Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“I’ll take it,” I almost shout eagerly.
He hides a smile at my keenness. Quickly, I pull out my card and hand it to him.
He takes it and puts it through the machine. “There you go. All done.”
I grin at him, almost unable to believe that this marvelous beauty is so affordable and is now mine. It feels like a miracle in the midst of my mess of a week.
“Can I pick it up in a day or two? I’ll come by with my car.”
“Of course,” he says, scribbling on a note and handing it to me as my receipt. “I’ll hold it for you. I’m Mr. Sherridan.”
I step back outside, and the village has already quietened down. My bag is heavier with supplies, and my heart lighter with the lamp’s promise. The bike creaks as I mount it, the ride back looms—long, bumpy, probably another breakdown waiting. But I’m grinning. Ann’s invite is in my pocket, the taste of cinnamon is still sweet on my tongue, and my very own lovely reproduction Tiffany lamp is waiting for me in the shop. Hugh’s slow smile flashes again into my head, and I shove it away and pedal hard, the wind cool against my face.
I feel like I owned the day… and the charming village of Hawk’s End is starting to feel like it’s mine.
Chapter
Fifteen
LAUREN
Two days later, I got the lawnmower to work and cut the grass in my backyard. The newly cut lawn has brought waddling pigeons looking for a tasty snack in the short grasses and a family of magpies, who stride importantly across the cut patch.
Now, I’ve progressed to sanding the wooden floors in the hallway and living room. At some point, someone has painted over the wood, and I’m bringing the lovely wood back into view. The gritty rasp of the sander vibrates through my arms, as dust swirls like a snowstorm around me. My phone’s been buzzing on the counter, relentless, cutting through the whine of the tool. I expect that it’s Sandy, and I know that if we start talking, I will fall behind with these tasks, which are hard work and not fun, so I ignore it and focus on the wood’s grain smoothing under my hands.
The air smells sharp—sawdust, old paint, the faint must of this place I’m slowly taming and none of it is fun. The phone keeps ringing though, and I eventually get frustrated enough to reach for it. Just before I can, though, a knock sounds on the door. I pause, my heart tripping with annoyance. Now what? I kill the sander, wipe my hands on my jeans—dust streaking the thighs—and trudge to the door, yanking it open. It’s a delivery guy with a clipboard and a bored expression. Two boxes are stacked next to him.
“Lauren Hutton?” he asks.
I nod immediately, excited.
“Yeah. Paint and supplies,” he says, barely looking up. “Sign here.”
I scribble my name, the pen slippery with sweat, and he helps me haul the boxes inside—cans of duck-egg blue paint for the hallway, summer yellow for the bedroom, soft blue for the bathroom, and crisp white for the rest of the house, plus brushes, rollers, and masking tape. The colors are perfect, bright enough to make the place come alive.
I stack the cans, and the promise of progress buzzes under my skin. I’m itching to start, but my mind flicks to the antique shop. I still need to pick up that Tiffany lamp tomorrow. Its blues and greens are glowing in my head.
The phone’s quiet now, thank God, and I dive back into prepping, dragging the sander back over the hallway’s old floor. I’ve got one of my headphones in, some old pop playlist blaring, drowning out the cottage’s creaks. The duck-egg paint’s gonna look killer here, sophisticated but homely, and fresh white willl open up the rooms, chase away the shadows. I’m halfway through a stubborn patch of peeling paint when someone starts banging on my door. I groan and yank out the earbud. Seriously?
I open the door, covered in dust, and find to my great surprise that this time around it’s a tall woman decked out in riding gear, and her boots are muddy like she just stomped through a field.
“Hey,” I greet, taking her in and noting her features. She’s a bit horsey-faced, but in an aristocratic sort of way. She’s holding a platter with a see-through plastic lid. Inside, is a beautifully decorated chocolate cake, and she is smiling so hard I’m sure it must hurt.
“Hello, I’m Cecelia,” she says in a posh upper-class accent. “I’m from the village baking committee. You’re Mabel’s granddaughter, right?”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“I’ve come to welcome you to our little village,” she announces, thrusting the cake towards me.
I force a smile, caught off-guard, my hands still gritty. “Uh, thanks,” I say, taking the cake. “I’m Lauren. Nice to meet you.”