Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
I wonder if my strained smile says I’m a little weirded out.
I’ve never heard anyone call my grandfather Leon in his life. It’s not even a proper nickname like Leo.
But… I can imagine him spending time with this denim-clad couple, inviting them in for cider on the back porch or maybe that Greek ouzo he loved.
He didn’t mind reminiscing about quiet country life, away from the buzz of business in the cities. When my grandmother was still alive, they might’ve had a very active social life here once.
The thought makes me ache, like there are parts of PopPop I never truly knew. Especially the days when Grandma was around, before I was born.
“So, are you moving in?” Viola asks, undaunted by my weird expression.
“Not yet. Right now, I’m just kind of feeling it out. I came up from Portland to look the property over since it’s mine now,” I say. “The place needs some work. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Her husband nods briskly, a quiet lump of a man with a bushy mustache. He looks like he’s been dropped from the French countryside into northern Maine, but he carries himself like a lifelong Mainer from the sticks.
“I’ll be heading home in a few weeks or so,” I say.
Living here permanently was never the plan.
“Just in time to beat the cold,” Joseph huffs agreeably.
“Well, if you need anything—anything at all—you let us know.” Viola glances at her husband, who flashes the same wide smile like he’s on a delay. “We’d be happy to lend you a hand with clearing brush, raking leaves, patching up buildings, you name it. Wouldn’t we, Joe?”
“Sure would,” he says flatly.
Huh.
I fight the urge to squint at them.
Why does this feel oddly rehearsed? Like they’ve practiced their lines a few times before showing up here.
But why? If they knew PopPop, then they should be past the weird intimidation with the Blackthorn name some people feel.
I want to shake myself.
This is old habit, assuming the worst about everyone.
Hattie calls me out for it all the time. She’s one of those impossibly upbeat, sunny people who only see the good in the world.
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” I lie.
Joseph grins at me again, and I can’t help forcing a smile back.
“Actually, Miss Margot, we did come here with a little agenda, if you want to know the truth.” He clears his throat. “If you’re not thinking about moving right in, we wondered… any chance you’re selling?”
I wait for an emotional kick that never comes.
“Maybe,” I say quietly. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m planning yet. I just got here yesterday. There’s been a ton to sort out with Granddad’s estate the past year and I’m taking a good look around.”
“Of course, ma’am. It’s all so new and there’s a lot on your plate.” Joseph nods sympathetically. “Anyhoo, if you decide the old place is too much and you want to unload it, we’d be very interested.”
“For the land!” Viola interjects. “Not the house or the other buildings. We wouldn’t bother you with any fixes—it would be a simple teardown job. Makes it quick and easy for you.”
Tearing down the lake house?
There’s that delayed gut punch.
In theory, it makes total sense, but the sentimental value finally hits.
This place belonged to PopPop and I think his ghost still visits.
No, I haven’t been here much since I was a kid. Whatever ties I had earlier in life were dissolved.
But imagining everything gone?
The house erased and the path going down to the lake overgrown with blueberry fields?
That’s heavy.
“I haven’t made up my mind,” I tell them. “But if it goes that way, if I decide to sell, you’ll be the first ones I’ll call.”
“That would be amazing! Thank you,” Viola gushes. She bends down, picking up an enormous basket behind her I hadn’t noticed. It’s filled with packaged blueberries and jars of jam. “Here ya go, sweetie! And welcome to Sully Bay.”
Holy crap.
The basket nearly breaks my arm.
There are so many blueberry goods tucked in here they’re almost overflowing, straining the basket itself.
I stagger backward and set the basket down in the house. I watch them climb into an old, beat-up pickup truck to leave as I shake my arm to limber up.
How weird.
I don’t even know why meeting them feels a little freaky, but it was.
They were just—a bit too friendly?
Then again, I’m a New York girl at heart.
Even Portland feels small-town friendly with its cozy old cobblestone streets and gaggles of happy seasonal tourists.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the Big Apple and later on in places like Scottsdale, where people keep their distance and posture a lot.
They don’t do small talk.
They aren’t neighborly, not by nature.
This is country living as an adult, I suppose.
Having people pop in with gift baskets and random offers to help with housework.
That can’t be a bad thing, I guess.