The Bungalow on Pinecone Street

By M. Pilotte

Little did Amanda Stoddard know that after turning over evidence to the police, she and her widowed mom Doreen (Dee) would wind up in protective custody miles from home with new identities and the continual dread of being recognized.

 

When assured that the threat of retaliation no longer exists, Amanda, Dee and another family member relocate to Wexford Falls, Connecticut, where the women purchase a bungalow on a quiet street in hopes of finally leading a life of normalcy. However, they have been misinformed; the threat still looms large. Until the sale of the house is final, Dee stays at Hollis's B&B where she meets and falls in love with Sid, a photojournalist who claims to be in town for their Bicentennial celebration, but is he really who he says he is?

 

Enter Mick Doran, Amanda's old boyfriend who appears in Wexford Falls as part of a master plan cooked up by Dee and his Granny, Gladys Doran. He accompanies his Granny to her friend Celia Drummond's homestead under the guise of doing some temporary work but the real reason is for the two lovers to be reunited.

 

Familiar characters appear from Pilotte's other stories, to include Emil Baines, a special needs person and Amanda's inquisitive neighbor. Several entanglements ensue amid the backdrop of the Bicentennial, and tension rises to a terrifying climax as the threat to Amanda's life and limb becomes a reality.  

 

Betrayed!  Spanning a ten-year period in the life of young Jodie Breault, the story begins with the accidental drowning of her parents when she is only sixteen. It is the struggle to accept her loss that leads Jodie to search for details of the accident. While her mother's body is recovered, her father's is not. Then, with the discovery of her mother's journals, she comes to believe that their relationship was not what she had always assumed. 
With secrets yet to be discovered and a well-crafted plot, author M. Pilotte spins a tale of mystery and suspense that will definitely keep readers entertained until the last page.

ELLIZABETH SMITH, author of The Gift and The Sovereignty File
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wexford Falls Press
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215081891

M. Pilotte

M. Pilotte has always enjoyed writing, whether it be for academic purposes, newspaper reporting, or simply as a creative outlet. A lifelong learner, she earned a Ph.D. from UCONN. Following her retirement as an educator, she wrote several plays. She and her husband reside in Connecticut. email: [e-mail] web: www.mpilottebooks.com

Book preview

The Bungalow on Pinecone Street

M. Pilotte

Published by Wexford Falls Press, 2022.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE BUNGALOW ON PINECONE STREET

First edition. September 30, 2022.

Copyright © 2022 M. Pilotte.

ISBN: 979-8215081891

Written by M. Pilotte.

Also by M. Pilotte

In the Garden of Aeden

Tales From Wexford Falls

Betrayed!

The Bungalow on Pinecone Street

Cotton Barrington

Watch for more at M. Pilotte’s site.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By M. Pilotte

Dedication

The Bungalow on Pinecone Street

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About the Author

About the Publisher

For my husband and family.

The Bungalow on Pinecone Street

Chapter 1

Amanda

WELL, HERE I AM IN Wexford Falls, another little town nobody’s ever heard of, this time in western Connecticut—of all places. I can thank Mom for targeting this spot on the map. Not sure if it was at random, but she knew I had to go somewhere and she was convinced the time was right, so here I am. Anyhow I couldn’t hold on much longer. I was wearing thin, living a lie with a false identity for way too long. So once I settle in here, I’ll send for Mom and Mikayla. We need to stay together. And I need to return to the real me. I’m tired of masquerading, being someone else, and I know I should feel like a load is lifted off me, but one part of my brain can’t stop thinking the risk may still be there, no matter what they told us, which is why I insisted we not go back to our home town. Somehow I think I can be safe here. At least I hope I can.

I’d done exactly as I was told, and it was awful. I haven’t left a trail, haven’t written or called anyone back home. It was heartbreaking—the whole mess and what followed. Oh, they warned me of the consequences of making any type of connection. But I was so disconnected from everything, from everyone that ever meant anything to me. And any hopes and dreams I had had to be put on hold, so basically, life for the most part had very little meaning for me because it wasn’t going anywhere, except for, well maybe one thing.

