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The voice comes from behind, and I jump. When I turn around, there’s a white-haired man in a brown snowsuit looking thing and a red hunting cap that brings up memories of readingCatcher in the Ryein high school. I hated that book. So, definitely not getting good vibes from this guy.
If there’s any time to smile, it’s right now, but Holden Caulfield Senior frowns deeper.
“I was curious about this house. Do you know anything about it?” I back away from the windows. I may or may not have jiggled the plywood on them to get a better look inside.
“You’re on private property.” His monotone voice and mustache-covered mouth don’t give any clues to how angry he might be about my trespassing.
“Oh, sorry.” I look down and lift my feet, as though that might undo the whole trespass situation I’ve stepped into. “I guess I didn’t see the signs.”
The man points to the gate I climbed over and the black sign with big NO TRESPASSING letters in red that I chose to ignore. “You from out of town? That why you don’t know what those words mean?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. My bias about small towns being friendly and forgiving of everything and everyone is definitely showing. Trespassing is trespassing, no matter where it happens.
“You’re right. I am from out of town, and I should have been more respectful.” I hurry to the gate, making a wide berth around him. But I stop at the gate. I feel really awkward climbing it to get out the way I did to get in. Like if he doesn’t know how I got in, then maybe I haven’t really broken the law. As if he can’t figure out how I got around the big metal fence.
So I stand there.
He strolls to the gate and pulls a ring of keys from his pocket, still not saying a word.
I have to do all the talking. Mostly because that’s what I do when I’m nervous (and when I’m not), but also, I’d still love to use that wood if possible. Doubtful, but at this point what have I got to lose? “I’m here working on a house in the Little Copenhagen Resort, and I’m looking for local articles to use in it. This house looked like it had a story to share. I couldn’t resist stopping to hear it.”
He unlocks the metal gate and pushes it open. “You talk a lot, don’t you?”
I’m taken aback by the question, but a slight twitch under his mustache sets me at ease. Or at least at half-ease, if that’s a thing. “Only when I’m nervous about being arrested.”
The mustache flutters with a breath that might be a laugh. “Little Copenhagen, huh? You working on Rose’s old place?”
“Rose?” I tip my head. “Was that Georgia Beck’s grandmother?” That would explain Georgia’s middle name.
“Yep. And my oldest sister.” He sticks out his hand. “Wally Lindenhof.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shake his hand, then walk out of the gate.
“You got the Thomsen boy doing the construction on it?”
“Adam?” I suck in my breath and the memory of Adam’s lips on mine follows. “Yep.”
I unlock the truck, and Wally stops next to me. He takes off his hat, scratches his head, and examines my truck from wheels to windshield.
“Good kid.” His eyes move from the truck to me, and I get the same examination. Then his face softens. “You want to come inside for coffee?” He points to the house a couple hundred feet away. “My wife’s got some on. I can tell you about the house.”
“I’d love that.” Warning bells should go off in my head as I follow Wally along the overgrown path to the house, but they don’t. Experience has shown, I wouldn’t have listened to them, anyway.
“My mother grew up in that old cabin,” he says as we walk. “She inherited it when her parents died, but she and dad had a farm further up the road. They rented this out for a while, but they never had the money to fix it up. It’s sat empty for a couple of decades now.”
We reach the front door, and he swings it open to let me walk through. And maybe my time in New York has me thinking I might be walking into a murder house, but the smell of coffee and bacon gives me hope that I’m not.
“Lorraine!” He calls. “We got company!”
A little woman with white hair styled in the shape of a steep ski slope walks into the room. “Well, hello. You’re a pretty thing. How’d Wally convince you to come home with him?”
The question would be super creepy if her smile weren’t so sweet.
“Didn’t take much convincing. She was already trespassing.” Wally talks slower than he walks and is in the kitchen by the time he finishes his sentence. I think he’s teasing me, but I’m not close enough to his mustache to read it for any clues.
Lorraine lets out a cackle. “You just made his day. He loves telling people about that house. We get a lot of lookie-lous.” She takes me by the arm and leads me to a seat at the kitchen table.
Wally sets a cup of coffee in front of me and another across from me. “Hope you like it black. This ain’t Starbucks, or whatever overpriced coffee you usually drink.” He pulls out a chair and sits in front of the other cup of coffee.
