Tiny House on the Hill

by Celia Bonaduce

  “I’ve noticed more and more people come in asking for it, though,” Keefe said. “I don’t see how we’d ever get a decent Napoleon without wheat. Not to mention the cakes and breads. We might figure out a way to make a few decent cookies. But I think this is one trend we’re going to have to sit out.”

  “It’s not a trend,” Lynnie said, a chill creeping into her voice. “It’s helping people all over the world feel better.”

  Summer looked at Queenie. She was hoping a discussion about the bakery would awaken something in her, but her grandmother remained quiet. Summer once again missed Grandpa Zach. Without him to interpret Queenie, Summer was at a loss.

  “It’s been a long day,” Bale said. “Thanks for everything. Any special place you’d like me to park the bus?”

  “You can take it over by the garage,” Queenie said. “Or leave it where it is. Whatever suits you.”

  Summer couldn’t believe her ears. Queenie giving someone an option on her property was unheard of.

  “I’ll just stay where I am,” Bale said. “Why make life complicated?”

  Summer looked to Bale, to Keefe, to Lynnie, and then to her grandmother.

  Life couldn’t be more complicated.

  Keefe was the next to say goodnight. He was unusually subdued. Summer wanted to apologize. She was hoping for a chance to explain that she didn’t mean anything by her offer to help Bale with the dishes. As Keefe stalked out of the kitchen, her mood shifted from one of remorse to annoyance. She certainly didn’t owe Keefe Devlin any explanation of her actions.

  Of course, he hadn’t actually asked for any.

  “We better get going on these dishes, Queenie said to Summer. “I’ll rinse, you put them in the dishwasher?”

  Summer nodded. It suddenly occurred to her that Lynnie was still sitting at the table. Summer looked on as Lynnie took the last meringue, making no move to leave. Did Lynnie expect to stay with Summer in the tiny house?

  “Are you sure I can’t help?” Lynnie said as she chewed.

  “No, we’re fine,” Queenie said.

  “I guess I’ll turn in then,” Lynnie said, getting up from the table and stretching. “I hope I was a big surprise, Summer.”

  “The biggest,” Summer said, truthfully, still wondering how the sleeping arrangements were going to play out.

  “Goodnight, then,” Lynnie said, leaving the kitchen.

  Summer stared after her.

  “I told her she could stay here,” Queenie said, rinsing a dinner plate and handing it to Summer. “As you know, I’ve got plenty of room.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Summer said.

  “Oh?” Queenie said, turning off the faucet and looking at Summer. “And what was I supposed to do? She came all this way to see you.”

  “I know,” Summer said, surprised by her grandmother’s accusation. “But I had no idea she was on her way here.”

  Summer thought her own argument sounded pretty lame. But she had no idea what her grandmother wanted from her.

  “I think Lynnie is very resourceful,” Queenie said.

  “Really?” Summer said, hands on hips. “She financed the trip selling my stuff.”

  “She said you gave it all to her.”

  “You think that’s resourceful of Lynnie,” Summer said, a tremor in her voice. “But you think me arriving with a tiny house is silly.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Queenie said.

  “But you think it!” Summer said.

  “I think it’s silly,” Queenie said, turning the faucet back on. “And resourceful.”

  At least that was something.

  “I don’t want to fight with you,” Summer said.

  “Since when?” Queenie said, but there was the slightest tug of a smile on her lips.

  The feud was over.

  “Oh, I have something for you, before I forget,” Queenie said, snapping the faucet off. “I’ve done some experimenting today…”

  Summer’s breath caught. Was Queenie baking again? Were they on the road back to Dough Z Dough?

  “Here,” Queenie said, thrusting the folded orange sweater she’d snagged from the caboose into Summer’s hands.

