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“I think we’re done,” my cousin answered. “Three is enough.”
“But your kids are so cute.” In the background, I could hear them fighting.
“I was playing with that!” a little girl shouted.
“It’s mine,” a little boy’s voice said.
“Mom!” the girl whined. “Nicky won’t let me play with the truck.”
“It’s my truck!” Nicky yelled.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Macy excused herself.
“See you tomorrow,” I laughed.
I set the phone back, returning to the task at hand. I moved from the dresser to the closet. Inside, there were books and papers on the floor, a few pairs of shoes that I never wore, and some old Christmas decorations. With a sigh, I decided to donate the party lights. I wasn’t likely to own a house anytime in the near future, and Dillon and Macy would have their own decorations.
I wasn’t planning on staying with them for very long. All I needed was a job in town, and I could move out and get my own place. I liked living on my own. There was no one to look over my shoulder and tell me when I should go to bed or what I should eat. I was free to come and go as I pleased without inconveniencing anyone or worrying friends or family. My plan was to stay with Macy for a month or two, put a deposit down on an apartment, maybe buy an old truck or a sedan, and settle into small-town life.
I had never been to Singer’s Ridge. Macy had been living there for six years, ever since she had met and fallen in love with Dillon. I had been fresh out of high school when she disappeared for a season. No one in the family had known where she went, and the creep she was supposed to marry had wanted us all to believe she was mentally ill. I wasn’t particularly close to my cousin, but even I knew that was hogwash. Macy didn’t have a crazy bone in her body, and I, like the rest of the family, had been worried sick about her.
Through a twist of events that I still didn’t understand, she had turned up in Singer’s Ridge, pregnant and engaged to Dillon. In the intervening years, he had accompanied her to two family reunions, and I had met both Nicky and Daisy. They were the most adorable children I had ever met, though I might have been biased. I would get to meet Emily finally, and I looked forward to it.
Over the next three hours, I managed to pack everything in my apartment into three suitcases and six boxes. Everything was arranged in the living room for the movers. My couch, my dresser, my desk, everything except the bed and the toothbrush was ready to go. I was so hyped up, it took me a long time to unwind. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of cleaning a house that wasn’t even mine.
The eleven-hour trip to Singer’s Ridge began early in the morning. I was up before the sun, anxious to get going. I helped move a couple of boxes into the rented truck, leaving the furniture for the professionals. I climbed into the cab with the driver, and we started out, three of us crammed into the front seat. For the first hour, we rode in silence. The second, they turned the radio to a news station before finally admitting that they wanted to listen to country music.
“That’s fine with me,” I said, relaxing into the seat while the driver switched the radio over to a playlist. Garth Brooks was followed by Kenny Chesney. I watched the towns change and the farms sprout and disappear into the rearview mirror.
We stopped a couple of times for bathroom breaks and once to grab lunch at a truck stop. I finally bought myself a coffee at the last stop before Singer’s Ridge. The moving team took me to the storage place outside of town. It was a sprawling city of green-roofed tin cans, each with a padlock and a corrugated gate.
The lady was really friendly, and already I could feel the small-town vibe. I rented a unit for three months. That was the minimum and would give me enough time to find a job and an apartment, I thought.
The owner had her husband help us transfer my stuff from the truck to the shed. When we were done, she offered us a glass of iced tea.
“Gotta get going, ma’am,” the driver tipped his hat.
“Where are you headed?” the owner asked me.
“I’m visiting my cousin,” I said.
“Maybe I know her,” the woman said.
“Macy Ford,” I answered.
“Oh sure, we know Macy,” the husband responded, looping an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“How are you gonna get up to the cabin?” the owner wondered.
“We’ll give her a lift,” my driver said.
“Nonsense,” the older gentleman removed his hand from his wife and dug a set of keys out of his pocket. “We take care of our own here.”
The driver looked at me, and I shrugged.
“Okay.” He swung himself up into the cab with a wave. “That’ll save us some time. Thanks.”
The other mover climbed into shotgun, and the two reversed out of the parking lot. The owner disappeared into her office and returned with a promotional calendar. “Give this to Macy when you see her.”
