THE FOYER

Hugging her knees to her chest, Claire watched the bits of debris being swirled away by the churning river. She sat on the riverbank, shaking as she stared into the current. Part of her wanted to disappear into its slate-colored swirls and be carried away like the twigs and leaves and bits of litter, for she knew the river cared nothing for what it carried, and she knew she mattered no more than any other piece of flotsam.

But the greater part of her was terrified. Terrified of the river. Of her helplessness. Of life rushing on, gray and heedless, with her in its grip.

Good thing the rain was over by the time she’d left the shelter last night, drawn by what she what she knew would destroy her but felt helpless to turn from. Her craving had been satisfied (how ridiculously brief the satisfaction!), and the cold rain would come again. At 24, Claire was out — out in the wintery cold with no sign of spring and all her bridges burned. She couldn’t go back to the shelter now. She had no family, and she feared the others like herself, who camped a mile away along the river. She had nothing but an old army jacket, t-shirt, and torn jeans. Even the greasy brown hair that clung to her face seemed like a stranger’s — not her own.

Her shivering increased, and Claire wondered in some detached part of herself if it was the cold or the fear that made her shake.

The unexpected hand on her shoulder should have made her jump, but maybe she was too exhausted. At its light touch she merely froze, and her eyes went wide.

“Hey,” said a woman’s voice.

It was a moment before Claire could master her tensed muscles enough to turn her head and stare at the woman kneeling beside her.

The interloper, who looked to be in her thirties, had high cheekbones, and black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Something in the structure of her face and skin tone made Claire think she was one of the native peoples. She wore a denim shirt (clean), jeans (whole), and a worn but warm-looking cardigan.

The woman’s hand didn’t move from Claire’s shoulder blade, and the warmth of the human touch seemed to seep into Claire. She wanted to scramble away, and she wanted the hand to stay there forever. She just stared at the woman, unmoving.

“Hey,” said the woman again. “It’s OK.”

Her dark brown eyes flickered over Claire, cut to the river and back. “Looks like you’re in a pretty rough spot.” She removed her hand as she turned and sat down on the stiff brown grass. “I’m Lisa. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Claire felt the cold flow back where the warm hand had been. She shook her head no.

“It’s OK,” said Lisa, ignoring Claire’s refusal. “I won’t stay long.”

She sat next to Claire and watched the rushing water for a moment, apparently comfortable in the silence. At length she said,

“I’ve come on behalf of my Landlord to offer you a home.”

Claire turned her stiff neck to look at the woman.

Lisa smiled and nodded.

“What’s the catch?” Claire asked.

“Well,” said Lisa, “you’d have to move in. If that’s a catch.”

“And what do you get?” asked Claire, more than a little skepticism hardening her voice.

Lisa shrugged. “A new neighbor.”

Claire was distracted enough by the conversation that her shivering had slowed a bit. She wanted to tell this weirdo, who didn’t really seem like a weirdo, to shove off. But she was also desperate. Desperate enough to talk a little longer.

“What kind of place is this? A shelter? Clinic?”

Lisa shook her head. “A town. The Landlord owns all the property, but he gives out homes to anyone who wants one. Want one?”

“There’s got to be a catch.”

Lisa shrugged again. “You can come check it out. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

Claire stared back at her, eyes squinted, trying to read the open, friendly face. She’d have to be crazy to fall for a too-good-to-be-true offer like that. But she needed a miracle.

Her thoughts pinged back and forth like the steel ball in a pinball machine. Everyone knew miracles didn’t exist. Unless … unless maybe … they did?

Lisa smiled. “Look, I know it’s hard to believe. And I get it — you’ve got to be careful. If it makes you feel better, you can text a friend or your family and tell them where you’re going. Turn on location on your phone. Give them my license plate number. Bring a friend. Whatever.”

Sure. Like she had any friends. Claire started to shake her head when the rushing brown river drew her eye again. What was the alternative? The camp down the way? She knew what was likely to happen there. The river?

She shivered convulsively.

Trying to look as disinterested as possible, Claire shrugged. “OK, why not?”

She drew a small flip phone out of her pocket. It was a doorstop. Her carrier had cancelled her account two months ago, and the battery was deader than dead. She didn’t even know why she’d kept it.

Claire turned away from Lisa, as if for privacy, but really so she couldn’t see the blank screen. “I’ll text,” she said, flipping it open. She pretended to type in a message and glanced over her shoulder at Lisa. “License plate? And I want to see your driver’s license, too.”

