Page 2 of The Man in the Cottage

"Who are you?" My voice comes out higher than I want, a little breathless from the adrenaline. "Why are you in my grandmother's cottage?"

Something shifts in his face. Recognition, maybe.

"You're Kelly," he says. Not a question.

"How do you know my name?"

He sets the coffee mug down on the porch railing and steps onto the grass, moving slowly, like he's trying not to spook me any more than he already has. "Your grandmother talked about you. A lot." He stops a few feet away, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm Travis. I've been staying here for a few months. I had an arrangement with Mrs. Dawson."

An arrangement. My grandmother had an arrangement with this man—this stranger in a flannel shirt who knows my name and lives in her cottage and apparently has siblings he's not too impressed with.

"What kind of arrangement?"

"She let me rent the place. Informal, mostly. I helped out around the property when she needed it, fixed things, kept an eye on the place. And she gave me somewhere quiet to stay." He pauses, and his jaw tightens just a little. "I'm sorry about your grandmother. She was a good woman."

He says it like he means it. Not like the people at the funeral who squeezed my hand and said she's in a better place like they were reading off a script. Just simple and real.

"The lawyer didn't mention you," I say.

"I don't think she ever put anything in writing. It was just an understanding." He shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable for the first time. "Look, I know this is your property now. If you want me gone, I'll go. I can be out by the end of the week."

I should say yes. I don't know this man. I don't know anything about him except that he's big and quiet and apparently lived fifty yards from my grandmother while I was in New York worrying about click-through rates and email open metrics.

But the cottage trim is freshly painted. The porch has been swept. He knew my name before I said it, which means my grandmother talked about me, which means she trusted him enough to share pieces of her life.

"You don't have to leave," I hear myself say. "Not yet, anyway. Let me figure some things out first."

He nods, and something in his shoulders loosens just slightly. "I'll stay out of your way. You won't even know I'm here."

"Okay."

"Okay."

We stand there another moment, the wind moving through the pines behind him. He's got a face that's hard to read—steady dark eyes, a mouth that doesn't seem to smile much. I can't tell if he's relieved or just waiting for me to change my mind.

"I'm usually up early," he finally says. "If you need anything fixed or moved or whatever, just let me know."

"Thanks."

He nods again and turns back toward the cottage. He takes the porch steps two at a time, grabs his coffee mug off the railing, and pauses at the door with his hand on the frame.

"Welcome home, Kelly."

The door closes behind him, and I'm standing alone in my grandmother's backyard with wet shoes and no idea what I just agreed to.

I walk back to the house slowly, my mind turning it over. Travis. An arrangement. Somewhere quiet to stay. My grandmother, who told me about her book club and her garden and the gossip at church, who called me every Sunday without fail, never once mentioned the man living in her backyard.

Why?

I kick off my wet sneakers at the back door and leave them on the mat to dry. The kitchen feels different now, knowing he's out there. Not bad different. Just... different. Like the house shifted slightly while I wasn't looking and now I have to learn it all over again.

I find it three hours later.

I've unpacked my suitcase and made the bed in my old room, the one with the quilt Grandma sewed from my baby clothes and the window that looks out at the oak tree. I've eaten canned soup standing at the kitchen counter because I'm not ready to sit at the dining table alone, not ready to look at the empty chair where she always sat. I've texted my sister back and ignored three emails from my old job that I definitely should have unsubscribed from before I left.

Now I'm on the living room floor with a box of papers from Grandma's desk, trying to find anything the lawyer might need, trying to make myself useful in a house that doesn't need me for anything.

That's when I pull out the address book.