Page 1 of Foxer Upper (Harmony Glen #8)

MAGGIE

There’s someone living in my backyard.

I’ve only caught a glimpse or two, but I know he’s there, down in the tree line along the stream that marks the back edge of my property. I’m going to have to do something about it; I can’t have someone squatting on my property. Or I suppose I could, but that’s not good for either of us.

Besides, I’ve always wanted a cat.

I keep still as I stare at the trees, watching for the tell-tale flash of orange. For a stray, he seems like he’s in pretty good shape, at least as far as I can tell. He’s fluffy, I think he has some white markings, and he doesn’t seem too skinny.

He also doesn’t seem to have noticed I live here now; as far as I can tell, he almost never comes up to the house.

He sticks to the backyard, which is wild and overgrown.

I guess there’s adequate shelter out there, and there’s water in the stream, of course.

And maybe fish? But why live as a stray if you can live as a pampered housecat? I just have to lure him in.

Of course, if I’m going to catch him, I need some bait.

MAGGIE

It’s weird how Harmony Glen feels exactly the same, yet totally different.

My family lived here for ages, but a few years ago, my parents decided they wanted to move closer to the city.

As an only child, I felt compelled to go with them and make sure they were making good decisions.

Turns out, they were happier there than I ever was, and they eventually shooed me away.

Now I’m back, and at twenty-eight, just purchased my own home.

How did I manage that, you may ask. By investing in a “fixer-upper.” And boy, does it need all the fixing.

But that’s what I do. I create DIY content of all sorts on social media.

I started out with smaller crafts, like sewing pillow covers and sculpting with air-dry clay, but now I’m tackling my biggest project yet: a full home reno.

Do I know what I’m doing? Not really. Am I confident that I can figure it out? Er…mostly.

Which brings me back to Harmony Glen. When we moved, it was only a year after the Great Revelation, and monsters were just sort of getting settled in town.

Now it seems like there are as many monsters as there are humans (okay, that’s an exaggeration, but not by much), and they own a bunch of the local businesses, including several of the places on my list, like the hardware store, the general store, and (hopefully) the vet clinic.

I grab my project notebook and look over everything I need to buy. It’s…a lot. I’ve never thought the phrase “bit off more than you can chew” really applied to me, at least not literally. I like food; I’ve never ordered a meal I couldn’t crush if I tried.

No, for me, the idiom should be something like “created more construction projects than you have power tools.” I love this house.

It has great bones, the upgrades are going to be fantastic, and my viewers will adore the videos I make.

But woof. At the moment, looking at the disaster I call home, I’m a teensy bit overwhelmed.

I take a deep breath, remind myself to take it one step at a time, and then drive down the street to Mack’s Snack and Pack, the general/convenience store. Like many of Harmony Glen’s buildings, it looks like it could have been dropped out of the set of some 1950s TV show.

It’s two levels; the shop takes up the bottom floor, and there’s an apartment above it. The pale blue siding and striped awnings give it a cheery feel, and the mums out front are blooming, even though it’s only August. A cooler-than-usual August, to be sure, but still. It’s technically summer.

I head in and pick up some essentials: bottled water, Gatorade (lemon-lime ONLY, thanks very much), and some snacks, including bread and peanut butter.

I can do a proper grocery run later, but this will get me through the night—somehow, I let my cupboards get bare again, a hazard of when I get in the zone working.

Then I grab the most important item: several cans of cat food in a variety of flavors.

I’m determined to catch that cat.

Snacks acquired, I walk next door to Harmony Hardware.

Like its neighbor, the exterior is quaint.

It’s painted a cheerful color, the shade of orange sherbet, and the awning is yellow and darker orange.

In lieu of mums, there are wooden benches on either side of the door.

I wonder how often people sit in them. It seems odd to just sit outside the town hardware store, but this town is so friendly that maybe people actually do it.

When I walk in, I realize the place is much bigger than I expected, and it’s bright and airy thanks to the large plate-glass windows.

There are plenty of aisles, with all sorts of tools and accessories.

There’s a paint area, a big space for wood supplies, a power tool rental station, and even a door at the back, leading outside to what looks like a fairly large landscaping and fencing supply zone.