“Sure.” Lisa pulled a slim wallet from her back pocket and handed the license to Claire, who made a show of squinting back and forth between the license and the phone as she pretended to key it in.

She handed it back and asked, “Where are we going?”

“The town’s called Thyra. It’s about two hours east on 15, then another 45 minutes north on state road 5.”

Keeping her shoulders turned from Lisa, Claire pretended to type the info into her phone, then flipped it shut and shoved it quickly into her pocket. She fixed the other woman with what she hoped was a steady gaze.

“You’d better bring me back when I ask, or my family will have the authorities all over you before you can think. They know people.”

“No problem,” said Lisa.

Standing, she held out a hand to Claire, who was secretly grateful for the help because her joints felt like they were half frozen and 100 years old.

Together they walked up the embankment to Lisa’s little red car.

*****

The ride was blessedly quiet except for the music. Claire had never heard the songs before, but Lisa said they were popular in Thyra. The quiet between her and Lisa felt easy, and there was a comfort in just having somewhere warm to relax, if only for a few hours’ drive.

Claire was half drowsing when they turned off the state road onto a country road, rough but straight, that cut through forested land dominated by fir trees.

Claire revived and looked around. She knew she should be creeped out by this drive deep into the countryside, but for some reason she couldn’t explain, she wasn’t. It felt more like a road trip with family. Not that she actually knew what that was like.

The trees gave way to rolling hills, and as they crested a low hill, she saw the town. There was a scattering of maples and elms with a surprising hint of green and one tree near the middle rising tall above the rest looked like it was already in full leaf. Interspersed with the trees were houses and what looked like a main street. Nothing much. But neat and attractive in its simplicity.

In another 10 minutes they passed a bright “Welcome to Thyra” sign, and Lisa slowed as they drove through residential streets.

They wound through several blocks that would have looked like a regular small town — big shade trees with tentative buds, lawns, and a couple of corner stores.

Except for the weird assortment of homes.

All the neighborhoods Claire could remember had a “look” — modern, historic, suburban ranchers — something. But these streets had them all, and more — sitting side by side like they’d been plucked out of a hundred different cities and towns around the world and randomly plopped down here. A tall Victorian, next to a mid-century modern, next to a tiny cracker-box house like something out of the projects only cleaned up. And a… what was that thing called? … a yurt. That was it. A yurt. Next to a 1940s bungalow.

Claire was still looking over her shoulder at the yurt when they turned the corner and came to what looked like the heart of the town, a large square park with a white gazebo in one corner. And at the center was the biggest, tallest tree Claire had ever seen. She knew at once that it was the tree she’d seen from a distance rising above the town. It was gnarled but weirdly beautiful in its ugliness.

The park was clean and welcoming, with a playground in one corner and a duck pond in another corner. Someone had even pitched a small tent in front of a copse of trees near the foot of the big tree.

Claire thought Thyra must be at a lower elevation than the city, because the grass in the park was already greening while everything back in the city had still been brown.

The street along one side of the park was lined with shops, and on another side stood what looked like a library. The other two sides were fronted by houses of the same random styles.

Lisa pulled to the curb in front of the park.

“Here we are.”

Claire climbed out, happy to stretch her legs. She was well warmed from the heater in Lisa’s car, and the cold air didn’t cut through her anymore but felt crisp and refreshing. She was enfolded by the smell of moist air edged with fireplace smoke. There was a family with two small children playing nearby and a few people going about their business in the shops across the street.

“Paul’s gonna meet us here,” said Lisa. “He’ll know where your house is.”

“The houses are all so… random,” said Claire looking around.

“Not random, custom. As different as we are. The Landlord builds each one for the person who lives there. But they’re all just temporary.”

“Temporary?”

“Paul will explain,” said Lisa nodding past Claire’s shoulder. Claire turned to see a lean man with sandy hair receding a little at the temples. He wore a khaki shirt and pants, and as he came toward them, she could see an embroidered patch on his shirt that read, “Paul.”

“Hi.” He held out his hand. “I’m Paul, the maintenance guy here in town.”

Claire nodded silently as she shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Claire,” he said, “Welcome to Thyra.”

Claire jerked back in surprise.

“How did you know my name? And that I’d be coming?” She began to wonder if this had been a huge mistake after all.

“The Landlord sent word,” said Paul, like it was no big deal. “He said he had a house ready for you and we should expect you about noon today.”

The weirdness of this left Claire baffled, but strangely eased her tension. If this was some kind of scam, she felt sure they would have made up a more believable story. These people were just … weird.

