Page 18 of The Serendipity

A waste of space, I think as I march down the grand circular staircase at the front of the building. Tearing it out to replace it with a regular set of stairs would free up a little bit of square footage on every floor. For storage or bumping out the apartments next to them for added space. Anything would be more useful than a dramatic staircase taking up unnecessary square footage.

I make a note to ask the engineer when we talk next week about other structural changes. I can see how, at one time, this stairway might have made for grand entrances. Perhaps when The Serendipity was a women’s dormitory, at a time when men would have been banned from rooms and waited here for their dates or girlfriends.

The tiniest twinge ofsomethingtugs at my chest, and I shake it off.

Galentine’s influence is lingering a little too much in my head.

“Good morning, Mr. Gaines. Hope you’re settling in well.”

I’m startled by the voice and almost stumble down the last step. An older woman I’m sure I haven’t met stands at the wall of mailboxes, a few envelopes in hand. She has a bright smile, wild white curls, and jangly bracelets on both arms.

“Hello. Yes. Thank you.”

My words come out stiffly, and my mind spins, trying to make a connection. Have we met? Should I know her name? Willow mentioned rumors last night, so clearly, Galentine spoke to at least some of the residents about me. Anyone could have googled the sale of the building to find out my name.

“I’m Sylvia,” she says. “Fourth floor, toward the back. I made an educated guess that you’re the new owner based on Galentine’s description. I think she said well-dressed but not fully because he never smiles. It’s a reference to the movieAnnie.”

This is a lot of information to take in. “Happy to meet you.”

“Are you?” she asks, the smile on her lips turning sly. “Happy?”

I don’t get a chance to answer as another woman barrels down the hallway, being dragged by a monstrously large, hairy dog who shoves his head right into my hand and starts bathing it with a proportionally large tongue.

“I’m so sorry!” the woman says breathlessly, brushing her dark hair from her face and tugging on the leash. “Archibald, no!”

I freeze at the sound of my full name, then realize she’s talking to this beast with overactive salivary glands. My entire hand is slimy by the time the woman manages to pull him back.

“Your dog’s name is Archibald?” I ask.

“Yes. And he’s still learning his manners. He’s just a puppy.”

“Apuppy?”

The beast is sitting now, his city-block sized tongue hanging out of his mouth, drool puddling on the hardwoods.

“He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog. This is one of the few apartment buildings in town without a weight limit on dogs.”

Not for long.

Needing an immediate escape and a hand-washing, I make a beeline for the kitchen—one more useless room that’s a vestige of the building’s past.

But I open the door to the kitchen and find it already occupied—by the woman who has been residing in my thoughts since last night.

“Willow,” I say.

She startles, dropping a cup of flour. A white cloud rises around her face.

My mouth tightens, unsure if it wants to grimace or smile. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Coughing, Willow waves a hand through the air, stepping back from the stainless-steel prep table, which, even aside from the flour, is already a mess. Mixing bowls, bins of flour and sugar, and a variety of other baking paraphernalia litter every surface in the room. It makes Galentine’s office look tidy.

“Willa,” she corrects, coughing once more. “Remember? I’m a person, not a tree.”

“Right.”

Willa—not a tree. Willa.

“What’s happening in here?” I ask, glancing at the stainless steel worktable littered with baking supplies.

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