A small paintbrush glides smoothly across the wooden board. I carefully spread the paint, coating the fence in a fresh shade of green. It’s Wednesday, the middle of summer, and the day is blessing us with glorious sunshine. Perfect timing to wrap up this messy but necessary chore. For a week, Mom has been nagging my younger sister Marina to paint this fence by the road. Marina dodged the task with every excuse in the book, so eventually, the mission landed on my shoulders.
I dip the brush into the thick, pungent paint and rub it onto the wood again. Our cat, Whiskers, appears beside me. He eagerly rubs his head against my elbow, then darts off and presses himself against the freshly painted spot.
“Silly boy, what are you doing?” I grab him by the belly, lift him up, and set him aside, far from the paint. “What, you’ve decided to change your look? Trust me, green isn’t your color.”
The cat starts purring loudly and now nuzzles against my leg. I stroke his short, striped ginger fur and pick up the brush again. The work’s not going anywhere; I’ve got to finish it.
“Talking to the cat again?” a voice calls from behind me.
My best friend Anna, who also happens to be my neighbor from across the street, walks over and squats down in front of me.
“What’s wrong with that? He understands everything. See, he’s not rubbing against the paint anymore.”
She bursts into loud laughter and tucks her unruly curly chestnut hair behind her ears. When it’s loose, she looks like a fluffy dandelion.
“Heard the news?” Anna leans in closer, lowering her voice as if what she’s about to say is top secret, not for prying ears. Her round face is close to mine, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “You won’t need to chat with animals anymore. You’re getting a new neighbor. Someone bought the house across from you.”
I glance back at the abandoned yard next door. No one’s lived there for about five years. It’s completely overgrown, and the paint on the house is peeling off. The last person there was an old lady with her not-so-reliable son. After she passed away, he disappeared, and no one’s seen him in years.
“How do you know?” I ask skeptically.
“My uncle Pete told me,” she says, puffing out her lips, annoyed by my doubt. “He said the new owner came to the village council to sign some papers.” Anna pauses, then breaks into a delighted smile. “And get this—the new owner is young, good-looking, and drives a fancy, expensive car. Word is, he’s a millionaire with his own company.”
She flutters her thick eyelashes dreamily, but I don’t share her enthusiasm.
“You can roll that lip back in,” I cut her excitement short. “Rich and handsome types don’t settle in places like this. If he bought that dump, he’s probably turning it into a storage shed or flipping it. Our new neighbors will likely be giant rats and all sorts of bugs.”
“Wow, you’re such an optimist,” Anna frowns, shaking her curls. “You won’t even let me dream a little.”
“I’m a realist, and I don’t fool myself with fantasies,” I correct her.
I get back to my work. Chatting with Anna won’t get this fence painted. I’d like to finish before sunset.
Anna stands up and stares intently at something behind me. I look at her surprised expression and wide eyes. What’s she seen? It must be something unusual to silence my unstoppable, chatty friend.
“And there’s our prince in a sleek black car,” Anna murmurs, enchanted, her gaze fixed on whatever she’s spotted.
I frown, unsure if she’s teasing me or not. I set the fence aside for a moment and turn to look. Just then, a few yards away, near the rusty gates of the neglected house, an unfamiliar car pulls up. Stunned by the sight, I watch closely to see what happens next. The faint hum of the engine cuts off, and the doors open on both sides. From the driver’s side steps a stranger. Young, wearing dark sunglasses—I can’t quite tell if he’s handsome. He adjusts his short-sleeved white shirt, runs a hand through his messy dark hair, and looks around. For a brief moment, his gaze lands on us, but he acts as if he hasn’t noticed anyone, shuts the door, and turns toward the house. From the passenger side steps our village head, Stepan Ivanovich, a short, mustached man. He gives us a quick nod in greeting and hurries after the stranger.
I’m floored by what I’m seeing, sitting motionless as I watch them fiddle with the lock on the gate, which is probably rusted shut and refusing to budge. Only when they disappear into the overgrown yard do I notice the paint dripping freely from my brush onto my shorts, spreading across my thighs.
“Darn it,” I mutter irritably, trying to wipe off the stubborn green paint from my skin.
“See? I told you,” Anna says in an uncertain tone, sounding a bit shocked herself. “The village head himself brought him here, showing him around. Must be someone important.”
“I think he just can’t open the house doors on his own. Probably rusted locks there too, just like the gate,” I reply.
“Ugh, Irene, you’ve got no imagination,” my friend sighs heavily, turning her gaze back to the abandoned house, which likely now has a new owner.
I don’t share her naive daydreams. If someone like that buys property in a quiet, remote village far from civilization, there’s got to be a reason.
I’m sure something’s brewing here. And who knows if we locals will like it.
I finish painting in the late afternoon, as the sun dips behind the thick treetops, and our new, mysterious neighbor, after inspecting the house, drives off, leaving a thick cloud of dust in his wake. Before getting into his car, he glances at me with curiosity and even takes off his dark sunglasses. I feel his stare and look back. The man smiles as if we’re old acquaintances, gets in his car, and speeds off.
I head inside, exhausted and covered in green splotches. Mom’s busy in the kitchen preparing dinner, while Dad’s lounging on the couch in the living room, watching his favorite crime show on TV. I make a beeline for the bathroom, which Dad renovated a few years ago by insulating and converting the porch. I flick on the light and step up to the mirror. I stare in shock at my reflection. A streak of green paint runs down my right cheek, and even a strand of my light brown hair is glued together with the sticky green mess.
