Nadia Nichols - A Full House

“Rustic,” Jim repeated as if bracing for some negative reaction. “I warned you.”

“It’s lovely,” Annie said with a smile. “I grew up in a house without electricity, and as far as I can tell it didn’t hurt me a bit.”

Jim cast a surprised glance at her. “England?” he said.

“Australia. A sheep station in the Outback, and I adored every moment of it. I suppose there’s a backhouse here. A loo.”

Jim laughed, relaxing. “Two, actually. One in the woodshed, the other in the barn. But Lily had a conventional bathroom installed at her son’s insistence. Flush toilet, shower, tub, sink. There’s a diesel generator in the woodshed that powers all the modern extravagances. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The tour continued, and the more she saw, the more Annie fell in love with the old homestead. Memories of her childhood home in Australia came flooding back, the sounds of children thundering down the back stairs into the kitchen, the squeak and clank of the hand pump as her mother drew water at the kitchen sink, the tang of wood smoke from the stove, the soft glow of oil lamps in the evening and the smell of good food cooking.

The entire farmhouse had a warm, friendly feel. The bedrooms were wallpapered in old-fashioned prints, the curtains were plain cotton muslin hung on wooden dowels and the floors were covered with handmade rugs of braided wool. The place was simple and clean, and Annie couldn’t believe her good fortune in being able to rent it for the summer. “Mrs. Houghton must have hated to leave here,” she said softly as Jim showed her what had been Lily’s bedroom, the queen four-poster angled so that she could prop herself up against the headboard and gaze out at the harbor as the sun rose on a Maine morning.

“Lily always hoped that she could live out her life here.”

There was a phone in the back hallway off the pantry. “It works,” Jim said as she lifted the receiver, “but no guarantees. The line just sort of lies on the ground and runs through tree branches for over a mile. Lily never wanted electricity in here, but her son insisted on a phone. Lester means well, but he can be overbearing at times. Still, he was right about the phone. Lily used it to call for help when she fell and broke her hip.”

“Where does Lester live?”

“Oh, he’s a hotshot lawyer. Went to Bowdoin College on a scholarship and took a position with one of those big Boston law firms. Makes a ton of money. Married a woman who doesn’t like Maine, so Lester doesn’t come north much. He wants to move Lily to a nursing home down near him, but she’s having none of it. Said if she couldn’t die at her farm, the very least she could do is die in Maine.”

“How sad.”

“Yes,” Jim said. “Strange, how things turn out. If she’d married me, she’d never have gone into that nursing home. But then again, she wouldn’t have had this place, either. Hard to know which would’ve made Lily happier in the long run…” Jim shrugged philosophically. “Now, about groceries…”

“I shopped in Bangor after dropping my daughter off at her father’s,” Annie said.

“Well, there’s a good store right here in town if you forgot anything. The refrigerator and stove in the kitchen run on gas. I’ll arrange for monthly propane deliveries, if you like.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“There are lots of staples in the pantry. Things like spices and sugar and flour. Some canned goods. Lily loved to cook. You’re welcome to use anything in the cupboards.”

“Thank you.”

“Well then, I guess you’re on your own.”

“I’ll be fine, Jim. And thank you so much for the tour.”

“I’ll leave my card by the phone, just in case. My home number’s on it, too. If you need anything, just give me a ring. And I’ll leave you the key to the gate. I don’t think there’ll be many busybodies driving down, but it’s summertime, after all, lots of tourists cruising about, so if you want to lock it…”

“Thank you, Jim. You can leave it open.”

She stood on the porch that spanned the south side of the ell and listened until the sound of his vehicle was drowned out by the steady rumble of the wind in the stunted pines that stood at the peninsula’s edge. The sun was hovering just above the horizon and the colors of sunset painted the granite outcroppings and the sparkling Atlantic waters.

Annie retrieved several grocery bags from the Explorer and found the one with the bottle of Australian pinot noir. She opened it, poured herself a glass and carried it outside, following the overgrown path through the grass that led toward the water. After a roundabout descending journey she came upon the boathouse, sturdily bolted to a projection of granite.

The boathouse was locked, its windows tightly shuttered, so she sat on the edge of the walkway that ran alongside it. She sipped her wine and watched the waves roll against the pier, rhythmically raising and lowering great fluxing beards of seaweed that clung to the sides of the old stones. She watched the seagulls hover in the stiff breeze and the plovers explore the tidal pools along the rocky shoreline.

For a long time she sat there, feeling the briny wind pushing cool and strong against her. Suddenly, for no reason she could have explained, she began to weep. She wept until she was exhausted, then she blew her nose, wiped her eyes, let her head tip back against the old silvery dock post, inhaled a deep, shaky breath—and smiled.

JAKE MACPHERSON used the full weight of his body in an attempt to open the unlocked but badly jammed door of the cabin after several manly kicks with his booted foot had failed. Amanda watched in silence. One heave did nothing at all to budge the door. In the movies, the door always gave on the second heave, but Jake reconsidered as he rubbed his offended shoulder and took several tentative breaths around the dull ache in his chest. It would be unwise to aggravate his wound. He never, ever, wanted to see the interior of a hospital again.

“The door’s stuck,” he reported to Amanda in case she hadn’t noticed.

His daughter nodded somberly.

The sun sank lower, the woods grew darker around them and the logs of the cabin looked solid, stoic and impenetrable. He began to doubt the wisdom of renting a place that hadn’t been used for more than three years. The Realtor had offered to drive out and open it up for them, but Jake had declined. After seeing how old Jim Hinkley was, it seemed too much to ask that he drive twenty miles just to unlock and show them a simple little cabin. So Jim had drawn them a map, given them the keys and wished them well. “Oh, one thing,” Hinkley had cautioned before they’d embarked. “If any repairs need be made, you’ll have to do them yourself or hire the job out, and the owners’ll deduct the repair bills from the rent. They’re too old to handle that stuff themselves.”

“Well, what do you think?” Jake asked Amanda. “Should I give it another try?”

Another somber nod. His stomach tightened. She was counting on him. He’d better make good. He picked up a two-by-six that someone had tucked beneath the cabin and used it to tap the edges of the door, hoping that would be enough. But it wasn’t. He took a breath, raised the two-by-six again and struck the door in the places that appeared to be bound tight. He put more muscle into it, and in the end was using the timber as a battering ram. When the door finally gave, it burst abruptly inward, spilling him into the dark interior with an undignified bellow. He tripped on something and landed in a face-down sprawl.

In the startled silence that followed, he heard small musical sounds behind him. Amanda, giggling behind her hands. He rolled onto his back and glared up at her. “What’s so funny, Pinch?”