The floors were polished. There was wood ready in the fireplace. The kitchen looked like someone had just used it. The air smelled like pine and fresh coffee.
This wasn’t a forgotten « shack. » Someone had been taking care of this place.
I saw a photo on the mantle of my father as a young man. He was standing with an older woman I didn’t know. I turned the frame over and saw his handwriting: Rose. Summer of 1962. The beginning.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I jumped, and my bag hit the floor. An older man stood on the porch holding a bowl of food. He stood very straight, like a soldier.
« Captain Whitmore? » he asked.
« Yes? »
He nodded. « I’m Jack Reynolds, from two cabins down. Your father told me you might show up one day, tired and wondering why you were here. »
I stared at him. « He said that? »
Jack smiled. « Something like that. He brought me some instructions. » He set a bowl of stew on the counter. « Your father came here right before he passed. He got everything ready. He told me to tell you: don’t judge this place too quickly. »
Jack looked at the photo of the woman. « He also said that when you’re ready, you should check under the kitchen floorboard. »
