She took a key ring out of her pocket and unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. It opened into a studio apartment with a small kitchen off to one side and an equally small bathroom at the back. The front of the apartment was made up of windows that let in plenty of ambient light.
“Just had my last tenant move out a few days ago. If you don’t mind living above a bookstore…”
“I’ll take it.”
“I’m Greta. I’ll be your landlady, then.” She twisted the key off the ring and placed it in Scott’s open palm. “Seventy-five dollars a month. You can bring it to me in the shop when you move in.”
Scott had an urge to hug her, but she was not an easily-hugged woman. Instead, he offered her his hand and said, “I’m Scott McKenzie. Thank you, Greta. Do you want me to fill out an application?”
She shook her head. “No, you pass my eye test. It’s never let me down. Don’t be the first.”
Scott smiled and said, “I’ll go settle up with Mrs. Carvill and be back here soon. Thank you so much.”
If he had been physically able, he might have skipped down the stairs to the street. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he had begun to feel at home.
Scott spent a happy six months living above the bookstore. He loved how light the apartment was, and the fact that the entire building smelled like old books. Waitsfield was a small town—a population of less than two thousand people in 1977—but living right in town still felt a little too close quarters for him. In the fall leaf-peepers and other tourists made the place feel more crowded than it was.
In the early spring of 1978, he was sitting in an old armchair in front of the bank of windows reading a book about the flora and fauna of New England when there was a knock on his door.
He opened the door and said, “Hello, Greta, what’s brought you up from the store?”
Greta Gnagy looked at him shrewdly. “I like you, Scott.”
Her straightforwardness made him laugh a little. “I like you too, Greta!”
“I have someone else down in the shop, looking for a place to live.”
Scott tried to guess where she was going with this line of conversation, but failed.
“They want a little place in town, just like this.”
“You’re not kicking me out, are you?”
“I’d no more kick you out than bite off the end of my nose. But, you mentioned once that you would like to find a place a little ways out of town if you could, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but those places aren’t easy to find. Everyone wants to come to this part of Vermont and live like Thoreau.”
“They’d have to get on I-93 and drive south a few hours to do that, but I understand what you mean.”
Mental note: Don’t make a literary joke with a woman who owns a bookstore.
“Here’s why I’m asking. My brother passed away a few months back.”
“My condolences.”
“Thank you. He is missed. He left his little house out in the woods to me, and I haven’t decided what to do with it. I thought about selling it, but I think I’d need to put too much into fixing it up to make it worth it. So, I’m wondering if you’d like to trade your little place here for that little cabin in the woods.”
“Yes. I’ll take it.”
“Don’t be so hasty. It needs a lot of work.”
“I understand. I’ll take it.”
“It’s only a small place, one bedroom. My brother was old and infirm for quite some time, so he hadn’t been able to maintain it.”
“How many different ways are you going to make me say I’ll take it?”
“Good enough. It’s still got all Henry’s furnishings in it. Would you be willing to move in as-is? If you would, I’ll rent it to you for the same amount I’m renting you this place.”
“Please don’t make me say I’ll take it again. If you’ve got a few boxes in your storeroom, I can be packed and ready to move this evening. Would you be willing to give me a lift in your truck and show me where it is?”
“Come on and get those boxes. I’ll tell the young woman she can have this place tomorrow. I’ll close the shop at five, and give you a ride. You can sleep out there tonight, if you want.”
Greta hadn’t oversold the place. It was truly a bachelor’s house in the woods and it needed work. The whole structure seemed to be canting at a slight angle. The forest was in the process of reclaiming the building for its own, with plants, bushes, and trees encroaching on the walls and porch. The roof was so old that it looked like moss might be the only thing holding it together. Inside, the furniture was old and there was a layer of dust on everything. The door creaked loudly when Greta opened it.
She closed one eye and said, “I didn’t remember it being quite this bad. Are you sure you want it?”
Scott laughed and said, “I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you, Greta. I’ll get to work on it right away.”
Standing in the doorway, Scott could see almost all of it. One room constituted the kitchen, dining room, and living room. There was a small bedroom and bath off the back of the house. It sat in a small clearing ringed by trees. Beyond the sound of birds in the trees and a small brook that ran through the back of the property, it was completely quiet. For Scott, the best feature of the place was a covered front porch with a solid old rocking chair. He could envision many happy nights sitting there, reading and watching the world pass him by.
Chapter Fourteen
Scott cut and stacked enough firewood to get him through a long Vermont winter. He sharpened an old scythe he found in a back shed and cut back the encroaching vegetation. He reclaimed the area around the house as his own.
It’ll never get a spread in a magazine like House Beautiful, but I can’t imagine a more perfect place for me.
His new home was miles out of town, located off an old logging road, so he didn’t get a lot of drive by traffic. When someone did drive by, they were typically looking to get away from the world as well and left him alone. He couldn’t see much use in buying a vehicle, but he did buy a used bicycle at a yard sale. It was equipped with a basket big enough for a few groceries or a stack of books.
The rent that Greta charged him was so cheap that he didn’t need to work—his benefits gave him more than he needed for the simple life he led. He did take odd jobs around town from time to time, mostly to get himself out in polite company so he didn’t become a complete hermit.
When it became obvious to the denizens of Waitsfield that he wasn’t just passing through, he made a number of friends, including Louise, who ran the Waitsfield library. Like much of Waitsfield, the library was small, but it was a completely charming brick building with white columns in the front. He found out what day the out-of-town newspapers arrived and became familiar with the microfiche system. The small town library’s acquisition budget for non-local newspapers wasn’t large, but Scott subscribed to dozens and had them all sent to the library. Soon enough, their collection was the envy of all other library systems in Vermont.
Scott got in the habit of spending most of the day on Tuesdays and Fridays in the library. He designed a process where he scanned every out-of-town newspaper that came in for lurid stories of death and destruction. Each of those stories went into a notebook marked with the year. He knew he couldn’t stop all of them—there wasn’t much he could do about an airplane crash or a tornado touching down. He spent his evenings with a map of the United States, planning out where and how he could make a difference and how he could make it from one to another in time.