Page 12 of Sharp Lies

***

THE HOUSE WAS GORGEOUS. I’d never been here—couldn’t break that promise about not coming back to Oakville—but now that I was here, I couldn’t have been prouder of my mother. The last time I’d been in town, she’d been living in that cramped apartment above the bakery.

Then I’d met Tony McCarthy and moved in with him. He hit me. I ended up in the hospital.

And his dad paid me to get out of town.

I’d left half of the money in an account for my mom and taken what I thought I might need. And boy had she made good use of it. The bakery had gone through a serious upgrade—I knew because she’d sent me the pictures—and she’d bought her own house right at the edge of town. A sweet little three-bedroom that was as farmhouse as you could hope for. She’d painted it white and given it red shutters and a red front door, and the porch was crowded with every flower you could name. The property around the house featured willows and pines as well as a little creek, and it was...

Honestly, it was exactly the sort of house I would have chosen for my mother. It was perfect.

Sure, she had neighbors relatively close to her. I could almost see through the windows of the house to the north. But she had a house of her own and land enough to give her space to plant whatever she wanted. She didn’t have to worry about making too much noise and bothering the people in the bakery downstairs, and she sure didn’t have to worry about rent.

Unfortunately, she was going to have to worry about getting around in a wheelchair. This house had steps up to the front porch and then another step into the house, and it hadn’t come equipped with any ramps. I also didn’t know if the doors themselves would be large enough for a wheelchair. I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it, but I was pretty sure houses were specially built for wheelchair access, with wider doorways than those in normal houses.

I looked up at the house, sighing to myself. So measure the doorways and figure out how to make them wider, if necessary. Get someone in here to build a ramp up from the driveway, and then a smaller ramp up to the house from the porch. If my mother’s bedroom was upstairs, I’d have to either get her one of those lift things attached to the stairs or move her bedroom to the bottom floor so she had access to everything. In fact, the bottom floor was probably a better idea.

At least that would just mean moving her stuff rather than having to build something else.

This was going to be a big job.

I hoped she had some of that money left over.

***

AS IT TURNED OUT, SHE did have money left over, and a week later, I’d used some of it to have someone build the ramps I needed. A bit of measuring had told me that her doorways were wide enough—thank goodness—and that the hallway between the living room and the kitchen was wide enough to handle the wheelchair, too. I’d found her bedroom upstairs and moved all her things down to the first floor, then moved what I could out of the office downstairs so I could turn that into a new bedroom for her.

Now I stood back and looked at what I’d done, trying to see it with her eyes.

The office wasn’t as big as the bedroom upstairs. In fact, it was only about half as big, since she’d taken the master bedroom for herself. I’d known right away that I wouldn’t be able to fit her large bed in here—or move it on my own—but had found a twin bed in one of the other rooms and had moved that. She also had an armchair and her desk, plus plenty of pillows and quilts. And the kitchen was right outside the door, so she’d have easy access to food and her beloved coffee.

It wasn’t ideal. I’d be upstairs, because that was where the other rooms were, so she’d really have to shout if she needed me.

Luckily, my mom had always been good at shouting, so I didn’t think that was going to be a problem.

And this would make it a lot easier for her to get around on her own—something that I thought would become an issue. My mother had been living by herself for some time now and was the most independent woman I knew. She wouldn’t like it if she had to ask me every time she wanted something. So I was thinking she’d be okay with the changes I’d made if they meant she didn’t have to wait for me to do things for her.

As for my own room... Well, Silver was upstairs breaking in the bed for me, and my clothes were already hanging in the closet. I hadn’t had much to move in, so that had been a pretty quick process.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only 4 in the afternoon, and I was exhausted. Renovating this house had been more work than I’d done in years, but it had been important, and the timeline hadn’t been generous. Mom was due home next week, and I’d known I had to get everything done before she got here.

Now I felt like I wanted to go upstairs and take a nap.

Instead, I decided I’d better get some things cleaned up. Sure, I had a week before my mom got home, but all that construction had left one hell of a mess, and I wouldn’t thank myself if I left it until the last minute to start cleaning it up.

I went into the kitchen, grabbed the broom and the dustpan, and went out to the porch. The construction team had finished this ramp first but had been using it to transport stuff to and from the house, and in all the rush, I hadn’t had a chance to clean up all the dust from the construction out here yet. This was the first thing my mom would see when she got home.

I wanted it to be perfect.

I started by sweeping the patio itself, running the broom over the floor and letting my mind wander as I swept. This house had never been mine, but I’d spent a week living here on my own since I returned to town. I’d made changes to the house and started making it my home, and it was starting to feel familiar now.

There were other things I wanted to do to it, too, and I’d be happy if I could get them done before my mom got home. The house itself needed a new coat of paint, and the door and trim could use an update as well. I didn’t want to change the red—that was perfect and went well with some of the flowers currently blooming on the porch—but the paint had gotten scratched in some places and worn in others, and as long as I was repainting the house, I thought I might as well repaint everything. I turned to the shutter on my right and ran my finger over it experimentally, wondering if I could do the painting myself. I didn’t see why not. Painting didn’t exactly take a lot of skill, did it? I’d have to clean the house first, of course, with how dusty it had gotten, but...

I glanced at the window while I was thinking and gasped at what I saw there.

Across the driveway, right in front of the neighboring home, stood a moving van. That place must have a new owner, I thought.

I wondered if the new owner was the man standing in front of the van.