“Half of your house?”
“I have a basement.” She nodded, then wiped her hands on her apron. “And an idea.”
I turned to her, curious.
“The lower level of my house—it has a separate entrance. You could turn it into your own space,” she said. “If you help convert it into something I can rent out as an Airbnb, you can live there rent-free for a year.”
Live with Mrs. Henderson?
She put down her paring knife. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Move out? Out from under Mom’s thumb? “I had no idea you had a second level.”
She winked and opened a door I had thought led to a pantry. “It’s very private. Rumor is, it was used for smuggling bootleg whiskey during Prohibition.” She flipped on a switch, illuminating a wooden staircase.
“This house is that old?” The stairs groaned beneath our combined weight.
“Yep. Built in 1925. I’m not saying it was built for bootlegging, but you never know what my grandfather had in mind. He was, by all accounts, a wily old man.”
The basement was a timeworn, salt-kissed space carved into stone. Thick, weathered wooden beams braced the ceiling, their surfaces darkened by age and sea air. The stone walls, rough and cool to the touch, glistened with moisture. Against one wall, wooden crates and old wine barrels sat half-forgotten, remnants of when smugglers might have used the basement as a hiding place. A small, warped window offered a glimpse of the Pacific, the glass fogged with salt spray. A concealed doorway, barely noticeable behind a stack of fishing nets, led to a narrow tunnel—perhaps once used to slip down to the rocky shore unseen. The scent of brine, damp earth, and aged wood lingered.
My breath caught in my throat. “This would be an incredible project, but also really expensive. We need windows.”
Mrs. Henderson waved her hand. “I’ve got plenty of money. That’s not the issue.” She peered at me. “My question is, are you interested?”
The potential was enormous. I could see social media followers lapping it up. But what would Mom say? Something like this wouldn’t be a weekend or an evening project.
Mrs. Henderson continued to talk as if she weren’t offering a life-changing career move. “It’s a win-win, dear. I get a new source of income, and you get a place of your own without rushing into a lease.”
I considered it, a slow smile forming. “This... actually sounds perfect.”
Mrs. Henderson nodded in satisfaction. “I thought so. Now, let’s get back to those peaches. We have plans to make.”
CHAPTER SIX
*ETHAN