NOW AS I STAND HERE looking in the bathroom mirror, I’m trying to remember what I looked like before. My old drivers license photo never looked much like me so it wouldn’t have helped much. Plus they issued a new one in my new name. Oh, we had to make so many changes. And all our photos we lost in the fire—baby pictures, Mom and Dad’s wedding album, my high school yearbook—and the only photo I had of Mick. Dear Mick, oh how we loved each other back then. How much we wanted each other...but it all had to change when we left. Whoever those monsters were, they were out to destroy us, and everything dear to us. Hostility and vengeance against me, and Mom too, which wasn’t fair. She had no part in it. They may have destroyed the house but they weren’t going to get us.

I’ve had to change back then, physically anyhow, and I don’t really like who or even what I’ve become.  I agreed to the plastic surgery because they said it was ‘advisable’ to alter my appearance. The new nose is OK—a little pug like for my liking but I’m stuck with it. The hairstyle and color definitely isn’t me, but you see, I had to be a different person—totally. I had to save myself and Mom and then later on, Mikayla who thinks I’m her big sister. ‘Sis’ she calls me, which is a hoot. OK for now, I guess. We never bothered to set her straight—no need to back then. 

I keep telling myself I did the right thing, what any law—abiding citizen would do. I’ve relived this scenario in my mind a thousand times. OK, the day it all began, I was at the bank, doing my job as a loan officer, working with this client, some guy looking to expand his business and so he was filling out the application for a loan. We’d only opened a half hour ago. Then like all of a sudden these guys rush in, four of them, disguised as old presidents, the Mount Rushmore gang, to be exact, and they’re waving their guns at us, shouting out orders. A bank robbery we always hoped would never happen, but there we were in the middle of it all. Now here’s the weird thing, a torn post-it note somehow made it to the floor. I didn’t know it at the time.  I don’t think the robber knew he’d dropped it, or maybe he did. Anyhow, it musta landed on my foot, and stuck to the sole of my sandal. You see, all of us in the bank became hostages. We were ordered to lie face down on the floor, and give up our phones and wallets and stuff. I was like frozen to death with fear.

And not long after once I got back home, I found the post-it stuck to the bottom of my shoe. Now something told me to call the cops, thinking it could be some kind of evidence. So I read them an address written on that post-it and I told them there was a four-digit number on it as well, like these are random numbers, but not so to me. Probably some secret code, I guessed. I told the cops I could relate to it—those numbers. Well, that day on the afternoon news, one of the anchors referred to me, like I was a hero, tipping off to the cops where the robber was hiding out and saving the bank a fortune, but they didn’t mention what the numbers were, because I never said them, only that they were familiar to me, like personally.  I’d hung onto that little post-it—don’t know why, I just did and it went up in flames with all our other belongings.

But let me back up. The cops had what they needed—the address where the gang leader was hiding out was with most of the stolen money, and so they nailed him and got the money back. Anyhow, he died of gunshot wounds in the hospital the next day. As for the other gang members—they were the same thieves that had robbed other banks in neighboring towns over the past year. I heard someone wiped them out that same day—another gang member, or who knows, and I don’t really care as long as no one comes after us. Oh, I almost forgot, us hostages were not harmed but one of the gang, I think it was the one with the George Washington mask, well he pointed his gun at the bank guard and fired, hitting him in the shoulder. Said that was a warning to us that we’d get the same, or worse, if we didn’t stay still for I forget how long. Some things stay with you, you know, other details you forge, like you’re in such a state of shock.  

And, as I said before, I was only a dutiful citizen who paid the price for doing the right thing. But because of what I did, the last four years were miserable—a living nightmare. Who likes to live looking behind your back rather than straight ahead, in protective custody that was, always fearful of being hunted down—and not just me, but Mom and Mikayla too. And one time it was way too close. That’s when my name was Amelia and my hair was strawberry blond. Mikayla was two-years-old then, and to her, the flight in the night was just another bye-bye ride in the van—that was till things blew over, which they did, and then we were back to living in Limbo. Funny thing was the scare turned out to be a false alarm but after that Mom and I were more paranoid than ever.

