He took her hand, and nodded. Maybe, one day, they would live here. He could still paint out here, she could do photography… be far from the busy, ugly, crazy city and just be together. Maybe they’d have a dog. Or a cat. A child? Oh God. He was thinking so far ahead as he walked her down the stairs carefully, not wanting her to slip and fall.
But it was such a beautiful dream to think of.
Mrs. Katelynn Maple.
It sounded beautiful.
They approached the front door and Jack opened it with a key on his keychain and pulled the door open. It was all wooden floor boards and boldly painted walls inside. Photographs and paintings hung on the walls, leaving not a lot of space for anything else.
“Let me go put the fire on!” he said as he walked back outside. He returned quickly with two logs of wood, making his way into the lounge and threw them into the fireplace.
Katelynn was busy walking through the house, admiring the pictures and furniture. She would have helped with the fire except Jack had moved too fast, leaving her there blinking after him.
The house was so cozy, despite all the dust from being left alone for so long and probably spiders hanging around, though she didn’t see any at the moment.
“Need any help?” she called over to him, setting her heavy bag down.
“Oh no I’m good!” he was already starting the fire the way his father taught him, before he walked through after her. “Now, I have…” he eased his backpack off carefully. “Some milk, cheese, bread and other stuff. We emptied out everything you see.” he said, opening the fridge to show it was off, and empty. He put the food in. “But there’s a market not fifteen minutes walk away that are always open every day of the year. We can pick up more from there,” he explained before taking her hand. “Let me show you the tour.”
First up was the lounge. Cozy with home sewn blankets and rugs on the sofas and chairs. There’s an old fashion television that looks like it could be twenty years old. Then the office, which was littered with books but most importantly photographs. Albums bulging with photographs from his father’s work. As well as transcripts of his mothers books that had already been printed by now. Another room, this one had paintings all over it, dusty, old paintings. Jack’s art room, it seemed.
“Okay and through here…” he shows her to a bedroom with a king sized bed. It was his parents room. His was on the other side of the house, only a single sized bed. “I think we’ll be best staying in my parents room.” he said, observing the single bed.
Jack Maple 