“Exactly. Spencer knew me when I was diagnosed, so when he offered me the job to be his assistant, he was well aware of what I was going through. Made it a lot…”
“Simpler,” Georgie finishes for me. She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “You have a good friend in Spencer.”
“Right? Without his help, I would not be standing in my own home.”
Spencer Stoll is not only my former employer and one of the most sought-after stars of stage and screen right now, but he’s also my best friend. He and his wife, Amelia, had moved to Sweetkiss Creek a couple of years back, and after a few visits here, I too saw the heaven that they did in this little community.
Sweetkiss Creek is like something created for a Hallmark show in that it’s picture-book perfect. You fall in love with the people here as much as you do with the area itself. I know I fell in love with Sweetkiss Creek and vowed to settle here. When I did, Spencer and Amelia surprised me by investing in a small house on the outskirts of town and kind of gifted it to me. By gift, I mean I don’t owe the bank, I owe them, which is winning.
“Not everyone gets the chance you’ve gotten to move into their own house like this.”
“I’m still paying for it, though,” I remind her.
“True,” she says as she glances at her watch. “Time is slipping away from me today. I need to get going, but I had to come see you.”
“Thanks for stopping by,” I say as I embrace her.
“Welcome to Sweetkiss Creek, Bex,” she says as her eyes flit to the house behind mine. “Just watch out for those crazy neighbors.”
Closing the door behind her, I lean against it and sigh. My muscles, which were feeling strong and ready to go a couple of hours before, are now feeling tired, worn out. Stress can make Graves rear its ugly head, so I know it’s time for me to slow down soon.
Looking at the boxes in the foyer, I make a silent agreement with myself: I’ll put away two of them, then call for a pizza to be delivered and spend the rest of the day relaxing.
The true measure of a good night’s sleep? The puddle of drool on my pillow. So, on my first morning in the new house, I wake up and immediately notice the damp spot on my cheek. Yep, nothing says “welcome home” like a face full of your own spit.
“Oh, wow,” I mumble, sitting up in bed and looking at the room around me. I’d chosen to sleep in the guest room last night. No real reason, only that it was the closest one when I was ready to pass out. The morning view is a good one, as I’m greeted with a view of a maple tree with fire-red leaves that signal autumn is here, and it is breathtaking. I put my feet on the floor and get out of bed, the cold of the hardwood on my soles assisting me in waking up a little faster.
Reaching for a sweatshirt I’d abandoned at the end of the bed before I fell asleep, I’m busy pulling it over my head when I hear what sounds like a car’s engine outside of the house. Thrusting my head through the neck hole, making good on my promise to Georgie to stay dressed at all times since prying eyes have binoculars, I hurry over to peer out the window. There’s a car idling, which has pulled over inside the lane I share with Austin. I watch as what appears to be a giant chicken trots over to our mailboxes and pulls them both open. The chicken shoves a small bundle inside of each box before it turns and jogs back to its station wagon and pulls away.
Scratching my head, I wonder what I’ve just witnessed. How often do you see a chicken standing in your lane and putting things in your mailbox? I grab my garden boots and slip them on before making my way down the stairs to trudge out to the mailboxes for my first adventure today.
I open the side door by the kitchen, the closest one to the drive, and as I do, I can see a big red Ford truck slowing down and stopping next to the mailboxes. I can hear the mailbox doors being open and shut, making me think it could be Austin?
As I get closer, I see someone who kind of resembles Austin, or the Austin I remember, sitting behind the steering wheel. I raise my hand and wave, making sure to also smile really wide so he can see it’s me. Here I am, standing and waving at this guy like I’m royalty, or a homecoming queen, as his eyes lock with mine. My pulse quickens—I know that face. It’s him.
Surely he’s going to wave back. Of course he will now that he sees it’s me. We’d made each other laugh and we’d gotten along well. So, yes, I fully expect this man to see me and recognize me, and at least…I don’t know, nod his head?
So I keep waving.
And he keeps staring.
And…nothing.
He sits there for another awkward second or two before he does us both a favor and pulls away.
“Well,” I gripe under my breath as I watch him speed up his driveway, a cloud of dust in his wake, “that’s not very welcoming of you, Mr. Porter.”
I walk down my driveway to where it meets the shared lane. Spencer had mentioned the realtor telling him this whole area used to be farmland before the owners split off a parcel about ten years ago, intending it for rentals. That’s how my two-story house came to be. It was first rented out, then sold to an older, retired woman. When she passed away, the house went on the market, Spencer found it, and voilà—now I’ve got a home.
When I reach the bank of mailboxes—and by bank, I mean there’s two of them—the door to mine is ajar. Peering inside, I find two things. One, the local newspaper. Wagging it in the air, I now know what the guy, or chicken, was dropping off earlier.
The other is a small envelope with nothing on the front of it. Eyeing the note, I hesitate, but then I open it. I’ll be honest, I’m half expecting it to maybe be a weird “welcome to the block” note from Austin.
In case you weren’t told, your boundary for your home, as in the property line that separates us, is the boxwood hedge in your backyard. Respectfully, I ask that you don’t cross it. Thanks.
My jaw goes slack. I read it again, making sure those are the actual words I’m reading with my very own eyes. Is he serious?
“No muffins, Austin?” I call out to no one in particular. “Not very Southern of you, sir. I expected at least a loaf of bread.”
