The Summer House

A Millcreek Village Story

Phoenix Atwater stared at the blank page waiting for it to apologize. The story was beautiful in her head, but it refused to flow out her fingers. Did Agatha Christie just sit down and write?

Perhaps some tea would help lubricate the word flow. Outside, the water flowed beneath the houseboat. Lanterns around town glowed as the sun set behind the forest.

The floating door knocked. The cosmic circus door. Phoenix considered it. A change in scenery or planet, could help with writing. Plus, she could have something mysterious to share with Jack next time they got together.

She put her shoes on & got it her kayak.

---

She opened the door. The woman at the typewriter didn't look up. She sat at a writing desk positioned in the center of a room. The walls flickered at the edges. Dark wood paneling, then whitewash, then something that suggested a very serious library in a country house. The aroma settled around her like a cloak. Cedar and old paper. A ghost of cherry pipe smoke teased her just as her grandfather did once upon a time.

The typewriter was a solid and shiny black. The woman's fingers danced across it with confidence. She definitely didn't need a pot of tea or a cosmic circus break to write one scene.

Rat-tat-tat. Pause. Rat-tat-tat-tat.

“You've been stuck,” the woman said. An air of a northeastern accent spilled out with her words.

“Yes,” Phoenix said.

“On a scene.”

“On several.”

The woman made a small sound of sympathy. “The trouble with writers who cannot start is the belief that the beginning must be earned. It doesn't. You put someone in a room.” Tat. “You make things difficult for them.” Tat-tat. “You see what they're made of.” She paused in her typing and tilted her head. “There's a kitchen through there. I expect you're thirsty.”

Phoenix looked at the woman's silver hair. The set of her shoulders. The quality of her stillness as her fingers danced over the typewriter keys.

“Are you…”

“Yes,” she said.

Phoenix smiled. Delighted, the door delivered her hero exactly when she needed her. She would learn something about being a mystery writer today. The kitchen door swung open with ease.

The house breathed.

Like a compass finding north. Pieces drifted into places, then recognized. Kitchen cabinets, white-painted wood with ceramic knobs, then the window above the sink with the afternoon light coming through it thick and gold. The floorboards spread themselves out in a familiar pattern. Third one from the refrigerator with its small reliable creak.

Cherry. Butter. Brown sugar at the edge, embraced her like a warm hug when she was….

Her grandmother stood at the counter with her back to the door. Rolling pie crust with the heels of her hands the way she always did… both palms flat, leaning into it with her full weight. It looked like a work out routine. She hummed as she worked. Her hair the glow of chestnuts on a warm day. She wore her blue apron with the pocket. The pocket she kept my lemon candies.

“This is the last one,” Phoenix whispered. Her grandmother would be gone by November.

Under the forsythia, Bilby the baby goat, slept with his knees folded beneath him like a troubled prayer.

Her grandmother turned and smiled. She held out a wooden spoon with a curl of cherry filling on it. “There you are my little fire bird. Taste this, what do you think?”

Phoenix crossed the kitchen in gladly accepted the spoon. Sweet. A little tart. It tasted like love.

“More sugar?” her grandmother asked.

“No,” Phoenix said. Her voice came out strange. “It's perfect.” She fought back tears.

Her grandmother nodded, satisfied. She turned back to the counter. The kitchen settled around them both, warm and accepting.

“Mail came earlier. Postcard from your parents is up on your bed.”

Phoenix jetted for the stairs with the exuberance of a ten year old. They changed under her feet on the fourth step. The carpet runner thinned then disappeared. The banister narrowed in her grip. The walls moved closer.

The smells shifted. Cheap coffee, radiator heat, and Charlie #5. Wow she still loathed that perfume. Three floors up, someone ran water. Through a wall, two voices argued about timing.

“No, no, no.” Phoenix said.

She kept climbing because the stairs left no other option. She said it again, “no no no” almost pleading as she climbed. Please. Stay at Grandma's house. Please just stay.

The house refused to answer. It kept rearranging.

The landing delivered her into a narrow hallway. Three doors, a coat rack bearing a peacoat she hadn't touched since 1987. The bathroom would deliver unreliable hot water. Behind the wall, Donna and Suki reached a provisional ceasefire in the shower schedule negotiation. The smell of pasta drifted under the kitchen door.

Phoenix stood at the end of the hall.

The third door was closed. Behind it, if she opened it, she would find the small bedroom she'd shared with Rene. On the bed, a dress she'd pressed that morning. He'd made a reservation. His voice on the phone that morning had gone formal. She'd known what that evening would bring.

She'd said yes. She loved him. And stayed way to long with a man that only loved himself & the all mighty dollar.

From behind the door, his voice. Low and familiar. The cadence of a man who believed his own comfort was a universal good.

Phoenix took a step back.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “I did that once. Once was enough.”

She turned.

The wall beside her, bare plaster a moment ago, offered a door. Old wood. A small brass plate at eye level with nothing engraved on it yet.

Phoenix opened it and walked through

The office smelled like recycled air and fabreze.

Fluorescent light, steady and indifferent. A waiting room with plastic chairs the color of old mustard. A watercooler doing its slow percussive bloop in the corner.

Behind the reception desk, a long window looking into an inner office. The blinds tilted just enough to let through a stripe of mystery.

Phoenix knew this room.

She'd sat in one of those mustard chairs for two hours. She'd filled out forms. She'd read the brochure three times. She'd thought, very clearly, I have nothing left where I am, and I might as well have nothing left somewhere smaller and possibly more interesting.

The miniaturization program. The wave of the future. A new scale of living. A renewed commitment to the planet's resources. A community of like-minded individuals prepared to pioneer a different kind of future.

She'd signed the contract on page seven.

Phoenix crossed the waiting room and stood at the reception desk. The inner office sat empty. Someone's coffee steamed on the desk. A fur coat hung on the back of a confrence chair. Papers fanned out across the surface in the organized chaos of a person who'd stepped away for just a moment. Phoenix moved quickly.

The contract on top of the stack looked just like hers. Same header. Same seven pages. Same cheerful language about community and sustainability and pioneering.

She turned to page seven.

The signature line was there, familiar, with its little flag tab still attached: Sign here! Below it, in the same font as the rest of the document, were two lines she'd never seen.

She read them twice.

Participant acknowledges that Millcreek Village exists in accordance with the Terms established prior to the Quarantine of [REDACTED].

Participant further acknowledges that questions arising from residency are considered part of the experience.

The signature, it was familiar. The name wasn't, but she recognized the handwriting.

Phoenix set the contract down carefully.

Outside the office window, something shifted in the light. She looked up. Through the glass, Millcreek Village. The wrong stars sparkled in the sky.

Questions arising from residency are considered part of the experience.

This Jack, this is how I get our answers. She looked around for a desk. Paperwork. Filing cabinets. This room wouldn't stay empty long.

Behind her, the office door opened.

Phoenix turned.

She was on her kayak. Floating home toward her blank screen.

Now that she knew that door's rules, she would plan ahead for the next time. Maybe even bring a friend.

---

Written for Bradley Ramsey Pandamonium Prompts.

With Wendy Russell ❣️

Millcreek mystery mentions Jack and I believe I am hinting at, a fur coat, similar handwriting but not the name…. Verdant Butterfly could that be you??? 🤷‍♀️