THIS REFLECTION IN the glass is my latest do. The brassiness of my platinum hair—makes me look older than my 25 years. Or maybe it’s the black liquid eye liner I put on every morning for work that makes me look hard, like a floozy—Mom’s word, not mine. So I’m going to restore my hair to its natural color, and give myself a hair cut, at least I’ll give it a try. I’ve learned what I needed to do in the name of camouflage and austerity—a favorite word of my dad’s. Yeah, I almost forgot, we weren’t rolling in dough then. Oh, how could I forget? And I will gladly toss the blue contact lenses, and I will be who I think I should be, and people can call me by my real name – Amanda Stoddard.

The good news is I found a place to stay, but only short term. The landlady, a Miss Agatha O’Toole, told the real estate agent I could rent her upstairs flat but I’m hoping to find a house like right away. The family that lives downstairs is in France for the month, so actually I’m here alone, but that’s OK. I keep my revolver nearby at all times. I’ve named her Bessie. It didn’t feel right in the beginning, being armed and all, but it is so right now. I took shooting lessons, felt I had to, and if some monster or one of the goons comes after me he’ll never live to tell. Bessie will get him good.

AMANDA HEARD HER, THAT chatty real estate lady she’d contacted the first day she arrived in Wexford Falls. Maura Clifton of J.L. Clifton Realtors Inc. was leaning against the doorbell. First time Amanda heard it—an annoying bleep-bleep sound—it reminded her of a fire alarm.

I’m coming. I’m coming, Amanda called out from the bathroom. I’m not a race horse. She hoped she didn’t sound annoyed.

The woman on the back stoop was peering through the window. What a relief. Amanda had to train herself not to panic every time she heard a doorbell. She was glad she hadn’t started the hair coloring process. She suddenly realized she’d locked and bolted the door—force of habit. After all she wasn’t expecting the agent for at least another hour.

Maura sashayed into the tiny upstairs kitchen, shot a toothy smile at Amanda and accepted a cup of coffee held out to her. It may still be summer but Amanda always had coffee. Hot brewed coffee, that is. Savoring the rich aroma, the agent apologized for being ahead of schedule. Her last client had backed out, claiming car trouble, she explained so Amanda assumed her visitor would have ample time to help her find her just what she needed.

After plunking herself down at the kitchen table, Maura got right down to business, fanning out the contents of her folder. Amanda had told her what she and her mom could afford, which would limit their choices. Hearing that her client was newly employed as a graphic artist, Maura made an awful face. A grimace that looked like she’d tasted something foul or rancid. She must be after a fatter commission, but clearly we can’t afford to go much pricier, Amanda thought, although the agent has listed most of the houses for her husband’s agency, so what’s the big deal? She’d make the sale. But Maura did raise her eyebrows, in approval, when Amanda mentioned for whom she working—Sterling Enterprises, premier developers and renovators with headquarters both locally and abroad. Actually the house she’s staying at right now belongs to the CEO’s administrative assistant. She’s out of the country with him working on a renovation project and doesn’t sublet her apartment as a rule but being a dear friend of Maura’s, she accommodated her ‘client’ who’d only need a place to stay short term.

Miss, uh, Stoddard, may I call you Amanda? I much prefer a first name basis since we will become friends. Anyone will tell you, I consider all my clients as friends, Maura cooed, straightening out her papers to make more room for the coffee mug that had already left a wet ring on one of her spec sheets.

Sure, Amanda’s just fine, she told her. Why not? Amanda needed to hear the sound of her name as often as possible. Actually it felt good—restoring her identity, having it affirmed. She believed she’d still do an about face if someone yelled out her assumed name. And Mikayla was usually Kay, which was easier to say and remember. People weren’t supposed to know anything about her, and Mom was always Doreen but was called Dee to throw off any suspicion since her life had been turned upside down too and was endangered as long as they were together.

