Page 7 of Lemon Pound Cake Club

On our first morning in Lemon Grove Estates, the only sounds were the birds. There was no traffic, no sirens, and no loud music before eight. Just the birds.

I woke up to birds singing outside my window, and sunlight drawing pale golden lines across the ceiling. For a moment, I forgot where I was.

Then I noticed the smell of fresh paint. I looked around and saw a stack of unopened boxes by the wall. My shoes sat by the door, still in the plastic bag from our old place. One of Zaire’s suitcases had fallen over during the night, so three shirts and a pair of socks were on the floor.

Moving always made even nice things seem out of place. I turned and saw Zaire asleep next to me, his arm resting on my pillow. His face looked peaceful, which didn’t happen much during the day. His phone was on the nightstand. Somehow, he hadn’t touched it for almost seven hours.

I slipped out from under the covers and picked up my robe from the bench at the end of the bed. The hardwood floor felt cool under my feet.

I paused by the window before leaving the room. From upstairs, I could see nearly the whole cul-de-sac.

Morning sunlight reached over the lawns and driveways. Sprinklers moved back and forth, leaving a mist on the grass. A man in a navy shirt walked a small white dog by the entrance. Two women in matching workout clothes hurried down the sidewalk, talking and gesturing, as if they had already done more before breakfast than most people do all day.

I pulled my robe tighter and looked at the house across from ours. Camille’s curtains were open, but I didn’t see her. That should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.

I stepped away from the window before I started to look like a strange neighbor.

Downstairs, the house was quiet. Boxes filled the foyer, stacked neatly by the movers, but there were so many it hardly made a difference. The dining room felt more like a storage unit. The living room furniture was set up, but nothing was arranged. The big white sofa sat in the center, with plastic still on two cushions.

I walked into the kitchen and stopped. Even with all the boxes, it looked beautiful.

A marble island stood in the middle of the room, with space for six people to sit comfortably. Brass pendant lights hung above. The cabinets almost reached the ceiling and were painted a warm cream color, making the space feel softer. The built-in refrigerator matched the cabinets, and the range looked like it belonged in a restaurant.

Zaire loved the kitchen when we first saw the house. I hadn’t paid much attention to it then. Now, I did.

Maybe it was the morning light. Maybe I was finally letting myself see what we had bought, instead of just thinking about what it meant.

I rested both hands on the island. This place was ours. The idea felt strange, not in a bad way, just heavier than I expected.

I looked at the pantry door. I needed coffee.

I opened the box labeled KITCHEN and pushed aside dish towels, a roll of shelf liner, and three glass containers before I found the coffee filters. The coffee maker was already on the counter, still wrapped in foam.

I spent the next ten minutes searching through boxes for everything else I needed.

By the time I found everything, the kitchen was messier than when I started.

I plugged the coffee maker into an outlet by the small alcove near the pantry. It felt like the perfect spot. The thought came so easily that I paused, my hand on the counter.

I looked at the alcove. It was clearly meant to be a coffee station. There were outlets, open shelves, and a narrow drawer underneath. Putting the coffee maker there just made sense.

I turned away to fill the water reservoir. The machine started brewing with a quiet hiss, and soon the smell of coffee filled the kitchen.

I poured a cup and walked over to the glass doors that looked out onto the backyard.

Since we didn’t have patio furniture yet, I stood by the door and sipped my coffee. The small lemon tree by the fence moved gently in the breeze.

I tried not to look at the tree. Then I heard footsteps behind me and turned around. Zaire came into the kitchen in gray sweatpants, his eyes barely open.

“You made coffee without me?” he asked.

“You were sleeping.”

“That has never stopped you before.”

“I guess a new house means new habits.” He walked over and took the mug from my hand. I watched him take a sip.

“You know we own more than one cup.”