Return to Virgin River (Virgin River #19)(2)

“And how is that done?” Kaylee had asked. “Do I just lock it up and leave?”

“Our owners usually pack up their personal items. People are always looking for furnished rentals in Newport Beach.”

It didn’t take her long to accept the Templetons’ offer to rent their mountain home, and she had to insist they take the rent money. They were inclined to let her have it because they loved her. Then Lucy hired a crew to pack up and store Kaylee’s items. That alone served many purposes. The thought of a hideaway in the mountains was encouraging and it helped her accomplish the overwhelming task of finally going through her mother’s things, giving away what she didn’t want to keep. The house was beautiful—Meredith had been an interior designer—and with a deep cleaning and some fresh paint and polish, it was show ready. A couple well-known to Lucy’s firm was excited to rent the house for six months as they had grandchildren nearby. Kaylee was happy to let them have it through the Christmas holidays. She could barely stand to think about Christmas. Without her mother, the holidays would be unbearable.

Kaylee was about eight the first time she and Meredith spent several weeks at the mountain house with the Templetons. She thought of Bonnie and Gerald as family, and their kids were like cousins to her. Over the next twenty-six years, Kaylee had visited a few more times. The nearby town was small with hardly any services available. The last time she was there, ten years ago, there was a bar and grill fashioned out of a cabin—that had been a welcome discovery. The place would have no distractions for her and she found herself looking forward to the rest of the summer and fall.

Now Kaylee prayed she could set things right, eke a life out of this tragedy, carry on as Meredith would want her to. The idea had seemed impossible. But as she drove up into the mountains past Fortuna and the trees overwhelmed her, she began to feel hopeful for the first time in a long time. The place was filled with lovely memories that were coming back to her. She had been visualizing the cabin filled with old china, colorful quilts and solid hardwood floors covered with plush area rugs and knew it was the perfect escape. She remembered laughter and good food and long walks. She had fished in the river with Gerald and a couple of the Templeton kids.

She followed the directions as her GPS chirped them out. The road was narrow and shrouded by large trees. Every now and then she’d pass a break in the trees and the sunlight would blast her eyes. Off in the distance, she saw a curl of smoke. She hadn’t thought about the risk of forest fires and hoped that wasn’t anywhere near the Templetons’ house.

She remembered the house was perched on a hillside. As she drove upward, her desire to settle in and write grew and grew. Her writing was usually at its best in winter, when it was cloudy and damp and chilly enough for her to light a fire at six in the morning and hunker down for a long day of writing. Winter in Newport was usually mild and sunny, but when those dark, cloudy winter days came on, Kaylee burrowed in and lost herself in her story. It was August now so it wouldn’t be too long until the weather would start to change. Soon, with the changing of the leaves, she’d be entering months of cozy fireplace days.

Another twenty minutes and half as many miles brought her to the road on which she’d live. There were only a few widely separated homes, all sitting above the road with fairly long drives leading to them. She could see that one was surrounded by fire trucks, the drive blocked, rivers of water soaking the road. A lot of pickup trucks were blocking the road and there, at the end of the drive, was a house, or what was left of one. The firefighters were reeling in their hoses. The house, a two-story, was charred on one side, and it looked like flames had licked the outside from the dormer windows.

“Those poor people,” she said aloud.

The flowers that lined the front walk and what was left of a porch were trampled and drowned; mud flowed in rivers and a gang of men were standing around the front of the house.

“Your destination is on the left,” said the GPS voice.

She slowed to a stop and looked around for another house. But there wasn’t another house. And the number on the mailbox confirmed the bad news. Her getaway, her mountain villa. It was one big smoldering pile of ash.

“Oh shit,” she said.

She pulled over down the road, out of the way of the fire trucks. One was labeled Virgin River Volunteers and the other, bigger truck said Cal Fire. She walked up the drive and headed for that gang of men. Some were wearing yellow turnouts, those thick flame-retardant overalls. Others were in jeans and denim or plaid shirts and she assumed they were just observing.

“What happened?” she asked the first man she came to.

He was kind of grizzled looking, with a stubble of beard, thin hair up top and watery blue eyes. He scratched his chin. “Fire,” he said.

“Obviously! Was anyone hurt?”

“Nah, she’s been sitting empty since after Fourth of July. Heard someone’s gonna be renting it. But I guess that deal’s off...”

“Me,” she said. “I’m renting it. Holy God, what in the world caused it to burn up! I mean, if no one was in it...”

“I guess those Cal Fire guys will help figure that out. Wasn’t no lightning; we got clear skies. We’re just lucky the postman saw smoke and the whole damn hill didn’t take light!”

“Dear God...”

“We coulda been out here for days,” he said, giving his brow a wipe.