“What a mess. How am I going to scrub this off?” I grumble to myself, recalling the stranger’s smile. Now I get why he looked at me like that. A grubby country girl—quite the sight. Where else would he see something like this?
I scrub at the paint with all my might, but it’s already dried on, and it’s not going to be easy. I curse my carelessness and clumsiness, then blame Anna for distracting me with her chatter and that rich guy for showing up in our neck of the woods for no good reason.
It takes me nearly an hour in the bathroom to get myself somewhat presentable. Wrapped in a bunny-patterned robe, with wet hair cascading over my shoulders, I follow the delicious smells leading me to the kitchen. Everyone’s already seated at the table for dinner, waiting just for me.
“Why’d you take so long? You hogged the bathroom like you’re the only one living here,” my younger sister Marina snaps, glaring at me from across the table.
“I took as long as I needed,” I shoot back sharply.
Normally, it’s her privilege to spend hours in the bathroom, and she can’t stand it when others do the same. Marina pouts her painted lips. Even for dinner, she’s dressed up nice with makeup on.
I sprinkle cheese over my spaghetti and twirl it onto my fork.
“Did you finish painting the fence?” Mom asks.
She’s sitting to my right, heartily digging into her meal. My mom’s been slim her whole life; no matter how much she eats, she never gains a pound. All the local women envy her figure. Marina takes after her—blonde and thin. I’m more like Dad, with an average build, and if I don’t watch my sweets, I can easily pack on extra weight.
“Yeah, I barely got it done before dusk. Didn’t want to leave it for tomorrow,” I say, grabbing a deep bowl of salad and piling a big heap onto my plate. Like Mom, I love a good meal, so I rarely worry about my tendency to gain weight.
“Thanks for listening. I can’t get Marina to do anything,” Mom says, shooting my sister a disapproving look. Marina immediately turns red.
“What about me? I’ve got to prepare for college entrance exams,” she starts to justify herself.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t go out tonight. You’ve got studying to do,” Mom counters.
“Mom, that’s not fair. They’re waiting for me,” Marina whines, scrunching up her pretty face, but Mom just smiles.
Of course, she’ll let her go, and Marina will be out half the night. She graduated high school this year, and her whole crew will scatter to different cities in the fall. I’ve already been through all that and recently got my nursing diploma.
“I saw our new neighbor today,” I mention.
Even my usually quiet Dad reacts to this. He closes the book he’s reading at the table, pushes his gold-rimmed glasses down his nose, and peers at me over them with his gray eyes.
“What neighbor?” he asks curtly, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
I’m surprised they don’t know yet.
“Someone bought old Mrs. Tamara’s house. Some young guy, well-off, looks sharp. When I was painting the fence, he came by to check out his property,” I explain, and everyone listens intently, even pausing their eating for a moment. “Anna saw him too; she was with me at the time.”
“Strange. I haven’t heard a thing,” Dad says, furrowing his graying brows.
Not surprising—news always reaches him last. He’s a long-haul trucker, often away from home, and only catches up when he gets back. He just returned from a run yesterday.
“I heard something about it at the store,” Mom says, squinting as she digs through her memory. “There was talk of buyers for a house in our village. I just didn’t think it’d be that one. It’s so run-down.”
Mom, on the other hand, is always in the loop. She works at the local store, switching shifts with her coworker every week. It’s the perfect spot for gossip. If you don’t know something, just go buy bread, and you’ll hear it all.
“I doubt he’ll live there,” I speculate. “He’s rich. Why would he want that shack?”
“Is he really young?” Marina chimes in, her eyes gleaming with interest. She smooths her shoulder-length blonde hair as if already prepping to meet the stranger.
“Too old for you, that’s for sure,” I dash her hopes.
At seventeen, all she thinks about is boys.
“What, you’ve already got your eye on him?” she sneers at me.
I don’t bother responding to her childish jabs. If we get started, we could bicker all evening.
“What kind of talk is this?” Dad grumbles, clearly annoyed. He hates it when we argue, which happens often. “You’re heading to medical school, and you’ll need brains for that. Don’t fill your head with boys. I’m not paying for failed exams. Take a page from your sister’s book—she studied hard, never needed her grades pulled up.”
“Tom, what do you expect from them? They’re girls,” Mom says calmly, giving him a gentle look. “Their tongues wag without a thought. They understand just fine.”
She’s wise in a womanly way and always knows how to handle him. Probably why our parents hardly ever fight. Dad’s face softens, he pushes his glasses back up, and returns to his book. He’s not one for long conversations.
Marina and I exchange glances. She frowns and lowers her eyes to her bowl. Dad’s strict, and we try not to cross him. Despite being a blonde, Marina’s pretty sharp and graduated high school with good grades. That’s why they’re sending her to college, hoping she’ll become a doctor. Maybe she will. Personally, I only made it as far as nursing school.
We eat the rest of the meal in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. My mind wanders back to our new neighbor. He’s not bad-looking, probably under thirty. “Likely some spoiled son of wealthy parents,” I scoff to myself. Polished and used to having everything handed to him, clueless about real struggles or the weight of life. Why would he want old Mrs. Tamara’s rundown house? I’m betting it won’t last. He’ll soon ditch it and head back to his fancy city apartment. I doubt he can survive a few days out here without all the comforts he’s used to.