Boys Next Door. Sommer Marsden

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       Chapter Two

      Tower Terrace was a sleepy town personified. From the main road the tower was visible and it made me shake my head. Who builds a tower in a tiny little town? The answer is Maxwell Shore. That’s who.

      The resident eccentric had built it for his one true love. At least that’s what his will had stated. However, no one had known that fact until he’d died and the will was read. The town had originally been called Maple Terrace but when Maxwell left the town a large sum of money for the tower’s upkeep – providing they changed the name to Tower Terrace – the name changing ceremony was performed, the switch made legal and the entire town had held a huge festival. A huge drunken festival from what my dad had told me; his friend Sidney having told him.

      The tower overlooked the plot of land occupied by my brand-new home. A small cottage with two bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, a converted closet serving as the small half-bath on the first floor. The living room and dining room were a combo deal dominated by a large fireplace. The kitchen was a small town wet dream with a centre island, stainless steel appliances, a pot rack hung over the isle with brass and old-fashioned pots hanging like fat plump metal berries. Sidney had at one point built a small wood burning stove on the outer wall.

      Pizza was his life not his hobby, my dad had once told me. Apparently, brick oven pizza.

      I couldn’t wait to get inside and get my hands on something to bake. I was a closet Martha Stewart and the thought of making some biscotti or even frou-frou cupcakes in that kitchen gave me a baker’s hard on.

      I piloted my small piece of crap car down Lady Bug Lane. No lie – that was the name – and aimed it at my cottage which I’d only visited twice before. Once when my father was considering buying it. And then when he did buy it.

      ‘But you refused to leave the city until you were twenty-eight,’ I said to myself. There was mild self-annoyance in my tone. ‘And still not a famous actress.’

      My last role had been for a douche ad. Something I found hysterical as most doctors currently recommended against douching and had since the Stone Age. I’d almost turned it down but had finally taken it because bartending at the One Eyed Crow hadn’t really left me rolling in dough.

      Now I had a house and all I needed to do was find a job before the money that came with the house ran out.

      My father hadn’t been loaded but he’d told me that when I took possession of the house there would be a small amount of money attached. ‘To live on. While you find a job,’ he had said.

      I guess he’d known I’d end up here after all. And even though, on some level, it hurt that he’d anticipated my apparent failure, I was grateful for what he’d done for me. Maybe he hadn’t anticipated failure; maybe he’d anticipated realisation of self. A need to be more. To do more. And that was what I’d do. I’d fit in, make do and get my shit together before that stipend ran out.

      I made a quick right into my driveway and pulled up to the quaint facade of 213 Lady Bug Lane. Home sweet home. Small stone cottage, brown roof, black shingles, red front door. Tucked back from the main road with groups of towering trees that flanked it, it was very much a fairy-tale house.

      Hopefully there are no trolls or wicked witches, I thought. I put the car – a 1979 Chevy Malibu – into park and opened the car door.

      Fall had come to the East Coast and the wind had some bite to it. I shivered as my boots hit the gravel and the wind actually kicked up high enough to whistle. I turned toward it and saw that the way it swept down the hillside toward my home created almost a tunnel effect. The wind had to buffet around the large tower and down between the three stone houses that faced me. When the streams of air reconvened they hit my little house head-on. Well, if it happened to be blowing in my direction that day.

      Three stone houses across the road. The three little pigs, the three bears, the three billy goats Gruff –

      I shook my head. Where was all this fairy-tale shit coming from?

      ‘Stress.’ My own voice spooked me a little, so I put my body into action.

      My boots ticked loudly on the wide wooden plank porch. I took it all in, roughly planed wood beneath my feet that appeared untreated. A two-person swing suspended by hardwood rafters overhead gave a gentle sway in the breeze as I approached the red front door. Pretty cool.

      I opened the screen door and swallowed hard. Something about the house made me nervous, made me feel like the time had come for me to be a successful adult. Leaving behind a life consisting of meals comprised of Ramen noodles, man-child partners who pouted when they didn’t get their way (no matter how good they were at fucking) and dreams that weren’t quite panning out.

      ‘You can do this,’ I told myself. I tried to turn the knob and it wouldn’t turn. There was a card stuck in the door jamb. I read it. ‘Realtor,’ I sighed.

      Of course! Had I actually thought that I’d be able to open the door and just walk in? A key usually helped.

      I let the screen door bang shut and eyed the swing as a bigger gust of wind propelled it. ‘Nice.’

      I’d always wanted a porch swing. And it was nice. It had some cushions on it and I could imagine sitting on that swing as the fall set in and put its feet up to stay for a while. A mug of tea or a glass of wine: watching the mountains in the distance turn vibrant with autumn’s fiery colours.

      ‘But not until you have a key, dumb ass,’ I chided myself.

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