Page 111 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Wonderful!” Gramps looks like he really means it. I smile back at him.
We don’t address the fact that I obviously crashed a date. The conversation flows easily as I devour Angela’s cooking—some kind of slow-cooked meat and potatoes. Gramps asks me about my “computer job” and looks proud when I tell him that I quit.
“My son owns a snorkel company,” Angela says instantly, “and he’s always hiring. Instructors, salespeople, and I think he’s looking for someone to do their website. Let me give him a call.”
I thank her and put a hand on hers to stop her from grabbing her phone. “Maybe tomorrow.”
She nods graciously and then fills me in on some funny retirement village gossip. Gramps and I never had a problem finding things to talk about, but the conversation is certainly lively with Angela in the mix. After I eat, I clean up as much as they’ll let me, and then I tell them that I’m tired and going to get ready for bed. This is not strictly true, seeing as how it’s barely fiveP.M.Seattle time. But I’m determined to give them some privacy.
After I shower and settle into the seashell bed to start a new TV show—I’m all out ofOutlanderepisodes—I start to have some misgivings. I mean, clearly Gramps is trying to start a new phase of his life here. I never thought he would be able to move on from Lottie, and I’m delighted for him. There’s no way I’m going to stick around to doom his budding romance.
I try to focus on this episode ofTed Lasso, but I can hear the low voices of Gramps and Angela in the other room, and I can’t shake the awkwardness of feeling like I’m intruding. And then it hits me—like, how did I not think of this before?—I have a house. I literally have my own house, a couple of miles away from here, empty, waiting for someone to live in it. Waiting for me.
Chapter 38
After breakfast with Gramps—he slept in and I woke up early, so our schedules lined up for once—I borrow his car and drive to Pebble Cottage. Gramps had protested, saying there’s no need for me to go anywhere else, but I convinced him that we’re both too old for a permanent adult roommate. This made him laugh. I also promised that I would see him every day, so often that he would get sick of me.
As I drive up to the house, I savor everything, from the way the car tires crunch over gravel pulling into the carport, to the heady fragrance drifting from the magnolia tree, to the bright morning sun pooling on the front doorstep. It may not be a grand front porch, but the little stoop is just big enough to display a few pumpkins in the fall. And a festive doormat. The thought of decorating for Halloween, of still being here in three months and watching the seasons change (or not, maybe, since this is Florida), thrills me.
I take a deep breath and unlock the door, the Obama key chain rattling.Home.That thought will take some getting used to.
My first impression as I step inside is that it smells like fresh paint. My second is that the mess of floorboards that I left here, piled in the entryway and the living room, is gone. Odd. I walk farther inside, my sandals slapping gently against the brand-new floors. It’s finished. Every room has a new floor and freshly painted walls.Even the planks that I messed up in the living room have been relaid correctly. I spin around to take it all in, and then I notice something I missed when I walked in. My mirror—the one Daniel carried home for me on his bike, the one I never got around to picking up before I left—is hanging near the front door, exactly where I had envisioned it.
I touch the gilded frame and smile at my reflection. I like the way I look here, in the sunny entryway of my very own house. I look sun-kissed and relaxed and happy. I wonder when Daniel was going to tell me about all this. My fingers itch to grab my phone and call him immediately to thank him. I will, of course, but thanking him would mean telling him that I’m back in town. As eager as I am to see him again, a part of me wants to wait. I want to make this perfect.
It’s amazing what one can accomplish in one day with a credit card, a rented U-Haul, and a cousin who is happy to have something to do “other than watching ferret trainers on TikTok.” I didn’t ask any ferret-related follow-up questions; large rodents are not really my thing. Ellie is uncharacteristically excited to see me and proves extremely helpful in hauling things into the truck—like the rattan queen-size bed frame and the vintage, navy-blue velvet love seat that we found at Goodwill. “I deadlift,” she explains.
By that evening, the place is decently furnished. The living room looks cheerfully minimalist, and so different from my cozy, neutral Seattle living room. I paired the navy-blue sofa with a bold yellow-and-white rag rug and a kitschy lamp with oyster shells and sand dollars dangling from it—both from the flea market Daniel introduced me to. The walls are empty, but I’m waiting until I find the perfect art piece. I have plenty of time—and I happen to know someone who likes perusing art galleries.
There’s something very satisfying about filling my brand-new closet in my brand-new bedroom. Like the rest of the house, the closet also looks pretty sparse, because I left most of my cold-weather clothes at my parents’ house. But I like it this way. It’s calming.
In the kitchen, the built-in breakfast table is set with handwoven place mats and a cut-glass vase full of fresh flowers. I shipped my trusty Nespresso machine and Vitamix blender; they should arrive next week. I unwrap a new-to-me set of colorful Fiestaware and a full set of utensils that I got for pennies. As I’m opening and closing cabinets and drawers, trying to decide where to put everything, a small sheet of paper flutters down onto the countertop.
It’s a letter—to me.
Dear Mallory,
So, my little house is yours now. I hope you know how much this place meant to me. It was a place of security, of love. Over the decades, it was full of friends in the kitchen, the laughter of little girls, and flowers from the garden.
Here’s what I hope for you, my dear granddaughter: I hope that this house can be a place to plant deep roots. And I hope that those roots give you both the stability to reach out and grow, to flourish, and also a safe place to which to retreat. I feel the need to care for you the way I cared for Leonard. In you, I’ve always seen him. And in him is a tendency to retreat inward. I know that there’s nothing wrong with this. But I also want to remind you to look toward the sun. We need other people, just like we need sunlight.
Take care of my house, dear one. Take care of my Leonard. And take care of you.
I know you will.
All my love,
Lottie
I’m sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, wiping away tears.
An overwhelming relief surges through me. Lottie did want me to live here. It took me a while to realize it, but I made the right choice in the end.
“I promise I will,” I whisper.
At dusk, I do a few laps in my little pool (my pool!) and then I swim to the edge and grab my phone. Legs kicking languidly in the warm, glowing water, I think about what I want to say to Daniel.
Finally, I type:Hi Daniel! Hope you’re doing well. I have a prospective tenant who wants to see the house. Can you meet them there tomorrow?