Well, Amanda, after reviewing your credit history, et cetera, I’d say your best bet in our lovely little town would have to be something, uh, modest, which I’m sure you’ll find in our older section. There you’ll see a few, well maybe, uh, two and three smallish homes, well maintained, I’ll have you know. After all this is Litchfield County and we have a sense of pride in, well, you know what I’m saying, Maura yakked on and on.

A little uppity, Amanda thought, but she nodded, which Maura took as a signal to go on. She needed her as much as the agent needed her business. Not surprising, she proceeded to elaborate on every aspect of Wexford Falls that came to mind. She even went so far as to name certain people Amanda absolutely had to meet. She began with dear old Eva Swenson, proprietress of Swenson’s Hardware Store, who will take all the time in the world to accommodate you. And right across the street is Father Chris Tosi’s spectacular meditation garden adjacent to St. Aeden Church. If you run into him, he’ll give you some history about the statuary out there, plus it’s a wonderful place to just chill, forget your troubles. From there she commented on various natural points of interest, the rolling green hills dotted with magnificent foliage and the picturesque waterfall, which bears the name of the town. Finally she moved on to upcoming events, such as the Bicentennial anniversary of the founding of the town. Amanda could do without details of these happenings for now, but she remained attentive, as she should. It was just too much for her to take in, or to even consider partaking in, coming from such a sheltered existence.  

Finally Amanda needed her to stop expounding on the merits of the town. Maura didn’t have to sell her on it; it was already decided. Maura got the message when her hostess stood to rewarm the cups. Amanda knew she’d get to know the town on her own terms in due time. Certainly before calling for Mom and Mikayla.

What I need to know is do you have any single homes available, with three bedrooms? she asked before Maura could resume her monologue. It was hard to tell if the agent was peeved or relieved at the interruption.

Maura contemplated the question for a few moments. Then adjusting her reading glasses, she said, Well now, let me see, there are a few bungalows, a little older than you might prefer, but more in line with your price range. Now the bungalows are smallish but they’re cozy with nice deep yards, a few of them extending back to the woods, depending on which side of the street they’re on, and uh, well, they’re perhaps a little closer together than, well...let’s see. She flipped through her spec sheets, scanning the information, nodding. And yes, I neglected to mention that there is a certain charm about them, the bungalows, or, uh, you may refer to it as ‘character’. Yes, some of them do seem to have character, older homes, you now, certain little touches you don’t see in more stark, uh, less ornate newer construction. It may have seemed like an after thought, but Maura punctuated her words with a little smile.

A bungalow would be fine, I guess, as long as we, uh, I wouldn’t have a lot of fixing up to do, Amanda told her. It would be more than fine. It would be terrific, she said to herself. A place to call their own at last, a home, not another apartment complex, or a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

Come to think of it, I do have one in mind that will go on the market very soon from what the owners tell me. It, ah, may need some updating, nothing major, not much more than a little repainting, you know, little things, but I’m sure you can handle that. It should be a good buy anyhow. I can just picture you hanging out on the screened porch out front. Maura said with a faint smile, seeming to visualize the home as she sipped her coffee, which was now lukewarm. Amanda hoped she didn’t notice her client’s eye roll upon hearing those words. She was relieved when Maura declined another rewarming. Then she’d never get rid of her.

Maura produced a spec sheet, scanned it and thought a moment. Hey now, I’ve got time. If this looks like something you’d be interested in, we can do a drive by if you have a few minutes, or... she said, pausing to let Amanda collect her thoughts.

Actually, Maura, right now is not the best time. How about tomorrow? Amanda suggested. She needed time to look over the sheet and run them by her mom on the phone, before agreeing to do a drive by. It could be a waste of time if the neighborhood didn’t feel right or if she didn’t like the looks of the house. And pictures can be deceiving.

