She wasn’t selling the house because she wanted to. She was selling it because she had to. The property taxes had tripled. The roof needed work. And her life had moved to a studio apartment thirty minutes away, one with no character, no memories, and no Gizmo-sized windowsills.
Dillion paused. “Feel what?”
By hour two, Dillion was ready to pack it in. She’d made lemonade no one drank and put out cookies that only Gizmo had sampled. The only remaining guest was an elderly woman named Mrs. Vancamp, who had already lived in the neighborhood since before the street had sidewalks.
She walked to the For Sale sign. The evening wind was picking up, rattling the gutters. She touched the wooden post, then pulled the sign out of the ground with a soft, wet sigh from the dirt.
“Original charm,” Dillion corrected. “These counters have seen nineteen Thanksgivings, two proposals, and one very regrettable attempt at making crème brûlée with a blowtorch. They’re seasoned.”