Chapter 2

2

The disapproving glances from passersby told Kinsley everything she needed about her overgrown lawn. After a few days of avoiding it, and the rain holding off, she finally ventured into the shed for Granny's ancient push mower—a relic probably as old as she was. Across the street, neighbors were bringing out their own lawn equipment. Their hum blended with the drone of her own.

It took a couple hours to figure it out, but eventually Kinsley managed to mow the front and large backyard. She slumped down in an old rocking chair on the front porch, kicking up her feet on the chipped white paint of the railing to enjoy a cold glass of lemonade. The bitter, yet sweet taste, was a delight after a couple of hours in the hot sun. The cool drink and gentle sea breeze made all the difference. As the leaves rustled, Kinsley felt as if she could float off into a nice midday nap.

“I was wondering what all that racket was out here,” an older woman’s voice shouted from nearby.

Kinsley sat up, turning to see where it came from.

“I used to tell your grandma that mower sounded like an airplane taking off,” the woman said with a feeble laugh. “I woke up from my nap and wasn’t sure if I was home or next to an airport.”

Kinsley’s eyes landed on her. It was Mrs. Putski, Granny’s friend and next-door neighbor. Kinsley had known Mrs. Putski her whole life. She was the only person Kinsley really knew around here. “I think it’s time for me to retire that old thing and get a new one.” With a sip of her lemonade, Kinsley pushed herself out of her chair and walked toward the fence to join her.

“Retire it?” She gestured to the mower that was still sitting outside the shed. “That thing is so old it should be in a museum.” Mrs. Putski leaned on the fence, her hazel eyes crinkling with amusement. “I saw you move in the other day, Kinsley, but I wanted you to get settled before coming by.” She fidgeted her fingers on the chipped wooden fence. “You know,” her voice cracked, “seeing you over there made me do a double take. You look so much like your grandmother. Well,” she chuckled, “about fifty years younger, of course.”

Kinsley smiled.

“Your grandma and I spent about fifty years together as neighbors. You know we would sit on that very porch sipping lemonade, just like you were doing now,” Mrs. Putski said with a nostalgic smile. “When you were little, we would watch you play in the yard. Always running around barefoot, no matter how many times she told you to wear shoes. I told her to let you go; stepping on a bee or two would build character.” Mrs. Putski pointed down at Kinsley’s bare feet.

They both chuckled as a gust of wind picked up, blowing Mrs. Putski’s powder-blue dress. Kinsley took a deep breath, the scent of the freshly cut lawn igniting her senses. Luckily, it isn’t igniting my allergies. The feel of the grass between her toes was still a treasured, freeing sensation.

Mrs. Putski fixed a stray piece of gray hair. “Are you still with that boyfriend of yours?” Her voice sounded hopeful.

“No,” Kinsley replied quickly, “we split up earlier this year.” As if the sun was beating down harder, Kinsley could feel the heat rising on her face. Despite the heartbreak, she was eager to leave it behind.

“Oh,” Mrs. Putski paused. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, sweetheart.” Her voice lowered, “And how are you handling things now, Kinsley, with all that has happened?”

Kinsley held on to the fence and glanced down at the ground. “Just doing my best, Mrs. Putski.”

Mrs. Putski patted her hand, whispering, “It’s all we can do, isn’t it? Our best?” Kinsley looked back up to meet her smile.

Her chest tightened at Mrs. Putski’s words. She was trying—really trying—but each step felt like she was fumbling beneath her grandmother’s shadow. Kinsley wasn’t sure she could ever fill it. This house deserved the best; she needed to be that and more to share it with others.

Mrs. Putski continued, “Your grandma would be happy to see you taking care of her home. She always took such pride in it being in the family for so long.”

The heaviness in Kinsley’s chest lifted a little. “She really loved it.” She wished Granny could be here now, complaining about her plants and wondering where she’d put her gardening tools. Her guidance would have made everything better, gentler, less terrifying. The word overwhelming suited Kinsley best these days.

“She loved it so much that she wasn’t willing to sell it when those investors came knocking.” Mrs. Putski laughed. “Rose was a stubborn woman, but I can’t blame her. No kids to inherit mine, so when I’m gone,” she whistled, “that’ll be that.”

Kinsley’s gaze had been drifting back toward the house, but it snapped back toward Mrs. Putski. “Someone was trying to buy the house from Granny?” Kinsley’s mind raced back to the letter, connecting the dots. Her hand tightened around the glass, knuckles turning white as a wave of unease washed over her. The thought of selling had never crossed her mind as an option, but hearing about the investors made Kinsley wonder, just for a second, if she was clinging to something she could never really hold onto.

