A young woman stands on the sidewalk in front of a house. The house is Victorian in style – asymmetrical with steeply sloping rooftops and ornate trim. Three stories tall with a tower on the right side, it would not be a stretch to call it a small castle. The green ivy creeping over the mustard coloured siding, along with the haphazard charm of an overgrown garden, save it from being pretentious or imposing.
Still, the woman glances at the piece of paper in her hand several times, comparing the words there to the plaque beside the navy blue front door. 53 Ganymede Avenue. This is the correct place.
The woman, short and soft in contrast with the sharp angles of the house, reaches for the over-stuffed suitcase standing at her side. She grips the handle tightly while rearranging her shoulder bag with the other hand. These are all her possessions in the world, the only familiar things in a strange new city. She inhales deeply, shoulders rising, and steps forward onto the stone pathway.
The wooden stairs of the wide veranda creak under her feet. When she reaches the blue door she is overwhelmed by a scent. No, by many scents. Cinnamon. Leather. Lavender. Wood smoke. Hyacinth. Peach. And others – too many to identify. They aren't overpowering, but they are unmistakeable.
The woman knocks on the door, and waits.
Her heart pounds in her ears. Her hands tremble, slightly. She licks her lips. Tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
No one answers.
The slam of a wooden gate draws her attention, past the large bay windows bulging from the left side of the house. An older woman emerges. She has grey hair and a stocky, but crooked, body. Her skin is deep brown, a shade lighter than the young woman's own and she stomps through the ivy covering the front yard in purple rain boots. A dish towel droops between her hands, something folded inside of it.
"She locked me out again. Goddamned beast can sleep outside if she thinks she can..." The old woman stops, lifting her head to see the figure waiting on the veranda. She blinks.
"I'm sorry," the younger woman begins, "I'm the new renter, Claire Brown."
The older woman shakes her head and chuckles a little. "Of course. I'm a renter too. Name's Art."
She continues through the yard and up the steps. She is only slightly taller than Claire.
"Sara isn't home right now," she tells her, "Told me you'd be coming. Well, she told me to use the front door and to be polite. Which means it should be open."
"Open?" Claire asks, lost in the labyrinth of Art's words.
"The door."
Claire reaches for the knob, looking back to ask the older woman permission. When she nods, Claire turns and pushes the door open. Art laughs, stepping through first.
The entryway is small and dark. There are a number of shoes by the door along with a large wooden coat rack and umbrella stand. Claire has never seen an umbrella stand before, except maybe in movies. She leaves her suitcase beside it, hurrying to follow Art who is disappearing around a corner past a large wooden staircase.
It is brighter back here, the rear of the house illuminated by sunlight pouring in through ceiling-high windows. There is a glass door leading to an enclosed porch and, beyond that, the back yard. Large potted plants rest on various tables and benches. Herbs hang drying from the ceiling, partially obscuring the view. Claire wants to linger here, to breathe in the complex aroma and sit in one of the comfortable arm chairs looking out onto the lush gardens, but she cannot lose track of Art.
She continues on through a small breakfast nook and then into a kitchen. She halts, frozen in the doorway. The kitchen is a contradiction – old and new, rustic and refined, organized and chaotic. Mismatched mugs hang above a marble countertop. Vases of flowers stand beside serving boards and glass cake trays filled with fruits, muffins, and cookies. The oven is stainless steel and gas – like the one Claire's parents had used – and matches the double fridge. The cupboards are wooden and painted the same deep blue as the front door, with brass handles and accents. Canisters and utensils are displayed on countertops and shelves. Claire struggles to find a single matching set.
YOU ARE READING
53 Ganymede
FantasyWhen a young woman shows up at the doorstep of an old Victorian house, she finds much more than she was looking for. A place to stay. A host of eccentric companions. A new city to explore. Inexplicable coincidences. Impossible possibilities. And ma...
