Page 4 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Four

Alice

Sorrow doesn’t care if you live. Do it anyway.

Eight Years Earlier …

The listing said to park in the street, watch for wild turkeys, and remove shoes before entering the house.

We had turkeys in Wisconsin, but I’ve never had an encounter with one.

Prior to exiting my car, I googled “are wild turkeys dangerous?” The results were inconclusive, so I scanned the area for large, feathered friends before braving the walk to the front door of the old, two-story house outside of downtown Minneapolis.

After entering the code, the door opened to stairs on my left, the vacation rental entrance to my right.

A hook below the entry mirror held the keys, and a note card with a smiley face reminding me to remove my shoes.

I toed-off my sneakers and set them on the plastic tray before unlocking the door that opened to a living room with a piano to my left, sofa, coffee table, and TV straight ahead.

An impressive fig tree sat in the corner by the window.

The wood floor creaked when I walked up the two wide steps to the dining room, furnished with a table for eight and a modern brass fixture.

Beyond that was a galley kitchen with avocado green cabinets and white-speckled countertops leading to French doors overlooking a patio.

A short hallway to my left connected two bedrooms; in the middle, a bathroom featured a crisp white shower curtain that looked brand-new in contrast to the cracked white subway tiles and stained grout. The rental was old, but clean and cozy.

A note by a basket filled with a bottle of wine, fancy crackers, local honey, nuts and chocolate read:

Welcome to Fig Cottage, Alice. Make yourself at home and enjoy your stay. Please message me if you have any questions or concerns. There’s a folder on the coffee table with house rules and information about the area.

Sincerely,

Murphy

It exceeded my expectations, an old brick building with fresh renovations—a perfect curation of vintage and quality contemporary pieces.

The scattered planters filled with pothos, snake plants, and colorful glass watering bulbs added to the homeyness.

But mostly it felt different. Unreal. The perfect escape.

I had yet to see if I liked the feel of the mattress or if the shower had good water pressure, but I’d already decided I never wanted to leave. Two weeks wasn’t long enough, but it’s all I could spare before my family sent out the search party.

“When in Rome …” I said with a huge grin while opening the bottle of wine. It was kind of Murphy the Superhost to leave the corkscrew next to the welcome basket. He was off to a good start. I could already see a glowing five-star review in his future.

A turntable sat on a stand below the TV next to a wood crate with vinyl albums. A sweet Lambrusco and Sinatra? This Murphy guy was quickly becoming my Lord and Savior of what I declared an alternate universe. Bad shit didn’t happen in Fig Cottage because?—

“Oh yesss …” My thoughts sidetracked as I sighed before taking another sip of wine. What a perfect record collection. Louis Armstrong, “Dream A Little Dream Of Me.”

Queen.

Norah Jones.

Paul Anka.

Olivia Newton-John.

Lionel Richie.

Superhost Murphy got laid on the regular. Of that, I felt certain. I giggled, suddenly considering the possibility that Murphy was a woman, not a man. That made more sense.

The wine.

Flawless taste in music.

And so many living plants in such a small space.

Murphy was definitely a woman, so we would become fast friends, and maybe I would never leave the alternate universe .

After selecting Paul Anka’s 21 Golden Hits , I padded back into the kitchen for a little more wine. A black cat with white boots eyed me through the French doors.

“Well, hello, kitty.” I opened the door and stepped onto the cedar deck with an L-shaped sectional, rattan chairs, a rectangular, gas fire table, and string lights. A few blooms on a lilac bush remained, offering a hint of sweet floral perfume. The perfect oasis.

I reclined on the sofa, pulling up my white sundress to give my legs some of the glorious late spring sun. Mr. Kitty jumped up next to me and purred the second I ran my hand down his back.

The back door to the detached garage opened, and a dark-haired guy in a blue Minnesota Twins T-shirt, cargo shorts, and white canvas sneakers closed it behind him then paused when he spied me.

I sat up, covering my legs, and smiled. “Hi.”

“You must be Alice.” He grinned so big, it made me wonder if I’d be charged extra for it.

“Um, yeah. I just arrived.” I stared at my wine glass for a second. “Clearly, I’ve already made myself at home. Are you Murphy?”

“I am.” He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one hand while making his way to the split stairs that led to the second level deck.

“Welcome. Is everything to your liking? Do you have any questions? Anything you need?” His smile was just as handsome as the rest of him.

It all matched his flawless taste in music.

“You’re a guy.”

He chuckled, and it was kind, maybe even a little shy. “Last I checked.”

“Sorry.” I laughed. “Everything about the rental is so spot-on. Too perfect to have been chosen by …” I pressed my lips together.

“A man?”

I returned a guilty shrug.

He scratched his neck. “I think that’s a compliment. What do you think, Palmer?”

“Palmer?” I questioned.

He nodded. “The cat. His name is Arnold Palmer. But we’re guys, so I call him Palmer, and he calls me Paddon.”

“Palmer and Paddon?”

“Like Batman and Robin.”

I giggled.

“He’s Batman, of course.” Murphy grinned.

“Obviously.”

“Well, it’s really nice to meet you, Alice. Don’t hesitate to knock on my door, call, text, or whatever if you have any questions.”

“I’ll illuminate the Bat-Signal,” I said before sipping my wine.

He shook his head while ascending the stairs.

“Do you have a cat door for Palmer?” I asked.

“No. He’s not mine.”

“What?” I said, but it was too late; the door closed behind him.