LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

extended posthumously, since Vivian Sanderson had given up her iron-fist grip on life two years ago.

      “Shut up, we love having you. Besides, you dust.”

      “Hello.” Hope rolled her eyes. “You met my mother, right?”

      “Yes, hon, and you met mine. Did any of that domestic goddess crap rub off on me?”

      “You have a point.” Jess may be a whiz mathematician who gave up Massachusetts Institute of Technology for her childhood sweetheart and his family’s business, but she wasn’t a housekeeper.

      Hope looked past the beach houses to the light fracturing off the ocean’s chop. In the ten days since she’d been released from the hospital she’d slowly put her cousin’s house in order, down to organizing Jesse’s two walk-in closets and alphabetizing Carl’s considerable CD collection. Organizing her surroundings usually helped organize her thoughts. But not this time.

      So far she’d resigned from her job, said goodbye to her baffled boss and looked for somewhere to live. Jesse had retrieved her clothes and personal items, since Hope still couldn’t face her apartment. She had no idea what career she wanted, moving forward. Like her apartment, going to work for another bank was out. Her palms sweated just thinking about it. What was she going to do for a living for the rest of her life?

      The edge of town was easy to discern. It was where the line of Victorian houses began, standing like colorful titled ladies in a receiving line. Jesse pulled over, consulting a scrap of paper before peering out the window.

      “Oh, Jess, this can’t be right. You know I can’t afford to rent a house.” Hope traced a scrolled fretwork with her finger on the window. “But what a dream. Look at the paint on that one. Who would have thought to use light gray, French blue and rose together?”

      Jesse turned off the engine, snatched her purse from the floor and cracked her door. “Honey, if the local jungle drums are in tune, your dream is about to come true.”

      They stepped into the hammered Central California sunshine. Jesse waited until Hope came around the car, then grabbed her hand, checked both ways, and crossed the street, low-heeled sandals clacking.

      “I think I’m capable of walking across—oh.” Hope breathed.

      The home they approached was in the ornately spindled Eastlake-style Victorian in lavender and white. The frothy gingerbread on the porch also adorned the tiny balcony on one second-story corner.

      Jesse adjusted her huge sunglasses. “A little foo-foo for me, but whatever makes your hips wiggle.”

      “This from the woman with Pepto-Bismol–inspired seat covers.”

      Jesse just tsked and led the way up the steps to the covered porch. When she pressed the doorbell “God Save the Queen” chimed through the interior.

      “That is too adorable for words,” Hope whispered.

      The door opened. A tiny old lady in a flowered dress and orthopedic shoes stood on the other side of the screen, a messy bun of white hair on top of her head. “Yes?”

      “I’m Jesse Jurgen. I called about your guest cottage?”

      Guest cottage. Hope even loved the sound of the words.

      “Oh, yes. Please, come in.” She unlatched the screen door and ushered them in. “I’m Opaline Settle.” She led them into a formal sitting room scented with old furniture–mustiness and old lady dusting powder. “Would you like some tea?”

      “I’m fine, thank you.” Hope settled on the ornate but faded wingback sofa and looked around. “What a delightful home you have.” Threadbare antique rugs covered wooden floors. Dusty floor-to-ceiling damask drapes were drawn back.

      Opaline perched on the edge of a wingback chair. “Why thank you. Mr. Settle bought it for me as a wedding gift over sixty years ago. He’s gone, but the old lady abides,” she said in a soft, wobbly soprano. “Both of us.”

      “I’m Hope Sanderson. Jesse’s cousin. I’m the one looking for a place to rent.” She shot an optimistic smile across the ornate wooden tea table. “You have marvelous antiques, as well. I have a few Tiffany pieces myself.” She nodded at the stained glass lamp on the gateleg table in front of the window.

      Opaline’s faded blue eyes sparked. “You have antiques?”

      “Yes, quite a few that I inherited from my mother. She—eeep!” Hope jumped up when something bounced out from behind the sofa.

      The old lady tittered. “Oh, that’s just Euphengenia. She’s named after Mrs. Doubtfire.” She bent and lifted a large buff-colored rabbit into her lap.

      A flop-eared black-and-white rabbit hopped in from the hall, followed by a black one. Soon there were ten.

      “They’re curious. We don’t get company often. I won’t bore you with introductions.”

      Hope scooted back into the couch, wishing she could lift her feet onto the cushion. She wasn’t afraid of animals, exactly. She’d just never been around them much. Her mother wouldn’t even allow Hope a goldfish, declaring that animals in the house were filthy, disgusting and unmannered.

      “They’re just bunnies, for cripes sakes. Deal,” Jesse whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Is the cottage still for rent?”

      Don’t they carry fleas? Hope watched the rabbits to be sure none ventured close. The plague?

      “Oh, yes.” She watched Hope like a bird eyes a scarecrow. “I have to be careful to choose the correct tenant. I don’t want any wildness back there. You know—” she lowered her voice to a wavery whisper “—that sex, drugs, and rock and roll stuff.”

      Jesse coughed into her hand to cover a laugh.

      Hope smiled. “I don’t do any of those things, I assure you, Mrs. Settle. I live a very quiet life.” But the words pinched, coming out. That was her old life. Her new one would be different. Different how, she didn’t know, but different.

      Opaline looked her over from her headband to her hands, clasped in her lap. “You appear to be a well-brought-up young lady.” She gathered the rabbit, bent and returned it to the floor, then stood. “Would you like to see the cottage?”

      “Oh, yes, please.” Hope and Jesse stood.

      They followed the little woman through the front hall, to the kitchen, then through the door that led to the back porch. Hope counted eight more rabbits on the way; she’d had to hug the wall to avoid two that chased each other toward her in the hall.

      I’ve heard of crazy cat ladies before, but never a crazy bunny lady.

      But when they stepped through the back door, all her concerns blew away. In the corner of the huge yard sat a cottage—a perfect, tiny gingerbread Victorian cottage. It looked like one of the painted ladies, only one-fifth the size, dressed in the same lavender and white trim as the main house.

      “Ohhhh...” Something in Hope’s chest moved. It was her heart, cracking open. “Oh, my gosh, it’s precious!”

      The tiny covered porch wrapped around a bay window, with room only for two painted white rocking chairs. Fretwork graced the roof’s peak, and window boxes spilled bright pansies and geraniums.

      As they walked the flagstone path to the cottage. Jesse asked, “How many square feet is it?”

      “Five hundred and fifty, I believe.” Opaline took the one step, crossed the porch, and unlocked the door. “It’s small, but I think you’ll find it has everything you need.”

      Hope followed her inside. Light from the bay windows shone on the polished wood floor of what she’d call a “sitting area,” since it was too small to be a living room. To the right, a diminutive fireplace with a stone hearth sat, wood laid, awaiting only a match. She walked toward the kitchen at the back of the room.

      My

Скачать книгу