Love Next Door (Lakeside #1) by Helena Hunting

I touch the corner of the frame to straighten it. Then I step back to make sure the rest of the pictures line up properly as well. Which is when the sound of water running registers. I glance toward the kitchen, but the sound isn’t coming from the sink, which means there’s either a leak somewhere, or someone is in the bathroom.

I take a cautious step toward the center of the living room, and the floor creaks under my foot. The sound is ridiculously loud in the quiet space, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“Hello?” I call out. “Is anybody here?”





CHAPTER 4

NOT QUITE WHAT I EXPECTED

Van

Everything about Pearl Lake is steeped in nostalgia—full of some of the best summer memories. I spent my youth here, staying at my grandmother’s cottage on what she cheekily referred to as the right wrong side of the lake.

On my way through downtown, I smile as I pass the specialty candy shop with treats from England, homemade ice cream, and deluxe chocolates. In all the years I’ve been coming here, I’ve only been inside once. I was eight at the time and had never so much as cleaned my own room, let alone anything else. Grammy Bee had offered to pay me twenty dollars for helping her wash all the windows on the cottage. I’d been bored, and I couldn’t say no to her, so I’d picked myself up off the front porch swing and got to work.

It had taken me almost the entire day. Plus, I was only eight, so reaching the top of the windows meant climbing up and down a ladder for hours. Regardless, as soon as she handed over the money, I jumped on my bike and pedaled to town—without a helmet, despite her constantly telling me how important it was that I protect my brain, since it couldn’t be upgraded or replaced—and the first stop I made was that fancy candy store Grammy Bee refused to let me go in whenever we went to town.

I’d been so excited. I left my bike outside and rushed in, and I ended up spending almost everything I’d earned. I gorged on ice cream, chocolate, and soda. When I left the candy shop, I crossed the street, my paper bag of treats in hand, and stopped in the convenience store to pick up a copy of the city newspaper that Grammy Bee liked to read on the weekends.

I rushed down the aisle and came to an abrupt stop when I noticed the same glass bottles of soda and the same fancy candies, except instead of being in large glass jars with ornate tongs to handle them, they were stacked in plastic Tupperware, and salad tongs sat on top of each bin. Everything cost half as much.

I learned a valuable lesson that day: just because something looks prettier doesn’t mean it’s better.

When I left the convenience store, I crossed back over to the candy store without a paper because I was fifteen cents short. And I realized my bike was gone because I’d forgotten to lock it up. The hour-long walk home was another lesson. By the time I got back to Grammy Bee’s, I was fuming, frustrated that the candy store jacked up their prices like that and that someone had stolen my bike.

Two days later, the bike showed up on the front porch. It was the first and only time I didn’t lock it up, and the last time I ever went to that specialty candy shop.

I pull into Grammy Bee’s driveway. My driveway. The thought is intrusive and unwelcome. I push it aside, determined not to let sadness override all the other emotions that come with being here. Grammy Bee wouldn’t want me to fixate on her absence. She would want me to find the joy in being here again. Even without her.

The gravel pops and crunches under my tires as I pull up next to her ancient truck, still parked in the driveway. I shift into park and take in the sight before me. It’s been six months since I’ve been here. And even when I came to Grammy’s funeral, I avoided coming here specifically. I wasn’t in the right place emotionally to deal with the cottage. I didn’t want to face the loss more than necessary. I’m finally ready to properly say goodbye to her.

I smile as I take in the modest three-bedroom cottage. Old and run down, but so full of love and memories. I open the door and breathe in the fresh sweet air. A combination of pine, sunshine, and lake water. The gravel crunches beneath my running shoes—I know better than to wear anything other than casual footwear when I’m here, which, of course, is part of the allure. I shed city life like a stuffy suit and slide into the comfort of worn T-shirts and age-softened shorts.

The deck boards creek under my feet. They’re in worse shape than I remember and definitely need to be fixed. Or replaced entirely. I slide the key into the lock and have to do the jiggle and turn thing a few times before it finally gives.

The Dillion dude who’s been communicating with me via email about Grammy’s place is supposed to come by every week and check on things, but based on how hard the lock is to turn, I’m not sure that’s been happening. Why did he promise he’d take care of it if he had no intention of doing so? Why Grammy picked him as executor is beyond me; he seems a bit irresponsible. He couldn’t even bother to attend the funeral.

I take a deep breath and brace myself for the visual onslaught I’m about to face. Grammy Bee loved her trinkets, and patterns, and wallpaper. I always loved that about Grammy Bee’s cottage—the fact that nothing ever changed. Being here was reliable and predictable. Comfortable and homey. I needed that when I was a teenager, maybe more than I realized.

I push the door open with a creak and step inside, breathing in the familiar scents. Despite the place having been vacant for six months, it still smells almost exactly as I remember it. The air is stale, but the faint smell of Grammy Bee’s homemade potpourri, a combination of cloves, cinnamon, and citrus, still hangs in the air. Nothing inside has changed in the past twenty-five years. It’s like being stuck inside a time warp of floral patterns and teacup wallpaper.