Saved by the Fireman. Allie Pleiter
as if Mima was showing her it was time to act. “I am. If I do it now, I’ll have the time to do it right. And you know me—I’ll have a new job before long. This is exactly the kind of thing Mima would have wanted me to do with my inheritance.”
“It’s nice to see someone your age so excited to put down roots.” The broker—a plump, older woman named Helen Bearson, who looked more suited to baking pies than hawking vacation properties—smiled back as she handed Charlotte the keys. The large, old keys tumbled heavy and serious into Charlotte’s hand. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy after the renovations. Gordon Falls is a lovely place to get away to—but you already knew that.”
Melba gently poked the baby Maria’s sweet button nose and cooed, “Aunt Charlotte always did know exactly what she wanted, Maria. Now you’ll get to see her much more often.”
Charlotte couldn’t really fault Melba’s singsong, oh-so-sweet voice; new moms were supposed to adore their babies like that. It was charming. She’d probably be even more sugary when her time as a new mom came—if it ever came—and Maria was adorable. She’d been baby-perfect, happy and quiet for the entire long real estate transaction, and Charlotte had been grateful for the company at such an important event, even if it did take over an hour. Charlotte herself felt as if her hand would never uncramp from signing her name so many times.
Funny how even happy milestones could be so exhausting. Squeezing the new keys tight—well, new to her at least, for they looked giant and cumbersome next to her slick apartment and car keys—she exhaled. This wasn’t an indulgence; this was a lifeline. Just for fun, Charlotte rattled the keys playfully over the baby’s head. Maria’s little gray eyes lit up at the tinkling sound, her chubby hands reaching up in a way that had all three women saying “Aww.”
Awe, actually. She’d done it. The keys she held belonged to a cottage Charlotte now owned. It was an exhilarating, thrilling kind of fear, this huge leap. The cottage had become a tangible promise to herself, a symbol that future success was still ahead of her and she could still be in command of the blessings God had given her. No matter what her new job would be, no matter where her rented city apartment might shift, this cottage would be the fixed point, the home ready to welcome her on weekends and vacations. She’d boasted of feeling established in her job at Monarch, but the truth was today was what really made her feel like an adult. She’d never owned anything more permanent than a car before this. Her chest pinched in a happy, frantic kind of excitement.
“Thanks, Mima.” She liked to think Mima was as pleased as she was, sending down her blessing from heaven as surely as if a rainbow appeared in the bank conference room. Once she’d prayed and made the decision, it felt as if Mima had orchestrated the whole thing—in cahoots with God to line the details up so perfectly that the purchase had been swift and nearly effortless. Yes, she was in command of the blessings God had given her—and that was what she’d sought: a firm defense against the uncertainties of a woman “between jobs.”
Sure, Melba had made the same noise about practicality that Mom had made. Charlotte knew it might have been more sensible to buy a Chicago apartment and stay in the area to job-hunt, but Mima hadn’t left her the money to be sensible. Mima was all about leaps of the heart, and right now Charlotte didn’t know where her next job would take her, but she knew her heart kept pulling her toward Gordon Falls as her spot to get away. She’d spent so many weekends here, the guest bed at Melba’s house had a Charlotte-shaped dent in it. The hustle and sparkle of Chicago would always be wonderful, but Mima’s bequest meant she could own this cottage and rent a nice place in Chicago near her next job for the weekdays. That felt like a smart plan, and everyone knew smart wasn’t always practical. Who knew? The way telecommuting was taking off these days, she might work full-time out of Gordon Falls someday in the future.
“Congratulations,” Melba said, trying again to be supportive.
Poor Melba. She’d always be too cautious to ever launch an adventure like this. Melba had too many people needing her—a husband, until recently her late father, and now Maria—to ever throw caution to the wind. Charlotte would have to show her how exhilarating it could be. “I own a cottage. I’m landed gentry.”
Melba winced as she untangled a lock of her hair from Maria’s exploring fingers. “That might be overstating things, but I am glad you’ll be here. Gordon Falls could use a few more of us young whippersnappers.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mrs. Bearson confirmed as she slid the files into the needlepoint tote bag that served as her briefcase. “I’m delighted to see so many of you younger people coming into town and settling down.”
Settling down. The words fit, but the sensation was just the opposite; more of a leaping forward. It was the most alive she’d felt since that harrowing exit from the Monarch offices. Renovating this cottage was going to be about doing life on purpose instead of having it done to you by accident. Today declared Charlotte her own person, with her own roots to plant.
The older woman extended a hand. “Welcome to Gordon Falls, Charlotte Taylor. You’ll love it here.”
Charlotte shook her hand. “I know I will. Thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure. Tootle-loo!” With a waggle of her fingers, she bustled from the conference room to the bank’s lobby, where she headed over to say hello to several people.
Melba caught Charlotte’s eye. “Tootle-loo?”
Charlotte winced. “She’s said that every time we’ve met. Odd, but cute.” She stared at the keys in her hand, cool at first but now warm and friendly to her touch. “I own a cottage.”
“You do.”
She’d been there three times in the past two days, but the need to see it again, to turn the key in the lock with her own hand as the owner, pressed against her heart. “Let’s go see my cottage. My cottage. I want to make myself a cup of tea in my cottage. I brought some tea leaves and a kettle with me and everything.”
Baby Maria’s response to the invitation was to scrunch up her face and erupt in a tiny little rage. She’d been darling up until now, but it was clear that her patience was coming to an end. “I think Miss Maria needs to nurse and to nap. Much as I’d like to be there, I think we had better head home.” Melba put a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Will you be okay on your own?”
“Just fine.” That was the whole point of the cottage, wasn’t it? When she thought about it, it was fitting that the first hours Charlotte spent in the cottage as its owner were on her own. “I’ll be back for dinner, okay?” The cottage wasn’t in any shape to call home just yet, so she’d opted to stay a few days at Melba’s while she got things set up right.
“See you later, Miss Taylor of the landed gentry,” Melba called above Maria’s escalating cries. “Enjoy your new castle.”
* * *
Jesse wrenched open another of the cottage’s stuck windows and waved the smoke away from his face. The air was as sour as his stomach. He could barely believe he was standing in his cottage—only it wasn’t his anymore now—talking to the new owner. Talk about a kick to the gut. “Exactly when did the stove catch on fire?”
The panicked blonde next to him pushed a lock of hair back off her forehead. “About five minutes after I turned it on.” She pointed to a charred kettle now hissing steam in the stained porcelain sink. “Tea. I was just trying to make tea.” Her eyes wandered to the fire truck now idling in her driveway, dwarfing her tiny blue hatchback. “I’m sorry. I probably overreacted by calling you all in for such a little fire. I was too panicked to think straight. I just bought the place today and I didn’t know what else to do.”
She was so apologetic and rattled, it was hard to stay annoyed at her. People were always apologizing for calling the fire department. Jesse never got that. It’s not like anyone ever apologized for seeing their doctor or calling a plumber. She had no reason to be upset for calling the fire department, even for a little fire. Kitchen fires could be dangerous. One look at the dilapidated 1960s electric range told him any number of problems