Ivy tried jiggling the lock and jiggling the door. She walked completely around the house, trying keys in four more doors, to no avail. She peered in a window at the back of the house, into the kitchen, but the glass was wavy and blackened with grime, so she only got a glimpse of a kitchen sink and a small wooden table and chairs.
“Come on, Punkin,” she said, heading back around to the front of the house. She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket.
“Looks like we’re gonna give Ezra a call and admit defeat.”
* * *
Five minutes later, the Jeep was jouncing down the driveway.
“That didn’t take long,” Ivy said as he joined her on the front porch.
“I was just waiting down at the crossroads,” he said, giving her a sheepish grin. “And I did try to warn you. That lock really is the dickens to open.”
He grasped the doorknob firmly, inserted the key into the lock, jiggled it a moment, then slowly turned the key to the left. As the tumblers finally clicked, he rammed his shoulder against the door, muscling it open.
“You turn it to the left?” Ivy was indignant. “You could have told me that.”
“Would you have believed me?” He picked up her suitcase and gestured for her to enter the house.
Ivy paused. She’d been waiting for this moment for nine months. This day, the day she took possession of her dream farmhouse, was no accident. It was intentional. Nine months ago, to the day, her divorce from Kyle had been final.
She’d made an intentional decision to start a new life in a new town in a new state, but in an old house.
Ivy wasn’t sure she wanted to start her new life in the company of this stranger, no matter how helpful he was trying to be.
Ezra looked back at her, puzzled. “Aren’t you coming in? I thought I’d show you the house.”
She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold with Punkin close behind.
* * *
Ivy looked around the living area. The old pine floors were scarred but beautiful to her. The fireplace, with an oak mantelpiece and mottled tile surround, was just the same as in the listing photos.
She lifted a dusty sheet from what turned out to be a large, lumpy plaid sofa straight out of The Brady Bunch.
“What’s with all this?” she asked, gesturing at the matching plaid recliner. “There was nothing in the contract about me buying the place furnished.”
“Yeah, about that,” Ezra said, looking sheepish. “James’s kids only wanted a couple of pieces of their granddad’s furniture, so he decided at the last minute to leave it all for the buyer.”
“You mean he decided to dump all this old crap on me,” Ivy said, her voice sounding harsher than she’d intended.
Ezra winced.
“Never mind,” she said quickly. “I’ve been up since four and it’s been a long day already. It’s just that my movers will be here Monday with all my stuff.”
“I get it,” Ezra said. “I did tell James you probably wouldn’t want any of this. I can get a truck and a couple guys over here in the next couple of days, and if you want, it can all be donated to charity.”
She walked into the kitchen. The cabinets were dated, but serviceable. The stove and refrigerator were a recent vintage. But all of it, she decided, would eventually have to go.
“Everything works,” Ezra said quickly. “I had the power changed over to your name, like you asked, and the water’s hooked up too.”
“Thanks for that,” Ivy said. Her mind was racing with additions to her list of improvements.
He trailed her into the hallway off the living room. “The master bedroom’s at the back here,” he volunteered.
She nodded and opened the door. The bedroom was larger than she’d expected. The furniture was ugly, but serviceable.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay.”
“Where were you expecting to sleep until your moving truck arrives?” Ezra asked.
“I’ve got a sleeping bag in the car,” Ivy said. She sat on the edge of the bed, and the springs wheezed loudly. “But I guess this’ll do until my own bed gets here.”
“Great,” Ezra said, sounding relieved. “Can I help you unload your car?”
She considered rejecting the offer. But she was tired, and the car was full, and she had a lot to do before the movers arrived.
“That’d be great,” she said.
* * *
Ezra Wheeler bent down and peered into the back of the Volvo, and Ivy was surprised to find herself checking him out. Cute butt. He lifted out a large cardboard carton that had a row of ventilation holes cut in the sides. A series of muffled peeps erupted.
“What the…?”
Peep. Peep. Peeppeepeeeep …
She took the box from his arms. “These are the girls.” She lifted the box top, and the four fluffy chicks began scuttling around the straw she’d arranged in their makeshift carrier.
“Chickens? You brought chickens? From Atlanta?”
“Yes,” she said, feeling weirdly self-conscious. “I did. They’ll stay in the house where it’s warm for now, and then I’ll rig up a coop for them in the barn.”
Ezra brought in two more loads of her belongings while she settled the box of chicks in a corner of the kitchen, which, for now, seemed like the warmest place in the noticeably chilly house.
“I think this is all of it,” he said, bringing in an armload of her hanging clothes.
“Let’s take that into my bedroom,” Ivy said, leading him down the hall.
She opened the closet door and was startled by the sight of a tightly packed row of clothing: dresses, skirts, men’s shirts, and pants.
“Dammit,” she muttered. She grabbed a bunch of coat hangers and began tossing clothing onto the floor. Ezra followed her lead, and five minutes later the closet had been cleaned out.
Ivy stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the space. Like all the rooms in the house, the bedroom and the closet had ten-foot ceilings. There were two shelves above the clothes rod, and she spotted a box on the top shelf. She stood on her tiptoes but still couldn’t reach it.
“I can get it.” Ezra easily plucked the box off the shelf and showed it to her.
The box was wrapped in vintage Christmas wrapping paper featuring dancing elves and candy canes and Christmas trees, and it was tied with red satin ribbon.
Ivy placed the box on the bed, untied the ribbon, and opened the box. She lifted aside layers of yellowing tissue paper to reveal a folded red velvet jacket with a white fur collar.
She removed the jacket from the box, laying it on top of the chenille bedspread. Beneath it was a pair of trousers, in the same fabric, with white fur trimmings on the cuffs. Beneath that was a pair of soft black leather boots with large brass buckles.
“It’s a Santa suit,” Ivy whispered. But this wasn’t just any suit. It was a beautifully tailored, luxurious garment—nothing like the fairly plain furnishings and clothing she’d encountered in the rest of the farmhouse.
She stroked the fabric, which was real velvet, with real white fur trim. The jacket was lined in satin, and it fastened with a hidden buttoned placket. There was a belt of shiny, if somewhat cracked, black patent leather, with a large brass buckle. When she lifted the boots, she discovered the hat made of matching red velvet with a satin lining, fur trim, and a white pom-pom.