Page 5 of Summer in Kentbury
I make my way through the one-story home, peeking into each of the three bedrooms. Ruby’s and my old room is empty, the twin beds we once shared now gone, leaving behind only faded outlines on the worn hardwood floor. I feel a pang of sadness, wondering when our parents emptied the room, erasing the last traces of our childhood summers.
I step into the kitchen, running my finger along the dusty counter and leaving a streak in its wake.This was the heart of our home, filled with memories of my mother’s famous blueberry pancakes and my father’s off-key singing as he washed the dishes after family dinners around that old wooden table. I can almost hear the echoes of our laughter.
I walk over to the window overlooking the lake, just as the setting sun begins streaking the sky with brilliant oranges and pinks, reflecting off the still water. It’s beautiful, serene. I pull out my phone and snap a picture, thinking it captures some of the calm I’m seeking.
I open up social media, hesitating before typing, “New beginnings, new adventures. #KentburyBound.” Or maybe #ParadiseBound . . . or . . . My finger hovers over the post button. Can a hashtag really communicate what I’m feeling? The nervous excitement, the pang of nostalgia, the hope that I’m finally headed in the right direction.
I bite my lip, staring at the screen. No, my fresh start can’t be summed up in a cliché or cute hashtag. This is my life, and it can’t be reduced to a pithy social media update. With a sigh, I hit delete and slip my phone back into my pocket.
The reality of my situation settles in as I realize that even paradise has its drawbacks. I’ll probably have to sleep outside to avoid an asthma attack—I’ve always been highly allergic to dust. With a quick check, I confirm that my inhaler is with me. Maybe if I sleep on the couch, it won’t trigger a full-blown reaction. But the thought of spending the night outdoors in unfamiliar territory makes me bite my lip again.
I know I need help—maybe even more than I’m willing to admit. Pulling up the contacts on my phone, I hesitate. Who could I even call? The prospect of reaching out to people I haven’t spoken to in years feels just as daunting as the repairs this house needs. A knot forms in my stomach, weighing down on me with the weight of my impulsive decision to come here.
But financial concerns quickly overshadow any feelings of anxiety or uncertainty. Can I even afford to fix anything—or buy a bed? As I run a shaky hand through my hair, the financial implications of my impromptu escape dawn on me.
Just then, my phone buzzes with a text from Ruby:Did you make it? Is it as beautiful as we remember?
How do I respond? Beautiful? Yes, the lake is still crystal clear and the surrounding nature is breathtakingly serene—the perfect snapshot for Instagram. But this place is falling apart, just like me.
However, instead of admitting that truth, I take a picture of the vibrant sunset over the lake with a simple,Got here safe. It’s just as beautiful as we remember.
Is that good enough? I hit send before I can second-guess myself, but the nagging feeling in my gut tells me I’m not being entirely honest.
My phone rings, jolting me out of my thoughts. It’s Ruby.I take a deep breath and put on my best ‘everything is fine’ voice before answering. “Hey, Sis.”
“What’s wrong?” Ruby’s concern is almost tangible, even through the phone.
“Nothing,” I respond with false nonchalance, trying to hide the worry in my voice.
“Lav, don’t try to hide it. I can hear it in your voice.”
I let out a defeated sigh, knowing there’s no use in trying to fool her. “It’s just . . . the house. It’s a complete mess, Ruby. Dust everywhere, furniture covered in sheets. It’s like a scene from a horror movie.”
“Oh, Lav,” Ruby’s voice softens with sympathy. “I’m so sorry . . . I thought Mom and Dad had a cleaning service come in to clean the place.”
I wrack my brain, trying to remember who they hired and when they stopped using their services. In all honesty, I can’t recall the last time they even mentioned the lake house or our hometown of Kentbury. Ever since they moved to South Carolina and retired, their lives have been one big vacation.
I’m mid-rant to Ruby about how neglected and dusty our childhood home has become when a sudden commotion outside startles me back to reality. The sound of a heavy truck pulling into the driveway sets my heart racing. I’m not expecting any visitors, especially not in this secluded corner of Kentbury.
“Ruby, I have to go. Someone’s here,” I whisper urgently, peering out the window with wide eyes.
“What? Who?” Ruby sounds just as worried as I feel.
As I watch from the window, I see a trio stepping out of the large pickup truck that looks more like a building than a vehicle. Two men and a woman emerge, looking like they just stepped out of a rugged outdoor adventure magazine. They certainly don’tlook like any locals I remember from growing up in this small town.
One of the men is wrestling with an inflatable mattress that was on the bed of the truck, clearly losing the battle, while the other is gathering enough cleaning supplies to disinfect an army base. The woman, though, is pointing at my car and suddenly grabs a broom, marching toward the house as if the broom is a weapon, her face set in a determined scowl.
“Hold on, Ruby, I’ve got to deal with . . . I don’t even know what yet,” I say, hastily ending the call.
The door of the house flings open just as the man finally manages to wrangle the mattress into submission.
“Excuse me,” I shout, my voice sharp, my hands planted firmly on my hips. “Can I help you?”
The man with the mattress straightens up, his rugged features twist into a scowl as he glares at me with narrowed blue eyes. “Who are you and what are you doing on our property?” he demands.
“Ourproperty?” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest, my eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “This is my parent’s house. Leave immediately or I’ll call the sheriff.”
“Are you lost, sweetheart?” Mattress guy looks at me like I’ve lost my last marble.