“Oh yes, yes,” Mrs. Putski nodded. “Everyone else on this side of the block accepted their offers. So that’s seven of us if we don’t count you. Besides, they already bought up all that acreage behind our backyards.” Mrs. Putski paused, adjusting her delicate glasses. “I couldn’t say no,” she shrugged. “The money was too good. Figured I’d take my small fortune and move to Florida with my sister. We could cruise every week if we want to.” She let out a small laugh.

A sense of unease grew and settled deep within her. Why hadn’t Granny mentioned any of this? It had never come up during their phone calls, although Granny never usually spoke of private matters or her “troubles” as she often called them.

Mrs. Putski must have noticed Kinsley drifting off in thought, because she quickly changed the subject. “So, do you have any plans for the house? Any summer plans?”

“Oh.” Kinsley quickly focused Mrs. Putski again. “I’d love to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. I think it would do really well for all seasons. But I just need to fix things up and do quite a few renovations. I’m not sure where to start.” Kinsley looked back toward the house looming behind her.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Kinsley!” Mrs. Putski sounded enthused. “It has a lot of bedrooms. It would be perfect for a bed-and-breakfast. Your grandma would love that.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Putski.” Kinsley smiled. “It’s a little…overwhelming.” Kinsley felt a pang of doubt as she stared at the old house. The mauve paint was chipping, the roof likely needed repairs, and who knew what was lurking behind the old walls. Could she really turn it into a thriving business, or was she just fooling herself?

They chatted for a few more minutes about mundane things as Kinsley sipped on her lemonade. Regardless of what they spoke of, Kinsley couldn’t shake the nagging curiosity about the investors that wanted to buy the house. Who were they, and why did they want this old place so badly? Why did they want all the houses on this side of the block? She almost reached for her phone to look them up, but stopped herself. Not now.

As the two were finishing up their conversation, a floral delivery van pulled into her cracked driveway, beneath the comfortable shade of a large oak tree. Mrs. Putski excused herself to head back inside, while Kinsley stood at the fence, staring toward the delivery van with curiosity. The logo on the side of the vehicle was worn and weathered.

Its engine rumbled like a low growl as it idled. A short man hopped out and walked to the back of the van for a minute, returning with the largest bouquet Kinsley had ever seen.

“Family of Rose Vaughn?” he asked gruffly, reading the name off the card.

“Yes.” Kinsley walked toward him, glass of lemonade still in one hand. “Who is this from?”

“It’s on the card,” he said, his tone cold. “I just deliver.” It was the most straightforward ‘I don’t know, I just work here’ comment Kinsley had ever heard. He barely looked at her as he thrust the bouquet forward. His clipped tone and lack of eye contact gave her the distinct impression he couldn’t care less about condolences. She grabbed the bouquet, struggling to cradle it as she balanced her lemonade.

Before she could say anything else, he’d hopped back in the van and was already backing out of the driveway. Kinsley slowly walked back onto the porch, the old wood creaking under her bare feet. Setting down her glass of lemonade on the small table between the chairs, she carefully adjusted her grip on the bouquet and managed to open the door. She grabbed the lemonade and let the old screen door swing shut behind her.

She walked into the dining room. With everything set down on the table, she could get a better look. The fragrance of the all-white bouquet was overwhelming—a mix of sweet roses and sharp lilies that tickled her nose. A small card poked up from the middle of the arrangement. It read: “To the family of Rose Vaughn, we are deeply sorry for your loss and the grief you face. May you find comfort in your cherished moments and strength from those around you.”

It was signed “Westerhouse Investments Group.” The name rang a bell, but Kinsley couldn’t quite pinpoint why. Her stomach clenched. Why would an investment group send flowers? Kinsley frowned, her grip tightening on the card. Something about this felt off. Was this their way of softening her up for a future conversation? Was this the company buying up all the houses on the block?

Granny would’ve hated this. To have an oversized arrangement from some company, as if they knew her or cared? It was borderline pathetic. Granny had always valued personal connections, not flashy gestures from people who only saw dollar signs.

The rest of the evening, it nagged at her. There was something coldly calculated about the gesture, as if the flowers weren’t a simple condolence, but a step in some grander plan. Kinsley shook the thought off before bed. It didn’t matter what Westerhouse Investments wanted; the house wasn’t for sale.