Maura hesitated a long minute. Hmm, let me check. Well, you have the address right there and you can let me know if you at least like the setting, the exterior, the neighborhood. You get what I mean? Maura said and then got up a little too quick, knocking over the remaining liquid in her cup and soaking her paperwork. She absentmindedly sopped it up with her napkin and left the soggy mess on the table, saying mostly to herself. ‘Klutzy girl.’ Making sure her hand was dry enough, she shook Amanda’s hand and turned to leave.

Give me a buzz, Amanda, she called out, half way out the door. Let me know what you think. And with that she was gone, clunking down the exterior staircase.

No wonder she’s so successful. She talks you to death, wears you down. Then she tells you what you’ll like. Finds it for you and collects her commission, Amanda thought. Guess that’s the way it goes. And so she decided to check out the bungalow, if not tonight, then maybe tomorrow.

Once she heard the agent’s car engine turn over, she began the transformation, starting with her hair—the color on the box said ‘sable brown—medium brown with golden highlights’—close enough to her natural color, she hoped. After the process was completed, her hair dried and fluffed into some semblance of a style, she found the result somewhat brassy but figured it would tone down after a few washings. She’d had lots of practice with hair coloring the past few years, changing her appearance. But today it was the first step in returning to her old self. New clothes, she figured, would help make her a new woman, but that could wait a little longer. Until she shed those unwanted pounds she’d put on back then. She only wanted to be the real Amanda again, true to herself.

Chapter 2

Leonid

Why did it have to be you, little brother, you, the baby of the family, the one with the most promising future? I don’t know if you can hear me where you are, but I sure hope you can. Do you see me here? I’m tracing your name, Dimitri Serge Blavik. It’s carved on your monument. I picked this one out myself. Nah, that’s not it exactly. I designed it... See—it’s got the orthodox cross at the top.  Nothing’s too good for my baby brother. Look at me. Can you see these? These are tears, real wet ones. Happens a lot when I think of you. I miss you. I always hoped our kids, cousins they’d be, would grow up side by side like us as brothers.

But no, I did like you said right to the last detail. And I knocked off the others so there’d be just the two of us. And I did it good. Left no way to trace it to me. No one will ever find what’s left of them.  Like we really needed a five way split of the loot. And I was laying there face down on the floor with the other hostages, pretending to be one of them, acting real scared and nervous, right next to her, looking at her, that bitch, for what seemed like forever, I memorized what she looked like. Her face is etched in my mind. I’ll never forget. If it wasn’t for her you’d still be alive and we’d have the money, just the two of us like we planned. So I promised on our Babushka’s dear soul I’d get her and her mother. If I hadn’t lost track of her—oh, they hid her real good—she’d already be...well, you can guess. But don’t you worry none, little brother. This time I won’t blow it. I’ll get her and her whole damn family. You see I made plans. Humongous plans. And I’ll find her this time.

BLAVIK, LEONID SAID, exasperated, in a growl of a stage whisper, to the groggy sounding man at the other end of the line. Do I gotta spell it out for you? Dead silence. How about that fat check you earned when you tailed my Anna and her latest Speedo wearing gigolo? Really great pictures those were you gave me. Spoke more than couple thousand words, told me what I didn’t really want to know. But hey—shit happens. Remember now, doncha, Sid, old man?

Yeah, yeah, of course I do, Leonid. So how goes it, man? Sidney Pennington, self-employed Private Investigator, said in an end-of-the-day brain fog. It took a moment for him to place the wise ass Blavik. Last spring he’d ID’ed the poor sucker that was banging Blavik’s wife. The poor sap met with an unfortunate accident—an explosion—not on the deep blue waters but on a 40-footer yacht moored in his slip, a little sooner than anticipated. Sid may have provided the evidence to locate him but Blavik’s henchman did him in once they were assured the guy was alone. Anna was too good to waste. Soon the beauteous, leggy Mrs. Anna Blavik was back in her hubby’s good graces albeit on a much shorter leash.

It goes, Sid, it goes. And it’s going to go even better which is why I’m talking to you if you can stay awake long enough to hear me out. Grab yourself an espresso or a No-Doz or something, anything to recharge your battery, Leonid barked at him. Geez, sounds like you’re taking a snooze on the job or something. Must be raking in the dough, you lazy bastard. But I gotta hand it to you; you’re some kinda freakin’ chameleon when you need to be, right?