  As soon as Summer touched it, she knew it was felted! She unfolded it and stared at the amazing workmanship in the bag. It was a perfect oval, with a knitted piece that folded over the opening, helping to keep the contents from spilling out. She looked inside. The bag was lined with an old orange and white linen dishtowel—a perfect complement to the funky purse. Queenie had even sewn an interior pocket. But the greatest addition to the bag was the handles. They were knitted out of orange yarn, exactly the same color as the sweater. Where could Queenie have gotten matching yarn…especially in a day?

  “I unraveled the sleeves before I felted the sweater.” Queenie said, as if she’d read Summer’s thoughts. “Then I made circular handles and threaded some of the fabric from the dishtowel through the hollow tube, so the handles won’t stretch.”

  “It’s amazing,” Summer said. “I can’t believe you know how to do this?”

  “Why is that, Summer?” Queenie said, shooting Summer a reproachful gaze. “There are many things about me that might surprise you.”

  But you won’t let anyone get close enough to find out what they are.

  Lynnie’s voice floated down from the second story landing.

  “I’m turning in,” Lynnie said. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Queenie and Summer called back in unison.

  “Thanks for letting her stay here,” Summer said by way of an olive branch.

  “No problem,” Queenie said. “I don’t mind. She’s lonely. I understand that.”

  Summer felt Queenie kept trying to open doors, but slammed them before Summer could wedge in a toe. Perhaps Summer could pry the door open enough to start a real conversation. Her thoughts were interrupted by scratching at the door that was followed by an intense shake. Summer jumped in surprise. Queenie smiled.

  “It’s just Andre,” Queenie said, heading to the kitchen door. “We’ll never get those dishes done.”

  “Oh my gosh,” Summer said. “The dogs went out when I was getting the meringues out of the truck! I forgot all about them.”

  Queenie opened the door. Andre bounded in. Queenie looked out onto the back porch.

  “Shortie, come here, boy,” Queenie called.

  Summer stood by her grandmother. Her heart started to beat faster, but she willed herself not to panic.

  “Here, Shortie!” Summer called.

  Her grandmother gave a shrill whistle, which brought Andre to her side, but no sign of Shortie.

  Summer ran out to the back porch and down the stairs. She could hear nothing but the croaking of frogs and the chirping of crickets. Queenie came out and put her hand on Summer’s arm.

  “Maybe he’s visiting Keefe or Bale,” Summer said, hysteria sneaking into her voice.

  Chapter 23

  Summer grabbed a flashlight.

  “Do you want some help looking?” Queenie asked.

  “Thanks, but I think you should stay here in case he comes back,” Summer said, trying not to let the mounting panic show in her voice. “I’ve got my cell phone. Call me if you have news.”

  “Alright,” Queenie said. “And you call me.”

  Queenie looked worried, not a common expression on her regal features.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” Summer asked.

  If Queenie was frightened, they really were in bad way.

  “No,” Queenie said, too quickly. “It’s just that…”

  Queenie hesitated, but Summer pressed.

  “What?” Summer asked.

  “He’s so small,” Queenie almost whispered.

  Summer shot off the back porch.

  “Sho
rtie,” she called. “Come here, boy!”

  Summer swept the flashlight right and left as she went toward Bale’s bus in the driveway. Maybe Queenie was right and Shortie was just visiting one of the men.

  Bale opened the bus door and was on the ground before Summer could knock.

  “What’s up?” Bale asked.

  “Shortie is missing,” Summer said. Trying to steady her voice, she added, “He’s not used to being on his own.”

  Summer was afraid she sounded childish, but Bale looked concerned.

  “Okay. It’s still pretty early,” Bale said, looking up at the sky. “And the sky’s clear. That should help.”

  “That could change on a dime up here,” Summer said, blinking back tears.

  The thought of Shortie being gone was bad enough. Adding a chilly rain would just make it worse. She heard gravel crunching. It was too heavy a sound to be Shortie, but she turned toward the sound. A tiny circle of light was bobbing toward them.

  “Queenie just called me,” Keefe said as he approached. He was wearing a headlamp. “Let’s get out there.”

