But there’s no one.
The room is empty. The walls white and bare. Not even curtains on the windows facing a backyard filled with tall pine trees, branches shifting in the breeze.
“Oh,” I say, laughing at myself. Breeze, sun, branches . . . of course they’d paint shadows on the floor.
See why I need to relax?
The sun-drenched room with its small closet and lopsided floorboards is cozy, peaceful. My guru once said, “Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.” Maybe this place isn’t that bad. But in an instant, I’m distracted by the giant gaping hole in the molding of the window.
Well, not gaping. It’s tight, but there’s just enough space for bedbugs to set up shop.
I grab a credit card out of my wallet, gliding it down the crack.
Can probably seal this up with some caulk. . . .
Irma clicks into the room, my family behind her.
“And in here, we have . . . uh, dear? What are you doing?”
I straighten. “Um . . . checking for bedbugs.”
Mom winces a grin. “Mari is very, um . . . proactive when it comes to house care.”
Irma gapes but returns a fake smile. “Oh. Right, okay. Shall we convene in the kitchen?”
Sammy mouths “weirdo” at me with a smirk as we head downstairs.
“Oh, Mr. Watson,” Irma sings, waving at the older gentleman standing in the foyer. “This is the Anderson-Green family. I was just giving them a tour of their new home.”
Mr. Watson blows out some air, failing at hiding his annoyance with Irma. He’s bald with a thick graying beard and chocolate skin, standing a good six foot three. He takes off his hard hat and gives us a curt nod.
“Hello,” he says. “Mind the water pressure. Don’t work her too hard, she’s new. Gotta check on the fellas.”
He gives us another nod, slaps on his helmet, and slips out the front door.
“Oooook,” Alec chuckles.
A man of few words. I like him already.
“Well,” Irma sighs. “Shall we?”
Irma lays her portfolio out on the granite kitchen island, taking out various pamphlets and papers.
“Okey dokey. Here’s the contract for you to sign. And for legal purposes, I must review the rules with you once more.”
“Yes, of course,” Mom says, Alec by her side, massaging her neck.
In an instant, Piper is behind him, tugging at his shirt. It would be comical, her endless need for his attention, if it wasn’t so annoying.
Irma adjusts her glasses, reading off a paper. “As discussed, artists participating in the Grow Where You’re Planted Residency, aka GWYP, are allowed to live in one of our restored historic homes free of charge for the length of the residency with the option to buy. Each quarter the artist, that’s you, is expected to attend fundraising dinners, networking events, and galas, which will help promote the Sterling Foundation efforts to rebuild the Cedarville community. At the end of the artist’s residency, the artist must produce at least one major project, i.e., your new book. Terminating the agreement will result in immediate eviction and the artist must pay back the mortgage with interest plus any damages in accordance with the length of their stay.”
“Daddy, what does eviction mean?”
Alec brushes Piper’s hair behind her ears. “It means we would have to leave the house right away. But don’t worry. That’s never going to happen.”
A warning laces Alec’s words together tight.
Mom takes a deep breath. “So. Where do I sign?”
As Mom and Alec finalize the paperwork, I stand in front of a glass door leading to a narrow fenced-in backyard and try to call Dad like I promised, but my one bar of service can barely send a text. Outside, a construction worker stains the deck a dark cherrywood. His brushstrokes are hella rushed and erratic as sweat pours down the back of his neck.
Dude, nervous much?
Mom joins me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. A warm aura of peace radiating off her skin.
“Plenty of space for a new garden. We can build some raised flower beds over in that corner, fence it in so Bud won’t mess with it.”
She’s trying to show me the silver lining in all this, and I can’t see a glimmer. But she’s happy. I’ve always wanted her to be happy.
“Oh! You’re into gardening?” Irma says behind us. “Cedarville has a terrific urban gardening program run through the library. Last Sunday of the month.”
Following Irma out to the front porch, we survey the neighborhood and I half expect a tumbleweed to blow by.
“Ms. Von Hoven, no offense, but where is, um, everybody?” Sammy asks, scratching his head. “Is there like a BBQ in another state we weren’t invited to?”
As far as little brothers go, I hit the lotto when it comes to Sammy. Mentally twice his age, with a wicked sense of humor and sarcasm for days, I can always count on him to break the tension by saying what everyone’s thinking.
Irma giggles. “Well, you are our first artist in residence! But there will be many more. The Sterling Foundation owns all the property on this side of Maple Street. Come! Let me give you a quick rundown.” She links arms with Sammy, heading to the end of the driveway. Piper slips between Mom and Alec, grabbing his hand as we follow.
“Okay! You, young sir, live on Maple Street, between Division and Sweetwater Avenues, in the Maplewood area of Cedarville,” she says, pointing while she talks. “Which makes up about fifteen blocks or so. Population around two thousand. Three blocks up Maple Street is Cedarville Park. Behind the park is the cemetery. Take a left on Sweetwater, four blocks up and you’re at Kings High School. Take a right, three blocks up and you’re at Benning Elementary, right next to Pinewood Middle School. Now, take a left on Division for the local grocery and easy access to the freeways. You’re about fifteen minutes away from downtown and the Riverwalk.”
“There’s a river?” Piper asks. For some reason, this interests her.
“Oh yes. Pretty walkway too. Lots of new restaurants, casinos, and an arcade. Now, a few tips for the parents, if I may. Sweetwater Avenue is like . . . the other side of the tracks, if you catch my drift. Your neighborhood is something of an up-and-coming area.” Her voice deepens. “Lock your doors and windows every night. Never leave anything in the car or on the porch if you want to keep it, and don’t let the children wander. Especially in these old houses.”
You could hear a pin drop from a block over the way we all freeze.
Irma lets out a laugh. “But really, Cedarville is one of the friendliest cities in the country. A little dirt just adds character.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Sammy mumbles.
“All right. I think that just about covers it. Next month, Mr. Sterling would like to host a welcome dinner at his house for you. I’ll send the particulars. Contractors should be done with everything in the next week or two. You have my number, so if any issues arise, please let me know. And once again, welcome to Cedarville!”
Irma waves as she heads to her car, leaving us stunned, arms full of the information she dumped on us.
As she drives off, I beat Sammy to the punch. “So . . . we’re not really staying here, right?”
Mom scoffs. “Why not?”
“Uh, for starters, have you looked around?” Sammy asks, motioning to the desolate street.