I noticed the pictures ended when Brett was a teenager. His graduation picture showed a solemn face, his eyes sad. There were none of him and his dad except what I assumed was taken around the same time at his actual graduation. They stood side by side, not touching, smiling for the camera, but their stance showed their separation. Their sadness reflected in their expressions, their distance already present.
I decided right then that I needed to add to that wall. Brett and his dad needed some new memories. I found my bag and took out my camera, snapping some photos before they noticed. Them arguing over the cake. Mack, mashing potatoes while Brett stole a broken piece of meatloaf and grinned. The two of them staring at me aghast, their expressions and posture so alike it made me smile.
“What are you doing?” Mack asked.
“Taking pictures. It’s what I do.”
“Why are you taking them now? I thought you were going to look at Rose Cottage.”
“Warming up,” I lied.
We ate the best meatloaf and mashed potatoes I’d ever tasted at the round table in the dining room. Mack shared some stories of Brett growing up, shaking his head at the memories.
“He once snuck downstairs, and I found him the next day, asleep on the floor, surrounded by empty potato chip bags and candy wrappers,” he chuckled. “I’d just added both to the store inventory, and he made a pig of himself.”
“Oh no,” I laughed. “Was he grounded?”
“His mother was furious. I thought it was funny. I couldn’t bring myself to punish him. His sore tummy did it for me. He didn’t look at either of those things for months. His mother took away his baseball mitt and ball for a week. That was enough.”
Brett got back at him by teasing him about Rosa. Mack chuckled at him.
“Stefano is a regular customer now. Drops by at least three times a week. Not sure why the boy needs so much butter.”
Brett laughed over that.
“That explains the abundance in the fridge in the garage. Charly took some to the house to make cookies yesterday.”
“I told him last night to just drop in. He doesn’t have to buy anything, but he insists he needs it. Who am I to argue with a customer?”
After dinner, we took a walk, Mack pointing out some different spots I had never noticed. Littleburn was a charming town. Tiny. Filled with older homes and wide streets. Downtown consisted of a four-block radius. It was a throwback.
We turned down one street and stopped at the end. My breath caught in my throat. The Rose Cottage was aptly named. The structure resembled something you’d see on an English postcard, with a swooping roof and curved walls. Ivy grew along the fence, and the garden was a mass of color. Roses of every shade grew in the beds, wrapped around trellises, cascading over railings. Reds, pinks, whites, and yellows exploded everywhere I looked. Huge blossoms that filled the air with fragrance. Tiny blooms that clustered together to form their own bouquets hung from heavy branches.
“Oh my God,” I murmured. “This is incredible.”
Mack smiled. “It is.”
My fingers itched. “Can I go closer?”
He smiled. “I am one of the caregivers of the garden, so yes, you can.”
Brett followed me as I walked around, discovering all the wonders of the yard. It was a feast for the eyes and the nose. In the back were beautifully cultured vegetable gardens, their bountiful crops growing in the raised beds. I gasped at the scene beyond the back fence. The trees that surrounded Littleburn were thick and tall, leading into the forest. A small stream ran along between them. The late evening summer sun cast a burnished glow around it all. I snapped photo after photo, catching the changing light.
Finally, I turned to Brett. “What will happen to the house?”
“Dad says her daughter is going to sell it. She worries whoever buys it will tear out the garden, but she knows it’s beyond her control. She was so pleased when the townsfolk offered to care for it this year, but she knows the house will fall into disrepair if she leaves it.” He shook his head. “Dad worries someone will buy it for the land since it backs on to the forest and tear it all down.”
“Oh no,” I murmured. “It’s too beautiful.”
Brett chuckled. “I’m shocked, Shutterbug. I had no idea you liked this style of house.”
“I find them romantic and beautiful. All that wood and the nooks and crannies,” I admitted. “I would love to see inside.”
He held out his hand. “Come on, then.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Dad has a key.”
I took his hand eagerly. Inside, I fell in love. The bay windows, the woodwork, the curved room off the living room that overlooked the garden. Even the kitchen that needed updating was perfect in its imperfection.