Page 121 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

There’s work to do here at the homestead. The mugs and plates were all washed and dried and put away after the tea, but the enormous percolator and quite a few serving platters were left to drain on the sideboard.

I open all the cabinet doors, looking for the spots where they go.

I find more platters with space for the ones we used, so I slide those in the cabinet.

But there’s nothing that will hold the oversize electric pot. It must go into the storage room. A few of the women referred to it while we were preparing yesterday, but I didn’t go in there. It’s across the hall from the kitchen.

An extra wall was put in when the homestead was first listed as a rental, in order to lock the guests out of the portions that held family heirlooms that didn’t fit elsewhere.

It’s a good-size area. If I had to guess based on its size and placement, it’s a formal dining room and possibly an additional closet. I imagine those spaces are crammed with things wanted safe from guests.

I turn the lever to see if it’s locked as usual, thinking that maybe someone from the tea left it open so we could return the percolator.

And I’m right. The handle moves down, and the door pops open.

The first space is exactly as I expected, a formal dining room filled with chairs, a grandfather clock, and a cherrywood antique dining set, including an enormous hutch filled with china.

I walk up to it, admiring the classic pink rose designs on the plates, and the heavy crystal. We never had anything like this at the farm. Mom and Dad eloped away from scattered, dysfunctional families that we kids never met. I doubt many of them are even still alive.

But this set is well preserved, ready for a formal meal. I like that it exists, that normal families hold on to mementos and pass them down.

There’s an archway to another area beyond the dining room. Interesting. I wonder what it is.

I skirt chairs and small tables, some filled with old lamps and stacks of black-and-white framed photos. But when I get close enough to see inside, I stop short.

Someone lives in here. There’s a mattress on the floor with mussed sheets. Boxes everywhere burst with clothes, books, and mail. It’s a mess.

A plate sits on the floor by the bed, a couple of half-eaten leftover sandwiches sitting on it. I recognize them from the tea.

Then I spot a pair of boots. I know those.

They belong to Randy.

He lives in this long, narrow room?

I glance around. There’s an oak wood desk shoved in the corner and a brown leather chair covered in coats. This was an office.

I turn to the inside wall. Yes, there’s a door that should lead to the library where I met Grandmama. They must have moved a bookshelf in front of this door on the library side to close it off.

I wonder why Randy never told me he was living here. I don’t think they disclosed that someone would be in the house at the same time as us. Zachery would have mentioned it. It’s no big deal, no different from Livia at her bed-and-breakfast.

But weird to keep it a secret.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Randy.

Want me to swing by in the truck and pick you up on the way to the farm?

He’s specifically pretending he’s coming from somewhere else. Or maybe he already ran an errand. I try to think about the other times he’s come to fetch me. He gave the impression that he lived elsewhere, but he never lied about it. Just an omission.

I text him back.Sure. I’m ready.

My stomach knots. I picture the lien Zachery showed me. Maybe they really are in financial straits, enough that Randy has to stay here to save money.

That’s okay. It’s his house anyway. We’ll figure this out. Do a social media push, get this homestead full of guests. There’s three rooms upstairs plus the main suite downstairs. That’s a lot of rooms we can get money for.

But even so, the uneasy feeling won’t leave. I haven’t been to Randy’s parents’ house, or Grandmama’s cottage, or Gina’s apartment. What if none of those exist?

I imagine them all squeezed together in a room like Charlie Bucket’s family before he gets the golden ticket.

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