no dishwasher. The wall over the stove was decorated with ducks and fish and a
square clock.
All three rooms were painted the same salmon color and had stained oak trim around the windows and up the narrow stairway to what Camellia assumed were the bedrooms. She hadn’t yet seen a bathroom, and was concerned it could be located outside.
“This can’t be the right house,” she said, still hopeful Henry had gotten the address wrong.
“I’m afraid it is.” Henry set the keys on a ledge beside the door. “Come on, let’s see where we’re going to be sleeping.” They climbed the stairs to find a single, cramped bedroom, just large enough to fit a double bed, two narrow nightstands, and a little wooden dresser. The bedspread was a patchwork quilt with bears, leaves, and cabins surrounded by a border of diamond-shape patches in a palette of beige, brown, and hunter green. “It’s a back-country bedroom,” Henry said, his voice too tired to be sarcastic.
Off the bedroom was the only bathroom, one of the more roomy areas of the house, with toilet, sink, a free-standing vanity with built-in mirror, and a shower stall. “Oh my God, there’s no tub,” Camellia realized.
“There’s probably a rain barrel in the yard you can soak in.”
“Henry, that’s not funny. We can’t live here.”
“We’re going to have to, for a little while.” He squeezed past Camellia to get from the bathroom back to the top of the stairs. “I’ll grab our bags. For now, we need to get some sleep. The movers will be here in a few hours.”
“They won’t have much to do, will they?” she muttered, going back into the bedroom and flinging herself on the bed. The old mattress springs bounced her up and down, squeaking as they went. “Oh good God.”
Henry reappeared with their overnight bags in hand, which he tucked on either side of the dresser. He stripped down to his boxers, dug in his bag for his toiletries kit, and trudged into the bathroom. “We have water,” he announced, the thunderous sound of the groaning pipes that carried the water to the second floor
negating explanation.
Sliding into bed, Henry kissed his wife on the cheek and turned back to extinguish the ceramic lamp on his nightstand. Within minutes, he was snoring. Camellia, however, was unable to sleep. The long nap in the SUV mixed with the surreal surroundings of this ramshackle cottage kept her eyes peeled open, her mind whirling with alternative housing options. They could easily tuck the keys back under the doormat and check into a nearby hotel. At least they would have a bed that didn’t sound like it was rescued from her great-grandmother’s attic, and a restaurant where she could have her meals when she didn’t feel like ordering room service. She could also hire a real estate agent first thing in the morning, and find the type of well-appointed home on the water she had anticipated. Better yet, they could do both – move to a hotel in the morning and be out scouting properties by afternoon. With a plan of action settled on, Camellia finally drifted into slumber, only to be awakened three hours later by a pounding on the front door. The movers had arrived.
Henry wasn’t budging from his deep sleep, so she slithered out of bed, still fully dressed from the drive, and stumbled downstairs, opening the door to bright light and two burly moving men standing in the front yard smoking cigarettes.
“We have a bit of a problem,” she called out, shielding her eyes from the sun that was reflecting off the snow. “Place is furnished and it’s way too small to hold our things. Everything needs to go into storage.”
One of the guys with a blue bandana tied around his head nodded and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the street. Camellia shook her head and closed the door on them, heading into the kitchen to look for a phone book. She found it in the cupboard under the sink, damp with curling pages. Disgusted, she placed the thin book on the
square clock.
All three rooms were painted the same salmon color and had stained oak trim around the windows and up the narrow stairway to what Camellia assumed were the bedrooms. She hadn’t yet seen a bathroom, and was concerned it could be located outside.
“This can’t be the right house,” she said, still hopeful Henry had gotten the address wrong.
“I’m afraid it is.” Henry set the keys on a ledge beside the door. “Come on, let’s see where we’re going to be sleeping.” They climbed the stairs to find a single, cramped bedroom, just large enough to fit a double bed, two narrow nightstands, and a little wooden dresser. The bedspread was a patchwork quilt with bears, leaves, and cabins surrounded by a border of diamond-shape patches in a palette of beige, brown, and hunter green. “It’s a back-country bedroom,” Henry said, his voice too tired to be sarcastic.
Off the bedroom was the only bathroom, one of the more roomy areas of the house, with toilet, sink, a free-standing vanity with built-in mirror, and a shower stall. “Oh my God, there’s no tub,” Camellia realized.
“There’s probably a rain barrel in the yard you can soak in.”
“Henry, that’s not funny. We can’t live here.”
“We’re going to have to, for a little while.” He squeezed past Camellia to get from the bathroom back to the top of the stairs. “I’ll grab our bags. For now, we need to get some sleep. The movers will be here in a few hours.”
“They won’t have much to do, will they?” she muttered, going back into the bedroom and flinging herself on the bed. The old mattress springs bounced her up and down, squeaking as they went. “Oh good God.”
Henry reappeared with their overnight bags in hand, which he tucked on either side of the dresser. He stripped down to his boxers, dug in his bag for his toiletries kit, and trudged into the bathroom. “We have water,” he announced, the thunderous sound of the groaning pipes that carried the water to the second floor
negating explanation.
Sliding into bed, Henry kissed his wife on the cheek and turned back to extinguish the ceramic lamp on his nightstand. Within minutes, he was snoring. Camellia, however, was unable to sleep. The long nap in the SUV mixed with the surreal surroundings of this ramshackle cottage kept her eyes peeled open, her mind whirling with alternative housing options. They could easily tuck the keys back under the doormat and check into a nearby hotel. At least they would have a bed that didn’t sound like it was rescued from her great-grandmother’s attic, and a restaurant where she could have her meals when she didn’t feel like ordering room service. She could also hire a real estate agent first thing in the morning, and find the type of well-appointed home on the water she had anticipated. Better yet, they could do both – move to a hotel in the morning and be out scouting properties by afternoon. With a plan of action settled on, Camellia finally drifted into slumber, only to be awakened three hours later by a pounding on the front door. The movers had arrived.
Henry wasn’t budging from his deep sleep, so she slithered out of bed, still fully dressed from the drive, and stumbled downstairs, opening the door to bright light and two burly moving men standing in the front yard smoking cigarettes.
“We have a bit of a problem,” she called out, shielding her eyes from the sun that was reflecting off the snow. “Place is furnished and it’s way too small to hold our things. Everything needs to go into storage.”
One of the guys with a blue bandana tied around his head nodded and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the street. Camellia shook her head and closed the door on them, heading into the kitchen to look for a phone book. She found it in the cupboard under the sink, damp with curling pages. Disgusted, she placed the thin book on the
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