it’s a foreclosed home?”
Rebecca’s gaze moved beyond the broken maple to examine the darkly-shadowed mass of multiple large buildings set back 50 feet from the road. “It looks pretty run down,” she said, hesitantly.
“Omigod, this must be the old homestead Miss Hastings wants us to buy! Pull in the driveway!”
“Oh, do you think we should? Isn’t Miss Hastings expecting us?”
Lila felt a struggle within herself. Part of her wanted the immediate gratification of seeing the possibilities that awaited them. The other part, however – Lila’s better nature combined with her long-standing habit of timeliness – won out. “Keep going; we’re late already,” she said, dropping back into her seat. “I told Miss Hastings we’d be here by 5:00 and it’s nearly 5:30, now!”
“I think it’s best to see the place tomorrow, in the daylight. Maybe it will look … better. And we certainly don’t want to keep Miss Hastings waiting.”
“You’re right, Becca, as usual.”
A half mile further up the road, just beneath the crest of Russell Hill, Miss Jan Hastings’ shingled two-story cottage hove into view. The former music teacher’s residence was an awkward design, looking as though two very different houses had grappled for the same foundation, and, neither having won, agreed to share the same spot, cold-heartedly embracing one another. Frozen snow crunched beneath the car tires as Rebecca pulled carefully into the narrow curved driveway. Light spilled cheerfully from multiple windows in the antique cottage as though a merry party was underway inside. Rebecca parked the car next to an attached side shed near an obvious break in the snow bank, which – although not the front door – signaled the common entrance. Before she and Lila could unbuckle their seatbelts, however, the side door flew open allowing bright light to escape and spilling a short black shadow across the white snow.
“Hello, dahrrrlings!” a full-bodied woman’s voice called, by way of a greeting. “I’d offer to help you with your things but I’ve got my slippers on!” Loud gleeful laughter followed. “Come in, come in, you DAHRRRLINGS!”
Lila and Rebecca exchanged glances. Was this—Miss Jan Hastings?
Rebecca obediently picked up her purse, exited the car and crunched up the snowy path to the shed. Lila, however, took a moment to gather her overnight bag from the trunk, and, as her eyes became accustomed to the light, surreptitiously examined her Twitter friend. If this was Miss Hastings, the woman was nothing like Lilia had pictured! Jan Hastings was closer to 80 than 60 , with an elfin frame and wiry gray-black hair that looked like wriggling worms trying to escape a fork of turned up earthen sod. Most astonishingly to Lila, Miss Hastings was dressed in a smart black wool suit complemented by a frilly white blouse, and sported oversized chicken slippers on her nylon stocking feet. Miss Hastings was so obviously a singular character that, even if Lila hadn’t known anything about her at all, she would have warmed to her immediately.
“You must be SO tired, poor dahrrrlings,” Miss Hastings gushed, shooing Rebecca into the house. She stood vigil at the door stoop, however, awaiting Lila. “Matilda and I thought you’d nevvver get here!”
When Lila reached Miss Hastings’ outstretched arthritic hands at the shed door she was moved by an inexplicable feeling of tenderness. She dropped her bag on the shed floor, reached down and hugged the tiny woman. “I’m so glad to meet you, at last,” Lila said, sincerely.
“Dahrrrling!” cried Miss Hastings, squeezing Lila’s cold fists affectionately with her warm, knobby hands. “Let me look at you—you’re even lovelier than I thought! Come in, dahrrrlings! Come in!”
Lila felt hot tears fill her eyes, and she brushed them away. I’m home, she thought. I’m safe!
“Here’s Matilda, waiting for you!” said Miss Hastings, leading them from the shed into a
Rebecca’s gaze moved beyond the broken maple to examine the darkly-shadowed mass of multiple large buildings set back 50 feet from the road. “It looks pretty run down,” she said, hesitantly.
“Omigod, this must be the old homestead Miss Hastings wants us to buy! Pull in the driveway!”
“Oh, do you think we should? Isn’t Miss Hastings expecting us?”
Lila felt a struggle within herself. Part of her wanted the immediate gratification of seeing the possibilities that awaited them. The other part, however – Lila’s better nature combined with her long-standing habit of timeliness – won out. “Keep going; we’re late already,” she said, dropping back into her seat. “I told Miss Hastings we’d be here by 5:00 and it’s nearly 5:30, now!”
“I think it’s best to see the place tomorrow, in the daylight. Maybe it will look … better. And we certainly don’t want to keep Miss Hastings waiting.”
“You’re right, Becca, as usual.”
A half mile further up the road, just beneath the crest of Russell Hill, Miss Jan Hastings’ shingled two-story cottage hove into view. The former music teacher’s residence was an awkward design, looking as though two very different houses had grappled for the same foundation, and, neither having won, agreed to share the same spot, cold-heartedly embracing one another. Frozen snow crunched beneath the car tires as Rebecca pulled carefully into the narrow curved driveway. Light spilled cheerfully from multiple windows in the antique cottage as though a merry party was underway inside. Rebecca parked the car next to an attached side shed near an obvious break in the snow bank, which – although not the front door – signaled the common entrance. Before she and Lila could unbuckle their seatbelts, however, the side door flew open allowing bright light to escape and spilling a short black shadow across the white snow.
“Hello, dahrrrlings!” a full-bodied woman’s voice called, by way of a greeting. “I’d offer to help you with your things but I’ve got my slippers on!” Loud gleeful laughter followed. “Come in, come in, you DAHRRRLINGS!”
Lila and Rebecca exchanged glances. Was this—Miss Jan Hastings?
Rebecca obediently picked up her purse, exited the car and crunched up the snowy path to the shed. Lila, however, took a moment to gather her overnight bag from the trunk, and, as her eyes became accustomed to the light, surreptitiously examined her Twitter friend. If this was Miss Hastings, the woman was nothing like Lilia had pictured! Jan Hastings was closer to 80 than 60 , with an elfin frame and wiry gray-black hair that looked like wriggling worms trying to escape a fork of turned up earthen sod. Most astonishingly to Lila, Miss Hastings was dressed in a smart black wool suit complemented by a frilly white blouse, and sported oversized chicken slippers on her nylon stocking feet. Miss Hastings was so obviously a singular character that, even if Lila hadn’t known anything about her at all, she would have warmed to her immediately.
“You must be SO tired, poor dahrrrlings,” Miss Hastings gushed, shooing Rebecca into the house. She stood vigil at the door stoop, however, awaiting Lila. “Matilda and I thought you’d nevvver get here!”
When Lila reached Miss Hastings’ outstretched arthritic hands at the shed door she was moved by an inexplicable feeling of tenderness. She dropped her bag on the shed floor, reached down and hugged the tiny woman. “I’m so glad to meet you, at last,” Lila said, sincerely.
“Dahrrrling!” cried Miss Hastings, squeezing Lila’s cold fists affectionately with her warm, knobby hands. “Let me look at you—you’re even lovelier than I thought! Come in, dahrrrlings! Come in!”
Lila felt hot tears fill her eyes, and she brushed them away. I’m home, she thought. I’m safe!
“Here’s Matilda, waiting for you!” said Miss Hastings, leading them from the shed into a
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