She’d fled the neighborhood, the wolf, and the guy who’d broken in, then checked into a hotel to give herself space and time. She’d thought about it half the night, pretending to mull her options, but she knew there had been only one, and what she was really doing was laying out the case for herself. Because the truth of it was she couldn’t afford to put the time, money, and effort into moving again, and she wouldn’t run. Well, she wouldn’t run far. And she wouldn’t/couldn’t call the cops. And it was her home, dammit. Her first house! Technically. As of yesterday.
The stud she’d booted had nothing to do with any of her calculations. Because why would he? The wolf wasn’t a factor, either. She certainly wasn’t going back because she hoped to see it again, preferably at a safe distance. Or an unsafe one. No: This was about her pride. She wasn’t one to be run off.
After Googling closest hotels, she’d booked something called an efficiency room at Hotel 340, whatever the hell that was. When she asked why management didn’t just commit to an extra twenty degrees and call it “Hotel 360,” she got a funny look.
Turned out efficiency room meant “glorified closet” or, as the hotel called it, “European style!” But she had to admit it was the nicest closet she’d ever slept in. Free Wi-Fi, too, which was vital. She’d also enjoyed some me-time with the shower nozzle, thinking about green eyes and broad shoulders until her knees wanted to give out, and once she was clean and dry she didn’t so much fall asleep as pass out.
She made time the next morning to check out the library, which was also vital. Everywhere Lila lived, she immediately located: (1) the nearest ER, (2) the best grocery store, and (3) the library.
She’d also been able to pick up a few necessities and donate merch on her way back to Lilydale. And so the time had come, because that box of faded hipster underwear wasn’t going to unpack itself. Nor was the box of cookbooks she never used to cook with.1
She pulled up to her rental and eyeballed the place from the driveway. She’d thought it charming pretty much immediately, and that hadn’t faded even after an odd night.
The house, built in 1920, was two-storied, slate gray with brown trim, and boasted an agreeably large front porch. (She’d never had a front porch before. Or any porch. Or a house.) The front yard was a typical suburban postage-stamp that probably took the owner all of fifteen minutes to mow, with a larger backyard that likely took twenty. (She’d never had a yard before, either.) Inside were laughably small bedrooms (she’d never had more than one and often not even that) and a laughably large kitchen (not hyperbole—she’d laughed out loud when she saw it), two baths (one just off the kitchen for some reason, in case you wanted to cook, pee, then cook more), dark hardwood floors, and lots of original woodwork. Too big for one person, but the price had been too good to pass up.
The thing was a hundred years old, so instead of an open plan, it was chopped up into several small rooms, three of which had fireplaces in unlikely spots. (She’d never had three fireplaces before. Or one. Not since she was a kid.) The fireplaces made her nervous, natch, and she couldn’t look at one too long before her arms started to itch, but she’d had them checked over pretty thoroughly, made sure they were cleaned and cleared of decades of soot buildup. Off-street parking and a washer–dryer were definite pluses, but the detail that had sealed the deal was the mystery garden in back.
If you went out the back-kitchen door, you’d see the detached garage (gray with brown trim, like the house), a stretch of lawn, and to the right a perfectly maintained smallish garden that she assumed had been lifted from the backyard of a London house way back in 1930. (No other explanation.)
Thick trees crowded right up to the high fence, and there was a charming brick path leading through the lawn and coming to an abrupt halt at the far end of the yard. There was a small brown shed tucked in the corner, probably for rakes and a mower and lawn chairs and whatever else people needed sheds for.
There was a small, black, wrought iron table and two chairs in the middle of the garden, which also had climbing vines and rosebushes on three sides. There was a small plot that would be perfect for herbs and tomatoes, maybe a salsa garden, and it was all tucked away and impossible to see from anywhere outside the house; the fence was that high.
You could sit out there enjoying nature or wondering why tomatoes all ripened on the same hour of the same day, and no one would know what you were doing. You could be by yourself or have company. You could relax in the backyard while a great big wolf rested at your feet, and you’d fix it lamb kebabs. You could grill or just enjoy sickeningly sweet margaritas or flip through a cookbook you’d never use or stream one of the Scream movies or all of the above, and they’d have to look so hard to find you. And they wouldn’t know you were in there minding your own business, you and your wolf friend, unless you wanted them to.
Even better, the landlord straight-up told her that if she liked the place well enough, he’d be amenable to selling. So that was that. Lease, signed. Check, cashed. Boxes, unloaded. Smoke detectors, installed, checked, checked again. Weird bear
