Home Sweet Home. Kim Watters

really want to walk away from where her mother grew up? Houses like this didn’t fall from the sky every day. Not for her anyway.

      Following the younger blonde up the walkway, Abby’s gaze skimmed the brown patches of grass peeking through the thin layer of old snow. Dead garden beds lined the sidewalk and the base of the house. Only the partially visible green shrubbery showed any signs of life.

      “You were their legal firm, why didn’t you sue?” The wooden steps creaked under her weight and the metal handrail only numbed her hand further. Bare branches rustled in the wind and dead leaves sounded nothing like the waves pounding against the shore of her favorite place in L.A. Dirt and debris piled on the porch looked nothing like the soft, grainy sand on the beach where she used to work as a teenager.

      “Mrs. Bancroft didn’t want to. I think she had a soft spot for the partner left holding the proverbial bag, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The company filed bankruptcy.” Unlocking the front door, Delia stepped through and flipped the light switch. “I’ll bring over the contract and bankruptcy paperwork later if you’d like.”

      “That’s not necessary. I doubt I’ll ever run into any of them, so I won’t be able to give them a piece of my mind,” Abby replied as she stepped inside. The warm interior surprised her, as did the lighting from the old-fashioned stained-glass light suspended from the foyer ceiling. “Heat? Electricity?”

      “I’ll bring it by anyway. My boss turned on the utilities yesterday for your arrival. In anticipation of your continuing the business, he even managed to get the phone service activated as of this morning under the Bancroft Bed-and-Breakfast name. Don’t be surprised if you start getting calls for reservations. Despite how it looks, the Bancrofts had standing reservations every year for the Founder’s Day Festival. Aside from this one, there’s only two other B and B’s in town, and they’re probably already full. There’s a file folder on the kitchen table with all the contact numbers so you can switch everything into your name. It’s right this way.”

      Abby trailed after Delia, feeling as if she’d stepped back in time. A crystal chandelier hung from the center of the long hall, the light merrily reflecting off the glass. A tall wooden chair with a beveled mirror that also doubled as a coat rack graced the faded wall by the fireplace. High doorways on either side of the foyer led to more rooms. Beneath her feet, small, multicolored tile peaked out from underneath the worn rug. Despite the scent of neglect, the house had a charm she could almost grow accustomed to. She spun around, trying to take it all in before she hustled after the other woman. At a first glance, the interior needed as much work as the exterior, especially the kitchen. It was way too small.

      Her heart plummeted again as enormous dollar signs flashed in her brain. She’d have to take out a loan. The appliances looked like they hadn’t been updated since the late sixties. The lime green, orange and gold linoleum flooring had to go, but the Formica dinette table showed promise. It reminded her of Mrs. White’s, the elderly woman who lived in the apartment next door to Abby’s last place of residence.

      “Here’s the information on the utilities.” Delia handed her the folder from the table. “And I thought you might appreciate this.” The assistant handed her another folder—a thicker one with several pamphlets inside. “It’s kind of like a welcome packet. I know what it’s like being new to town having moved here a few years ago with my husband, so I stopped by the Chamber of Commerce and got you this stuff. There’s also some information about the church we belong to in case you’re looking.”

      Church. Another concept as foreign as the small town of Dynamite Creek. The only time she’d ever stepped foot in one was for her mother’s funeral. Not wanting to hurt Delia’s feelings, Abby took the folder. Aside from the church, the rest of the information inside could prove useful. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to look everything over when I get the chance.”

      Frigid air swirled around them as they walked back to Delia’s car, the piercing wind sneaking inside Abby’s collar. She shivered and got inside to go back to the attorney’s office. Determination filled her when she glanced at the house again. Her mother had once told Abby that hard physical work brought rewards beyond compare. It looked like Abby was finally getting her chance to see if her mother’s wisdom rang true. And maybe she’d finally found the home she’d always been searching for.

      The sound of the phone woke Abby from a deep sleep. Stretching in the dim dawn light, she unwound her stiff body from the sofa where she’d sat down to rest just after midnight. Her brain still full of cobwebs, she stumbled to the back room she’d discovered yesterday while exploring the place. She grabbed the phone on the antique desk before she turned on the stained-glass lamp. A kaleidoscope of color danced across her vision as light spilled over the dark patch of stain on the desk that hadn’t been worn thin like the rest of the surface. “Hello?”

      “Hello?” A woman’s voice floated over the line. “Is this the Bancroft Bed-and-Breakfast?”

      Dread and a tinge of anticipation chased away her exhaustion. Abby found a stray curl and wound it around her pointer finger. Breathing deeply, she stilled the butterflies whirling in her stomach. “Yes. Sorry. This is the Bancroft Bed-and-Breakfast, how may I help you?”

      “Yes. We’d like to make a reservation.”

      Abby’s eyes widened at the sight of the old-fashioned black rotary phone. She didn’t even know these things existed anymore outside of the movies. The numbering in the circles even looked foreign to her like most of the antiques inside the house.

      “Um. Sure.” With her computer still in a box on the floor next to the desk, Abby searched frantically for a piece of paper to write her first customer’s information on. Her hand stilled on what looked like an old ledger stuffed inside the top drawer. Blowing lightly to clear the dust, she placed it on the worn surface and yanked a pen from the holder next to the lamp, her hands damp with a bit of nervous moisture. A lump formed in her throat but she managed to find her voice. “Our reopening will be May 5. Or would you be looking for a date later in the summer?”

      “Hang on a moment. Harry, I’ve managed to get a hold of someone. It looks like we can get our Founder’s Day Weekend after all.” Abby held the phone away from her ear as the woman conversed with her husband.

      Her gaze froze on the peeling corner of dark orange wallpaper with silver and gold thread running through it. She closed her eyes and dropped her forehead to rest on the palm of her left hand. What was she doing? There was no way she was going to get this house in order to receive guests in two months’ time. Not without help and considering she knew no one in town except Delia and her boss, no one would be coming to her aid any time soon. Her breath rushed out in one big whoosh, sending a dust bunny fluttering to the floor along with her confidence.

      “Fine. We’ll take that weekend. We always love coming to The Founder’s Day Festival. This is Harry and Edith Gordon. And we always stay in the blue room. This is Sally, right?”

      Abby paused a moment and furrowed her brow. Making sure she said the right thing was as important as making sure she correctly wrote the information down in the faded yellow ledger. “No, this is her granddaughter, Abby. I’m sorry to say that both Charles and Sally passed away last year.”

      “Oh, how sad. I’m so sorry, dear. Funny, they never mentioned you, though.”

      She almost snapped the pen in two as she wrote in the date on the first available space she could find. “You’ll still be coming, won’t you?”

      “As long as you don’t give us some ridiculous rate or change things too much. We’re creatures of habit, you know. And we hope you know how to make those blueberry scones your grandmother was famous for.”

      Biting her lip, Abby nodded until she realized the woman couldn’t see her reaction. “Of course, Mrs. Gordon. Your rate will be the same as last year since you’re a repeat customer. I’ll be taking care of a few repairs and painting and such, but everything else should be pretty much as you remember it. Thank you for staying with us again. Have a nice day.”

      After hanging up the phone, more