It smells clean, and faintly of sawdust and pine, presumably from the lumber.

And then there’s the sole employee I can see from here: a very tall fox-man at the counter.

Dark eyes, pointed nose and ears, reddish fur on the upper half of his face.

He’s wearing coveralls—tailored to accommodate his tail—and work boots, a sort of incongruous contrast to his foxy features.

I think his species is called vulpine, though I’ve never met one.

He’s handsome in a sharp, intriguing way.

The bell over the door dings as I enter, and he turns.

“Welcome to Harmony Hardware. Can I help you?” he asks, smiling. His smile is sharp too. Interesting. I haven’t met many monsters since I’ve been back, and this one is fascinating to me, though I can’t pinpoint why. Maybe it’s just the idea of a big fox running a hardware store. It’s fun.

Or maybe I have lingering Disney fantasies.

“I hope so,” I say, glancing at my list. Where to even start? “Uh, let’s see. To begin with, I need a jig.”

He looks puzzled, his dark eyebrows rising. “You want me to dance?”

I blink, taken aback. “What? Dance? No, not that kind of jig. I mean?—”

He chuckles and cuts me off. “I’m kidding.

Sorry about that.” He shakes his head at himself.

“My friends keep telling me to stop unleashing my sense of humor on strangers, but I can’t seem to help myself.

Please, follow me.” He moves toward an aisle in the back and I trail after him, still processing his little joke.

He seems like an easy-going guy, which is good.

I have a feeling I’ll be shopping here a lot.

“What kind of jig are you looking for?” he calls over his shoulder.

I hurry to catch up and match pace with him. “Basically anything and everything Kreg. Pocket holes, hinges, peg holes…the whole nine.”

He whistles. “Sounds like you’ve got a big project happening.”

“You have no idea.” I wave my list in the air.

He sticks out a hand…well, paw. The fur is darker than that on his face and matches his ear tips.

“I’m Gabric Duval, but most folks around here call me Gabe.

I own this hardware store, so if your project is as big as you say, we’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other.

” He grins at me, and it’s impossible not to grin back.

I shake the extended paw. “Maggie Crawford. DIYer and brand-new homeowner.”

“Ah, congratulations. A recent transplant to Harmony Glen, then?”

I shrug. “Yes and no. Lived here for years, moved away, and just moved back. Decided to stick around and invest in some property. My house has so much potential. It’s just covered by unsightly wallpaper, ghastly linoleum, rotting boards, crumbling bricks…

” I trail off as his brows shoot up again.

Am I exaggerating? Maybe a little. But not by much.

“That sounds like a lot to take on for a DIY project. Please tell me you at least have a contractor to help with foundational stuff?”

I busy myself pretending to look at all the jigs. “Um…not yet.”

He grins. “It’s good that we met. I happen to have my license. I might be able to help you out, assuming you need an extra hand. You wouldn’t want to do all that work only to realize at the end that your house is crooked.”

“Ack, I hope not. It’s the one on Winterbourne Avenue that was for sale for so long. Maybe you know it?”

He nods. “In fact, I do. I only live about a block from there, actually. You’re essentially my neighbor.”

“Well, whaddya know? Nice to meet you, neighbor.”

“You too. Can I show you anything else besides jigs?”

“You know, I should look at the paint. I need swatches.”

“Right this way.” He leads me to the back wall of the store, where a large array of color samples from different brands are on display. “Do you need help choosing, or is this more of a browsing thing?”

“I think browsing for now,” I say, and he nods.

“Cool. I’ll be up front if you need me.”

He leaves me to look at the endless array of paint choices.

I want to keep the cottage’s historic charm—after all, the house is nearly a hundred years old—but some modern updates are necessary.

So how do I balance those opposites when it comes to color?

I know two things for sure: no stark white and absolutely no millennial gray.

Other than that, I have no idea. I randomly grab a swatch in the cream/ivory tones and inspect the shades on it.

Swan Feather, Gardenia Blossom, European Cream, Soft Linen, Antique Lace.

I grab another card that has gentle, pale pink shades that could be flattering.

Seychelles Pink, Miniature Rose, Morning Sky, Best Blush, Watermelon Snow .