Then Now Always

Chapter 1

NOW

Daisy

NESTLED BEHIND THE dense canopy of pine trees stands the cottage with squeaky floorboards and the spacious windows that I recall climbing out of almost every single night when I was sixteen. On the eastern window, the linen yellowed curtains flap in the breeze through the crack in the glass—I add that to my list of things to fix before I contact the real estate agent so they can get the cottage listed on the market.

The thought of it pains me after all the memories here. For a second I wonder if I'm making the right decision—do I really need the extra cash? I could always lease it out...

Or just leave it to wither away, but that seems like such a waste especially considering how beautiful this place was once upon a time. How much time and heart my dad and I put into it.

No, it's time to let go, I decide. This cottage and my father's studio in town need a lot of work before listing. But that's what I'm here for.

I have the entire summer to do it.

My shoes sink into the overgrown lawn overtaken by wild grass and dandelions. I'm not prepared for the tidal wave of memories that gush through me.

Daisies.

Dandelions.

Leather and peppermint.

I gulp them back, focus on what I'm here for and put one foot in front of the other, until I'm standing on the dull porch covered in cobwebs and dust and in front of the moss-colored door.

The wooden chairs which I used to sit in each night and look over the crystal-clear lake with the moon spilling over it in a silver hue now seems like they're on the verge of collapsing.

Fishing in my purse for the keys, I wrap my fingers around the dandelion keyring.

I shoulder the stubborn door open and get a strange whiff of staleness, there's something else here too, maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me but it still has that strange feeling of home although no one's lived here for more than half a decade. And I haven't lived here in a lot longer than that.

I step onto the floral-patterned runner rug in the hallway and dust clings to my shoes, making me seem like an intruder in my own past. The familiar creaking of the wooden floor greets me as I slowly make my way inside. Time stood still within these walls while on the outside it moved with rapid speed.

Dragging my overfilled suitcase, pretty much my entire existence in a bag, behind me, I stop in the middle of the cottage where the living room meets the kitchen. I close my eyes for a second and let the memories seep in.

I see my dad, messy hair and a wrinkled shirt, splattered with dried paint, over by the stovetop making my favorite recipe—chocolate filled pancakes. They're the best things on the planet, probably take the spot somewhere near the smell of rain or how it feels when you fall in love for the first time.

I see my dad and I sitting on the porch together in the squeaky wooden chairs that were here when we moved in, the ones we painted together in the color of the deep blue sea with white flickers of paint for the stars. My dad's-stained hands wrapped around his 'best dad' coffee mug that I got him five father's days ago. He looks out wistfully onto the lake, and I know he's already in his own mind, and even before the coffee turns cold, he's out of his seat and beelining for the tiny greenhouse that he's transformed into an art studio. It barely has enough space to fit more than two people comfortably, but it was my dad's favorite place until he upgraded and bought the art studio in town. And even then, he spent more time in the greenhouse than he did inside the cottage.

There's a sharp pain in my sternum and it feels like the ground is spinning beneath my feet. I flutter my eyelids open, shaking away the memories. There's a reason why it took me three years after my dad's funeral to finally have the courage to do this and even know I'm questioning whether I'm truly ready to say my final goodbye.

I drag the suitcase behind me, and the sound of it rolling on the timber floors drowns everything else. Miniature dust particles flick up into the stuffy room, floating in front of me, tickling my nostrils until I sneeze.

As I step foot into what used to be my old bedroom with sunny colored walls and a white desk by the large window taking up most of the space on the wall, a feeling of melancholy passes through me. Somewhere, not too far away, tears begin to build, but I promised myself I wouldn't cry so I hold them back. I remain stuck in the doorway, reliving what my life was like when I called this place home.

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