“I never would have guessed.” His sarcasm was palpable.
I glanced out the window and sat up straighter. “Isn’t this the way to that farmhouse I showed you? The one with the gigantic rock chimney?”
“It might be.”
“I still wonder who owns that place. I love how we stumbled upon it picking blueberries. Man, that seems like longer than two years ago.”
“I remember that beautiful Sunday afternoon,” he said, slowing the SUV to turn onto a dirt road. “I remember it so well that I decided to run a twofer special of my own, and we just arrived.” He slowed the car and parked in front of the same two-story, old white farmhouse.
“Wait? You bought the house?” I rapped on his head gently. “Am I being punked, or did aliens take over your brain?”
He gave me a sarcastic har-har look and flipped the ignition off, then climbed out. He came around the car, opened my door, and motioned me out like it was the red carpet rather than a gravel driveway. His hand grasped mine and tugged me toward the beautiful front porch of the lovingly restored farmhouse.
“You aren’t being punked. I’m of sound mind when I say, you are now the proud owner of 1337 Hummingbird Road.” He handed me a key with a red ribbon on it.
I took a step back and almost fell down the two steps we’d just climbed. He grabbed my arm and steadied me as the key fell to the painted wood porch. “What the hell, Mathias?” My gaze was focused on the front of the house, but my body was shaking from his words. “Stop kidding around.”
He grinned and picked up the key. “I’m not kidding around. I told you I bought a twofer. This is the ‘fer. Well, actually, the house is more than it appears from where we’re standing, but come in, I’m dying to show you!”
He stuck the key in the lock and opened the door, allowing me to step over the threshold first. I took two steps and stopped, my hand automatically caressing the beautifully carved newel post of the staircase. The wooden stairs were oak with white-painted risers, and they gleamed in the sunshine that streamed in from the window over the landing above. I ached to climb the stairs and see what surprises awaited me. Before I could, I was distracted by the sitting room to my left and the den on my right. What drew my attention like a homing beacon, though, was something I’d always longed for—a traditional farmhouse kitchen.
I walked toward the room as my head swiveled in every direction to take in the bright white paint on the walls and the well-loved hardwood floors. The boards had aged with time and were all different colors, coming together to create a look of timeless beauty. The nailheads were still visible in the boards, which only added to the authentic feel of what the old farmhouse would have looked like long ago. When I stepped foot into the kitchen, my breath left my chest. It was more than I could ever dream. It was vintage with a touch of modern, like a stainless-steel dishwasher nestled next to the traditional wooden cupboards that grandma used to have. The farmhouse sink was probably original, but it was spotless and gleamed in the light of the window over the sink. I ran my hand over the cool porcelain and pictured all the food it had once cleaned and prepared and the babies it had once washed.
“I’m . . . this is . . . wow,” I sighed, wandering to the old stove that sat next to a pie safe on the other side of the room. “Is this original?” I counted six burners and then opened the doors to see what was hidden inside.
“It’s all original, though it’s been updated for modern times. It’s got two ovens and one broiler. Isn’t it gorgeous?” He patted the top of the white metal oven. It was almost as tall as he was, I noticed.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I admitted as I ran my hand along the top of the pie safe. “I wonder how many pies were stored in this over the years.”
“Countless. The family who used to own this house had nine kids, so I’m thinking there was a lot of cooking and eating going on in here.”
“Wow, nine kids, I can’t imagine.” I noticed two doors, one on each side of the room, and one had the original metal doorknob in place. “Where does that door go?”
“The cellar.” He turned and pointed to the other door. “That one goes to the backyard, where I imagine the chicken coop and garden used to be.”
I gasped with my hand to my mouth. “It’s a Dutch door,” I cried, running my hand over the lip of the bottom door. “I always dreamed of having one in my kitchen.”
He wore a gigantic smile on his face, and it reminded me of the one he wore when I first met him. “I know, which is why I bought the house. I didn’t care what the rest of the house was like because the kitchen was everything you’ve ever dreamed of, right down to the scarred, nicked, and distressed wooden farm table with mismatched chairs.”
I glanced around but didn’t see a table. “Where?” I asked him desperately with my hands under my chin. “Where is it?”
“It’s being repaired,” he answered, lowering my hands and holding them in his. “The top was split, but they’ll repair it so you can use it again. They won’t repaint it or touch up the legs, though. It should be delivered in a few days.”
I was unable to speak for a few moments while I tried to take it all in. “Whatever possessed you?”
“Change, honeybee. I told you, change.”
“This is a gorgeous change, but I’m so confused right now. Why did you buy me a house if you’re the one looking for a change? Why didn’t you buy yourself a house?”
He put his finger to my lips. “How about fewer questions and more touring; then I’ll give you answers,” he promised.
He led me through the rest of the house, including the sitting room, which had a massive stone fireplace on one side and French doors on the other that led to a small sunroom. When we climbed the stairs, I noticed they creaked, but from age, not disrepair. The upstairs had three large bedrooms. The master had a smaller room attached, which I knew from all my reading would have been the nursery. The bathroom sat off the middle of the hallway and boasted a claw-foot tub. When he showed me the master bedroom, I traced the rounded wrought-iron bed frame with my finger. It was as if I had been transported back to the 1930s. I lowered my butt to the bed and was surprised by how comfy the mattress was.
“Mathias, why is the house furnished? Have the owners not moved out yet? They certainly kept the house period-accurate.”
His gaze was focused on the window, so mine was drawn there too. You could see the lake in all her glory, and if I lived here, I would move the bed over by it so I could fall asleep and wake to her beauty every day. But I wouldn’t be living here. That was the cruelty of the situation.
He spun away from the window and took my hand off the bed, leading me back down the stairs and to the sitting room. He kept hold of my hand, and we settled ourselves on the small love seat. “No one has lived here for a few years. The property has been maintained, but the owner died several years back and had no family to leave the house to.”