  “What can I do?” Bale asked.

  “You don’t know the farm,” Keefe said. “But you could go down the road—check it out? See if there’s any sign of him?”

  Bale disappeared into the bus. He returned with a lantern and headed down the driveway toward the road without a word.

  Summer had forgotten how dark it was on the farm. The moon was bright enough to make out the outline of the caboose on Flat Top Hill, but that was all she could see.

  “Maybe he went up to Flat Top,” Keefe said, following her gaze.

  “Maybe,” Summer said, her hopes lifting.

  “I’ll head around the back of the house and…” Keefe said. But stopped himself.

  Summer knew why. He was going to say he’d go down by the pond. A tiny dog with only city smarts might find himself in trouble if he fell in the water. The thought went unspoken.

  “Thanks,” Summer said.

  She climbed the hill, calling for Shortie every few seconds. She could make out the sounds of the night creatures and of Bale and Keefe whistling and calling. She checked her phone, hoping she had somehow missed a call from Queenie saying Shortie was back at the Victorian. The moon slipped behind a black cloud, making the landscape as foreboding as the moon.

  Shortie wasn’t at the caboose. Summer sat down on the step, numb with fear. Her eyes swept over the view she always loved, seeing it for the first time as terrifying rather than comforting. She saw the sweeping tiny orbits from Bale’s lantern and Keefe’s headlamps. They converged on the driveway, the men obviously comparing notes. Maybe there was good news? The lights continued in unison toward Queenie’s house. Summer jumped up and headed down the hill.

  Keefe and Bale were already in the kitchen when Summer burst through the door. She was met with four sets of sorrowful eyes. Besides Queenie, Keefe, and Bale, Lynnie had joined the group in the kitchen.

  “Nothing?” Summer asked.

  No one spoke.

  “We need to go back out,” Summer said, looking out the window at the quickly darkening sky. “It looks like rain is coming.”

  “Come on, Andre,” Keefe said to the Great Dane. “Can’t you give us a clue?”

  At the sound of his name, Andre pulled himself off the floor, but seemed to be having trouble getting over to Keefe.

  “Is he limping?” Queenie asked, getting up from the table.

  Keefe and Queenie settled on the floor with the huge dog. Summer wanted to scream. Whatever was wrong with Andre could wait! They had an emergency! But Andre seemed to really be in some distress and she remained silent.

  Andre put his huge head in Keefe’s lap. Queenie, fishing her reading glasses out of her pocket, examined his foot. She pulled her hand away. There was blood on it. Summer, alarmed at the blood, turned her attention to the dog.

  “Andre, what were you two doing out there?” Queenie said, rubbing the dog’s flanks.

  “It sounds like it’s starting to rain,” Lynnie said.

  Bale put a comforting hand on Summer’s shoulder and squeezed. She was about to head outside, when she heard Andre give a little snort.

  “Sorry, dear,” Queenie said as she massaged the paw. “But you have something in there…”

  Andre looked soulfully at Summer, then blinked up at Keefe while Queenie worked on the toughened skin between his toes. Andre suddenly jerked his head up. Keefe comforted him and he settled back down.

  “Got it,” Queenie said.

  “It looks like a thorn of some kind,” Keefe said. “Rose bush?”

  Queenie shook her head.

  “This isn’t from any of my plants,” Queenie said.

  Queenie held it up for inspection. Summer studied it.

  “Oh my God,” Summer said, staggering back. “I know where Shortie is!”

  She raced into the rain, followed by Keefe and Bale.

  Summer ran blindly, hindered by the rain and not sure exactly where she was going. She swung her flashlight wildly, but only saw sheets of rain.

  Think! She commanded herself. She ran toward the creek, trying to remember her last outing with her grandfather. She stopped in her tracks. Bale and Keefe caught up with her.

  “What the….” Keefe started, but Summer put up her hand for silence.

  “Listen,” she whispered.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Bale said.

