Bar was a complex layered bar named after the west coast city of Nanaimo, British Columbia, and was a favorite across the Pacific Northwest. Time consuming and consisting of a lot of ingredients, the bar required skill in the kitchen. When done correctly, the Nanaimo Bar was a wafer crumb-based layer topped by a lavish spread of custard icing which in turn is covered with melted chocolate. She knew Keefe was testing her, but what he didn’t know was that Summer had made the bars for the Christmas party every year at the insurance company to much acclaim.

  “I haven’t thought about those bars in years,” Summer said, pulling a white apron from a shelf and tying it rather aggressively around her waist. “But I think I can handle it.”