Sid just sat there with the receiver far enough from his ear to still be able to hear him. He knew enough to let Leonid rant. He’d run out of steam eventually. And he paid well.

Yeah, so what’s up this time? Sid asked—much too nonchalantly. This really must be business, not fun and games. Leonid liked to jerk him around now and then. Tease him with big stuff and then say, just touching base, making sure you’re still around in case I need your services.

I got a real important job for you, man. Big stuff, humongous, Leonid said but he needed Sid to sound hungry, to be really motivated to go to any ends to hunt down this guy because if he finds him he’ll get to her...so he hoped. He thought he had her once, but that was a bust. This time it will happen.

Rather than a verbal response, Sid just yawned in his ear—again—audibly, loud enough to be recognized as a bona fide yawn. Yawned! Disinterested? Bored? Leonid was incredulous! He was offering the PI a bonanza after he tails this guy right to the girl he was after.

Leonid was hell bent on getting her this time and didn’t care what he had to do or how much it cost him as long as he found her, and this guy, her former boyfriend, would be the bait. Now all Sid has to do was locate him and tail him till he gets to her, and be sure it really is her; then it’ll all fall into place. Her world will fall apart and Dimiitri will be avenged at last.

As for the money from the other bank robberies, how will he ever get his hands on it? The missing part of the account number was also on that scrap of paper intended for him and without knowledge of that number, they wouldn’t be able to access the money squirreled away in an offshore account under an assumed name. That damn bitch ruined everything for him and got his baby brother killed.  That post-it note and what it revealed altered the course of their lives. All that was missing was those last four digits that only that bank employee Amanda Stoddard knew by heart, and she disappeared with that knowledge in her head alone. Those four digits she’d read to the police were deemed irrelevant—could even be a code name, they figured. So they dropped it.

Chapter 3

Amanda

AMANDA WAS PLEASED that Maura had left behind a street map of Wexford Falls. After unfolding it and flattening it out, she noticed that Maura had highlighted some points of interest she’d mentioned during her sales pitch. At least Amanda could get he lay of the land, orient herself with respect to her present location and then map out a route to that bungalow that was coming up for sale. Walking through the streets would give her a feel for the town, the community, she hoped. She estimated it would take about fifteen minutes or so to reach the street on which the bungalow was located. And so she set out to check it out for herself.

Pinecone Street, she discovered, could easily have been named Bungalow Boulevard but then she’d have to look into what came first, the bungalows or the pine trees, and those bungalows looked as though they’d been there for several generations. The very thought brought a grin to her face. And so, feeling hopeful, she continued up the incline that was Pinecone Street. She looked for the house numbers, first right then left, some more visible and solidly affixed than others. Each home did appear to have a ‘personality’ of its own. But the charm Maura had alluded to during her visit was elusive, or maybe you had to go inside and discover it for yourself.

The one coming up for sale turned out to be the last house on the street, well at least on the right side. Another grin. For the first time in a long time Amanda was allowing herself to feel carefree, safe. She told herself she might just like it here in this little New England town.

White shingles with dark green trim. Amanda liked that look—unpretentious by any standard. The house itself was a little different from the others, just slightly angled to better fit the lot. The enclosed front in porch sagged with age and the front yard hardly looked manicured, more like benignly neglected. The hedges were overgrown, the lawn needed mowing, and the one flowerbed sprouted more weeds than blossoms. Amanda assumed that whatever  ‘character’ the bungalow had would be on the inside, or maybe it would be something that she just felt. No garage, but the spec sheet said there was a sizeable shed out back. Perhaps it was the location that attracted her. Amanda liked that the house was off the beaten path, cradled by the woods on the far back and the left side. She wasn’t able to determine which was east or west yet by the sun due to the time of day—close to noon. At that point she figured it wasn’t all that important as long as the sunrise didn’t awaken her each morning, and if that were the case, she’d get room darkening window coverings.

