Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Heart pounding, I slid the second, smaller key—still on its silver link chain—over my head and walked down the front walk. There were two little steps that led up to the front door and they creaked in a friendly way as I stepped on them.
I slid the second key into the keyhole, and it turned easily, twisting in a smooth circle that ended in a small click as the lock opened. And then, as though it had been waiting for me, the round green door swung open, revealing a cozy-looking living room.
“Welcome home, child,” I thought I heard a whisper breathe in my ear. And then I stepped over the threshold and into the house that was, apparently, mine.
7
DANNI
I know I keep using the word “cozy” to describe the cottage I had apparently inherited, but that’s exactly how it felt inside.
The living area had walls lined with bookshelves. There were a few books there, but mostly they were empty. The perfect place to put both my collection of books and my knitting paraphernalia, I caught myself thinking. I had a whole craft room back home crammed with different kinds of wool and knitting needles and everything else you need to be a semi-professional crafter. (I’ve heard someone say once that buying new crafting supplies and actually doing the crafting are two separate hobbies and I tend to agree.)
Besides the shelves, there was a roomy overstuffed couch upholstered in sturdy, faded denim. It was studded with crimson, dark green, and burnt orange cushions, all with a button in the center which made them look a little like plump, colorful donuts.
Across from the couch were two chairs, also upholstered in denim. It may sound like a strange choice, but for some reason it really worked. The walls were cream colored and the ones that weren’t covered by shelves had posters with different knitting stitches detailed on them. I wandered closer to the shelves beside the fireplace, where a low flame was crackling, and saw there were stacks of knitting patterns.
Well that makes sense—it was Grandma who taught you how to knit in the first place, that little voice whispered in my head. And suddenly I remembered her doing exactly that—sitting beside me and patiently guiding my fingers as I worked the needles for the first time.
“Wow…” I whispered to myself. I had forgotten that. It was one of the good memories from my childhood. I wondered randomly if I had suppressed more good memories in my effort to keep the bad ones hidden as well.
The living room was surprisingly spacious, considering the size of the cottage. It could have held another couch and several more chairs if need-be. Though what need would I have to add even more chairs? I didn’t even really know anyone in Hidden Hollow yet, so I wasn’t sure why that thought popped into my head.
A warm smell coming from the kitchen at the back of the house caught my attention and made me leave the living room. As I entered the warm, homey room I realized the smell was baking bread. I opened the oven and sure enough—a brown, crusty loaf was right there.
I frowned—did that mean there was someone else here in the cottage? There must be, right? I mean, how else could there be a fire in the living room fireplace and a loaf of bread in the oven? Also, was the bread done? It looked done and I remember my Grandma saying, “When you can smell it baking, it’s almost done,” when teaching me how to bake. Wow—there was another memory I had forgotten about.
“Hello?” I called, shutting the oven door again. “Hey, whoever’s here I think your bread is done? Also, I’m sorry for barging in—it’s a long story but someone left me a key so…”
I trailed off because no one answered me. And just then, the oven timer started to ring, alerting me to the fact that the bread was indeed done.
I pulled open some drawers, finding silverware, a recipe book, and a bunch of utensils including a rolling pin I seemed to remember before I found the oven mitts. They were the old-fashioned quilted kind—not the silicone ones most everyone uses today. I slipped them on and took the bread loaf out of the oven. There was a cooling rack already set up on the counter, so I sat it there.
I looked around a little more and found that the fridge had a jar of homemade strawberry jam in it—just like Grandma used to make. There was also a package of white American cheese slices, a butter dish with a stick of butter, a quart of milk, and some half and half creamer—all of which smelled good and had recent dates on them. Well, except for the butter which had been unwrapped and was inside the covered glass butter dish.