Daegan’s phone buzzed with Thomas’s update: “The flowers were delivered earlier today.” While Thomas was helpful, he had his own projects to focus on. What Daegan really needed was a personal assistant to take care of matters like this, but he’d been so overworked without one that he didn’t have the time to draft up a list of requirements for HR.

He stretched back in his chair. The stark living room stretched around him, all sharp angles and clean, empty space. Monochromatic gray walls rose to meet a high ceiling, broken only by floor-to-ceiling windows which offered little warmth despite the fading sunlight. His Italian leather sofa—one of the few pieces of furniture in the room—stood like an island in a sea of polished light wood flooring.

It was pristine silence. Daegan called it home, but the truth was, it rarely felt that way. More like a carefully curated display of success, with none of the warmth he remembered from his childhood.

Daegan responded with a brief “thanks” before catching up on the other texts he’d overlooked throughout the day.

“Sir, your Aunt Tilly called earlier,” Stewart said quietly from the living room’s threshold.

Daegan hadn’t even noticed his butler’s approach. “I’m assuming she left some sort of cryptic message.” He set his cell phone on the end table, swinging his legs off the sofa.

“Yes, sir.” Stewart looked down at the paper in his hand. Stewart had worked for him for nearly a decade; Deagan knew he was in for a treat when Stewart had to consult a note. “First, she wanted me to tell you she and your mother send their love.” He paused. Normally stoic, it was visible that Stewart was trying to fight a grin. “She also wanted me to tell you she had a dream.”

Furrowing his brow, Daegan whispered under his breath, “Here we go.”

“In this dream, she saw a beautiful rosebush. Next to the rosebush, she saw a kitten. Next to the kitten, she saw a crown. She claimed the rosebush aged, while the kitten never grew and soon left. The crown, however, stayed bright.” Stewart flipped over the note, fighting to maintain his carefully curated composure. “She said the crown was put upon a woman’s head. She didn’t see her face. But there was a separate crown put upon your head.”

Daegan sat stone-faced. “Her interpretation…”

“Is that you are meeting a lover.” Stewart finished before clearing his throat. “A lover that is connected to roses and a…a cat,” he clarified.

Daegan tapped his fingers across the smooth leather arm of the sofa; it was cool to the touch. “I love her dearly, but she is batty.” He glanced toward the wall where a picture of his aunt and mother hung. It was from a trip the two had taken to Singapore the year prior. Despite brushing it off as nonsense, Daegan couldn’t shake his unease. As absurd as they seemed, there had been many times when Aunt Tilly’s cryptic visions had lined up a little too well with reality.

“She certainly has some,” Stewart paused, choosing his words carefully, “ interesting insights. Though I will admit, when I met her a few years ago, she told me I would find something I had thought lost.”

Daegan’s eye shot back to Stewart as his own lips cracked a smile. “And what was it you found, Stewart?”

“My lost sock, sir.” Stewart’s cheeks tugged toward a smile as his lips stiffened.

“A sock.” Daegan always loved this story. “She predicted you would find…your sock.” Wonderful.

Stewart broke into a smile. “It was my bacon-print sock, sir.”

Daegan laughed as he shook his head, though Aunt Tilly’s words still lingered like an unfinished melody. Roses, a kitten, and a crown. It was ridiculous, yet she’d been right more times than he cared to admit.

“Is there anything I can get you, or do for you, before I retire for the evening? A drink, perhaps? Or a slice of pie?” Stewart asked.

“Pie?” Daegan may not have had much of an appetite lately, but there was always room for pie.

“Mary baked an apple pie earlier. Your mother’s recipe.”

“I’ll grab myself a slice, Stewart. But thank you.” Daegan grabbed his phone and stood up from the sofa. “That’s all for tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Stewart nodded and left the room.

The slice of pie was delicious, the large chunks of apple were as fresh as any, though it was only a fleeting comfort. As he lay in bed that night, fiddling with the television remote, the satisfaction was replaced by a familiar gnawing. The project. The house. The last piece of the puzzle. It was all so close, yet just out of reach.

Whoever the new owner was, Daegan knew she wouldn’t hold out forever. Everyone had a price—he just had to figure out hers.

Out of the dozens of projects that were going on within his company, this was the only one he truly lost sleep over. This wasn’t just any project—it was his project, the one that he felt would make his late father proud, and pay a tribute to his legacy. This was the project that could save Trueport.

All I need to figure out is how to get that last house.