Surveying the specs and the exterior of the house, she couldn’t imagine there being three bedrooms in such a small house, but that’s what the sheet said. No price had been listed since it wasn’t on the market yet but Amanda thought that if it was fair and reasonable, she might be interested, very interested. She thought the location would work fine for her, and isn’t that what it’s all about—location? She let her thoughts run free.

Mikayla could play out back. The yard just needs a little fencing. And I hear there’s a newspaperwoman who also writes romance novels living next door. And she’s only got one child, well, not really a child—a special needs son probably about my age. That’s fine—eventually we can become, uh, neighborly once I feel comfortable interacting with others normally again. Avoiding relationships for so long had become commonplace for me. But now I’m so ready for a new normal.

AMANDA WAS CONCERNED she was making it very obvious, eyeing the bungalow from various perspectives, looking as though she was casing the joint—a potential burglar in the eyes of an onlooker. But no, she was much too obvious—studying the spec sheet in hand, wondering how she could fit a bed and dresser into a bedroom more suited as a den than a bedroom, one that measured 10 X 11 when she spotted the woman next door walking down to the end of her driveway. Amanda smiled.

Hi there, can I help you? You look deep in thought or lost. I can’t tell which, a friendly looking woman in her forties called out. She was wiping her forehead, brushing her bangs aside. She looked warm as she glanced over at Amanda.

Can you imagine a bed and bureau fitting into a 10 X 11 room? Amanda yelled back—dispensing with introductions.

Sure, and it does fit, I can assure you, she answered, nodding, approaching her. Interested in buying the Hyers’s place, are you? Didn’t Maura tell you? They’ve only got a renter staying there, single gal. She can be out in days if you’re interested, in buying, that is.

Oh. Oh, hi, Amanda responded. She was used to going by her assumed name, Amelia,  Amanda Stoddard, I’m Amanda not Amelia Simmons’, she kept saying to herself over and over again as though rehearsing lines for a play, hoping not to flub. And I am looking to buy if I find the right house, one I can afford. I’m just checking this out to see if we’d fit.

Sure you would, the neighbor said resolutely. If we can, I’m sure you can unless you have a tribe of kids and oversized furniture...which you probably don’t.

Amanda thought the neighbor seemed amicable enough. Plus, her smile was genuine. No, tribe or brood. Just me, Mom and a preschooler. So far I like this neighborhood and your little town.

Stick around and you’ll love it. You won’t want to leave. Your child too, she added.

She’s... Amanda began, wary from practice, still careful not to reveal relationships, premature at this time.

The woman sensed her discomfort but went on. Come on inside my place. It’s the exact same as next door, but the layout is reversed, opposite. You’ll see what I mean. See, if you look through here you can see our side entry doors face each other, or would if my bank of arbor vitae didn’t block the view. I had them planted to shield us from a very undesirable neighbor and we just let them grow and grow they did over the years. Most did anyhow, but a few are undersize. Amanda remarked how much she liked them as a natural border between the two properties.

So she accepted the woman’s offer to come inside. Why not? She learned her name was Beryl Baines when they’d introduced themselves. And yes, there was indeed a single day bed and bureau in the smallest room. She also introduced her adult son Emil who appeared to be very timid. A small but muscular young man, he half hid behind his mother. Amanda commented on the striking landscapes adorning the walls of that room, apparently his bedroom.  

Those are mine, he said, turning to face her. I painted them, all of them, using my Crayolas, so I guess I mean I colored them but I had to draw the pictures first and that’s being creative. I like drawing but I like coloring them better. That’s what makes them so real—the colors, he said, gaining courage, as he focused his full attention on the visitor. Then he said, I’m a local artist. Are you an artist too?

Before she could answer him, his mother Beryl interjected, Not everyone’s an artist, Emil.

Amanda couldn’t resist answering the young man. How did you ever guess? His whole face glowed, and his smile was priceless. I’m more of an illustrator, but, yes, I am an artist, like you.

He