My dad had left the lake house to me when he passed away six months earlier. For the first time in years as a single mother, I wasn’t writing a rent check to someone else.
We’d lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment for so long that Olivia thought a hallway was a luxury.
Now she had a yard, Kevin, and a room with a window that faced actual trees.
I wasn’t writing a rent check.
The gravel driveway crunched under my sneakers as I walked back to the car.
It ran narrow along the side of the house, just wide enough for my old blue Chevrolet. The driveway was the only place to park. No garage. No side lot. Just that strip of gravel.
« Well, look who finally got here. »
I turned and saw an older man in a faded cap leaning on the fence between our yards.
It ran narrow along the side.
He had a kind, weathered face and an easy stance.