  Summer put her finger to her lips, quieting him. For a moment, all they could hear was the driving rain. The storm suddenly paused, and they all heard it: a faint, distant barking. The three ran toward the sound. The rain started again and Shortie’s cries were once again lost in the wind.

  “Be careful,” Summer said. “Somewhere around here, there’s a—”

  “Holy—.” Keefe said.

  He staggered. In the darkness, it appeared he went down on one knee. He leapt up, reaching for some invisible handgrip.

  Summer and Bale turned toward him as he regained his balance.

  “There’s a hole here!”

  “It’s an old well,” Summer said as she pushed past him. “It’s a long story…”

  Summer pulled branches out of the way, ignoring the thorns which bit into her palm. She thrust the light down and illuminated a perfect, bricked-in cylinder. The light traveled down to the bottom of the well.

  Shortie barked, ran in a circle, and wagged his tail.

  “He’s okay,” Summer called, choking on the words.

  At the sound of Summer’s voice, Shortie put his front paws on the side of the well and started to whimper.

  “Hang on,” Summer cooed. “Poor little guy.”

  Bale and Keefe stood over Summer, all three of their lamps pointing down at the little soaking-wet dog in the bottom of the well, which was slowly filling with rain. Shortie’s tail made little splashing sounds in the water.

  “We’ve got to get him out of there,” Bale said. “Who knows how long the rain will last or if this well will fill up. Do you have a ladder?”

  “I’m not sure any of our ladders will fit down there,” Keefe said. “It looks like it’s about nine feet deep but only about three feet wide. Our ladders are all too short or too wide.”

  “No time to shop for one that does fit,” Bale said, “and it’s too high for one of us to pull the other one out.”

  “I could get the truck,” Keefe said. Summer patted her pockets for the keys, but realized Keefe must mean the farm’s truck. “One of us could go down there for Shortie and the other could use a rope attached to the truck to get up.”

  “Ascend the wall?” Bale asked.

  Summer had done some rock climbing at her gym, so she knew about repelling and ascending, but never thought she would ever have to do any real climbing in anything but a contr
olled environment. Keefe nodded.

  “That could work,” Bale agreed, looking down the well.

  Summer didn’t think. She tucked the flashlight into her waistband and jumped into the well. She landed with a splash, miraculously avoiding Shortie. The two men looked down at her.

  “We didn’t mean you!” Keefe called.

  “Just go get the truck and the rope,” Summer said, grateful that she didn’t seem to have broken any bones on the way down.

  Shortie scratched rapidly at Summer’s leg, begging to be picked up and enjoy their reunion to the fullest. As improbable as it was, it seemed he hadn’t sustained any injuries either.

  When she tried to bend over to pick him up, she hit her head on the bricks less than a yard away.

  “Ouch,” Summer said, rubbing her head.

  The only way she could pick him up was to slide down the wall, brace her feet on the rounded bricks opposite her, and hover above the slowly mounting waterline long enough for Shortie to climb into her lap. Once she got a firm grip on him, she planted her feet back on the ground and stood up again. She still didn’t know how they were going to get out of the well, but at least Shortie had had another five feet of air before disaster struck.

  It was dark and cold in the well. Cradling a shivering Shortie on one arm, she reached for her flashlight. She fumbled and felt it slipping out of her hand. She could hear the water at her feet.

  “Everything okay down there?” Bale shouted.

  Things have been better.

  Summer could hear Bale clearing salmonberries away from the opening of the well. She covered Shortie’s head to protect him from the thorny debris that showered down on them.

  “Sorry,” Bale called down.

  “Any sign of Keefe?” Summer called up.

  There was a pause.

  “Not yet,” Bale said. Shining his lantern into the well.

  Summer followed the beam coming through the raindrops. She lifted one foot and then the other.

  “The water is up to my ankles,” she said, surprised how much water the well had taken on.

  “My guess is this well was abandoned when it dried up,” Bale said, sweeping the beam over the bricks. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t fill up in a storm.”