The house had probably been built more than a hundred years ago. If it had plumbing problems they wouldn't be her concern if she was only renting. Iva had a little savings, enough for the leave of absence her boss had insisted on, and the thought of having her own place was enough to make her exhilarated.
A house she could decorate. A little house of her own to distract her, at least for a month or so. Iva crossed her fingers, while she walked up the stone path, overgrown with weeds, to the porch. "Please don't insist on a year lease," she pleaded out loud.
The knot in her chest loosened when she saw the porch swing. Iva slid her palm across the chain link that anchored the swing to the eaves.
She could already imagine herself sitting here in the evening reading a novel. A scattering of leaves rattled across the wooden porch slats while a light breeze ruffled the surrounding trees enclosing the property.
The house definitely needed a paint job. And weeding and raking. Maybe she could work out a deal with the owner. There was a decorative knocker on the front door and Iva lifted it and let the tarnished brass ring rap against the plate four times.
While she waited, she turned back toward the road, observing that the nearest neighbor was about three acres to the west. Their lights blazed in the windows beyond the fence lines.
When nobody answered, Iva knocked again, louder this time. The wind picked up, skittering a pile of dry brown leaves left un-raked from the previous autumn. It finally dawned on her that the house
might not currently be inhabited. Cupping her hands against the front windows, she tried to peer past the curtains.
No light seeped through.
Trying the knocker one last time, Iva moved off the porch and looked into the side windows. Not a smidgen of light.
"Okay, either nobody is home because they're out gallivanting in the night life of Vancouver not---or the house is empty."
Back in the front yard, Iva memorized the handwritten phone number on the sign.
The streets were darkening by the time Iva reached home, streetlights popping on one by one. When she entered the house, her parents were watching one of their evening dramas on the television in the den.
"Iva, that you?" her father called.
"Yes, it's me."
"Darling, come here," her mother called next and Iva heard the television paused and muted when she entered the room.
"I'm going to bed, I'm beat. And I need a shower after all that fry slinging."
Her mother gazed at her as if trying to
read her mind. "Are you alright, Iva? You were gone a long time."
"I'm perfectly fine. Just exhausted."
"If you say so." Mrs. Remington was never convinced.
"Goodnight, sweetie," her dad said, allowing her to slip out when he raised the volume again.
"See you bright and early."
Once she was in her room, Iva dialed the phone number to the Victorian. It rang three times before a voice mail message---a woman---came on. "You've reached the offices of Vancouver's Realtors. Please leave your name, phone number and a brief message and we'll return your call as soon as possible."
Iva was jubilant. The house was unoccupied and represented by a rental company. Quickly, she left a message and then jumped in the shower, feeling optimistic for the first time since Saturday's betrayal.
"Fingers crossed the house is furnished," she said aloud.
Using a sleeping bag for the rest of the summer wasn't exactly enticing. Or eating off paper plates. Or having no movie channel to help put her to sleep so she could stop moping over Noah---and throwing darts at his face on her virtual dart board.