Chapter 12 – Good Neighbors

Bella

I pulled in front of my place, careful not to block the whole driveway, so my new tenant renting the apartment at the back of the house could get in and park closer to his door. I hadn't met him yet, but my Realtor had assured me he was an upstanding gentleman and promised me I had nothing to worry about. She had grinned and winked at me, and I couldn't help but wonder what she knew that I didn't.

Converting the garage had been Grammy and Poppa's idea, and they had set aside all the necessary funds to do it. In her will, there had been a letter to me from Grammy, insisting I get it done, saying that she and Poppa believed it would be important. I hoped in the long run that it would be a good investment and would bring in extra money for me over the years, since my salary wasn't that huge.

I stopped to reminisce a little and smiled, which I almost always did these days when I took the time to look at my home. I had spent many happy days here during my lifetime, and the enormous old Victorian house was now all mine. My fondest memories were of sitting on the front porch swing in the summer with my Poppa, as he had told me stories off the top of this head, just as if he was reading them from a book. My Grammy would come out with a tray of her yummy oatmeal cookies and lemonade, joining us on the swing. She would smile lovingly at Poppa and close her eyes, as we swung gently back and forth, listening to his stories. I knew she had loved them, and him, as much as I did.

I had helped them over the years to plant the flowers, shrubs, trees, and rosebushes that surrounded the house. My treehouse that Poppa and I had built in the giant old oak tree in the backyard when I had been a little kid was also still there. The deep, covered porch wrapped around the sides and front of the house, and it had been the stage for many impromptu plays, mock wars with neighborhood kids and naps throughout the years. My old tricycle still sat under a side window, a pot of red geraniums balanced on the broad seat, and a comfy wicker settee sat invitingly next to the wooden bench and table my dad had built in his high school woodshop class.

Grammy and Poppa had put a lifetime's worth of love and work into this home. Upon their passing, they had left it to me. My dad, their only child, already owned a home, so they had left it to me, their only grandchild, and according to my dad, the sun in their sky and their reason for living for as long as they had. He said Poppa had told him once how he hoped that one day, I would find a man who would love me as much as he did Grammy. He hoped we would fill the house with lots of happy, laughing children and friends, and that we would have the kind of love they'd had, the kind that transcended time, hardship, and even death.

Even though they were now gone, I still felt their loving presence around me constantly while I was here. I knew they were watching over me, just waiting to welcome that special person to bring that kind of love into this home again.

I stopped to grab my mail from the box at the curb before making my way up to the house. I scowled at the smeared, muddy footprints that appeared to have been tracked from the side yard up onto the porch.

"Darned disrespectful teenagers," I muttered, noticing more broken branches on my red rosebushes and damaged blooms on the ground. The inconsiderate brat deserved it if they'd encountered any thorns.

I wasn't sure which kid it was, but they tended to run around late into the evening, well past dark, so I had never caught them, but I had heard them on more than one occasion. I didn't mind them walking through my yard, but they needed to be respectful, and they needed to stay off my porch and away from my windows. Perhaps I would investigate a security camera setup soon for proof, so I could know whose parents needed a visit.

I unlocked the front door and made my way inside, only to be met by a pair of vivid copper eyes and the familiar babyish cries I had become accustomed to hearing. "Okay, Felicity, just give me a minute to put my stuff down first!"

My enormous, fat calico cat was winding herself around my legs, begging for attention and food. She was a gorgeous, fluffy, roly-poly lump of a cat, and most certainly queen of the house. I had intended to get a puppy, despite my fears, but some of the neighborhood kids had come trolling door to door last year with a wagon full of kittens. When I had stepped out to look, this little ball of fur had launched itself onto my pant leg and quickly climbed up to my shoulder, refusing to get down.

"She's yours now!" the kids had called, leaving me staring eyeball-to-eyeball with a face that would melt even the most devoted dog lover. She was mostly Persian, having a squished face, huge buggy eyes, and a sweet disposition, but with a healthy dose of mischievous holy terror thrown in just for good measure. I had never known a cat that would consistently come when you called it, but Felicity would, so I'd guess I had sort of gotten a little bit of the dog I'd wanted.

She was normally very laid back, but ever since my new tenant had moved in, she regularly paced back and forth in front of the locked door that adjoined the attached garage apartment to the main house. I understood my new tenant also had a cat, so I assumed she just smelled it under the door and wanted to get acquainted.

I fed Felicity, and then I grabbed a pot of leftover soup out of the fridge for myself. I put it on to warm up, enjoying the heady aroma of tomatoes, beef and herbs filling the house, as it heated on the old stove. The antiquated range had been a fixture in the house since the late 1940's, but it still worked better than most modern ones. I loved to use it and cooked enough at once to last me for a week or more at a time, since I sometimes got home late and would be starving. Besides, homemade hot soup beat fast food any day.

I ran upstairs and changed, pulling my hair up into a loose ponytail, and then I slipped on a pair of light cotton boxer shorts and a thin tank top. Fall was right around the corner, but the days were still sometimes warm, making it stuffy in the house with no air conditioning on. I grabbed my favorite Big Band record to put on the old phonograph before going into the kitchen, stopping to raise a couple of windows in the living room to allow the cooler evening breeze to soothe me, along with the music. After getting a bowl of soup, a glass of lemonade, and some homemade bread I had baked, I piled up on the old floral sofa to go through my mail and enjoy the lively strains of Glen Miller.

The house was decorated in what Alice called "early junk shop" style, which was simply perfect for me. I hadn't had the heart to change much in the house since Grammy had passed, not that I really wanted to. Most of the furnishings were real antiques and quite lovely, fitting the style and age of the house perfectly. I found the familiar old furnishings very comforting, and it made me feel like I still sort of had them here with me. Grammy and Poppa had loved shopping together in those old antique shops and thrift stores as much as I did, spending hours on end milling through the aisles, looking for treasures, usually arm-in-arm. Anything Grammy wanted, Poppa was up for, even if, I suspected, he didn't really like it. He was only genuinely happy if she was happy. His foremost mission in life had been making her smile, and he had done just that until the day he had died. I only hoped I would find a man someday who would be just as devoted to me.