“And how did he know my name or when I would show up?” she asked, feeling a little like this was a game now.

But Paul just shrugged. “No idea. He’s never told me how he picks the residents that come to Thyra. Some of us got a letter, some of us got a personal invite like you had from Lisa. However it works, we’re glad you’re here.”

Claire raised her eyebrows and shot them both a look that said this is nuts. They both laughed.

“Yeah, I know,” said Lisa. “It’s pretty crazy. But that’s one of the things I like best about Thyra. Hey, are you hungry? We can grab some lunch over at the Window Seat Café.”

Claire was ravenous, but she was starting to wonder if she should eat anything here or not. Better safe than sorry.

She shook her head. “I want to see this house you’re talking about.”

“Sure,” said Paul. “Your place is actually just on the other side of the park. Let’s go.”

Your place.

The words filled Claire with a shiver of pure unexpected pleasure. Like winning every jackpot on the planet all at the same time.

She had never had a place, not one to call her own. As they strode across the park, she fought with all her inner might to hold on to her skepticism and push away the rising sense of hope she felt tugging at her.

As they passed the duck pond, she caught herself wondering what kind of house it might be. A Victorian? She loved Victorians. A yurt? Probably a yurt, she told herself sternly.

When they reached the far side of the park, Paul led them across the street, jaywalking with impunity.

“Here you go,” he said, as they stepped onto the curb. Claire just stood for a moment taking it in. Beyond a plain but neat yard surrounded by a chain-link fence stood a white single-wide mobile home. There was nothing fancy about it, but it looked new and neat as a pin. Claire felt a whisp of disappointment, but only for an instant. It evaporated as she heard Paul say, “Here’s your place. All ready for you if you want it.”

Claire’s head swirled at the thought. Then she turned to face Paul. “What kind of arrangement is this anyway? There has got to be a catch.”

“No catch. The arrangement is you agree to accept the Landlord as your — well, your Landlord.” He shrugged again and chuckled.

“Of course, like any community, there are covenants, but they’re pretty simple. Respect the Landlord, treat your neighbors decent, help each other out. No stealing or wrecking someone else’s place. You know, all stuff that makes it a nice place you’d want to live.”

“And the rent?” asked Claire. “The exact amount. Including utilities, everything. I get that you’re saying it’s a free move in, but I want to know what kind of debt I’d be getting myself into.”

“None,” said Paul. “Ever. In fact, if you owe anything on a previous place the Landlord will have already taken care of that.”

Claire mustered up her very best 'you must think I’m an idiot' stare. But Paul and Lisa both laughed again.

“I know,” said Paul. “I know. But really. That’s it.”

“And what kind of agreement am I expected to sign?” she asked.

“No paperwork. You just have to take him at his word and move in. The Landlord assumes all the risk.”

“Well, that’s pretty hard to swallow,” said Claire. “But …” She turned back to the neat little house, her heart racing. “… I guess I might as well see the inside. Just out of curiosity.”

Paul opened the gate and handed her a key. “Lead the way.”

Three steps took Claire up to a small porch with two white Adirondack chairs. She fit the key into the lock and opened the door.

When she stepped through the doorway she stood for a moment, forgetting to breathe. It had never occurred to her that it would be furnished.

There was nothing fancy about the place. But there was nothing shabby about it either.

The tan chenille couch still smelled like a furniture showroom, the warm cherry-pattern laminate floors shone, and the thick white rug in front of the sofa was spotless. The place felt utterly familiar though she had never laid eyes on it.

“Go ahead and explore,” said Lisa, who was still standing behind her on the porch.

Without a word, Claire stepped further in and turned in a circle. Across from the couch was a small gas fireplace with a white wood mantle — the kind Claire had seen once in a magazine and always loved. The wall behind the sofa was covered in pine-colored paneling that Claire thought looked a little dated, but the other three walls were soft sea-green that made the whole room feel peaceful. Next to the fireplace was a wingback chair that appeared to be a recliner, with a soft throw draped over the back. A little table stood beside it with a coaster that seemed to be waiting for a mug of coffee.

With a start, Claire looked down at her filthy sneakers. “Should I take my shoes off?” she asked.

“That’s up to you,” said Lisa. “It’s your place.”

There it was again. Your place.

Heart racing faster, Claire slipped off her shoes and padded into the kitchen. Simple wood cabinets in a pine color that matched the paneling, and a small table with three chairs. Tentatively at first, she opened a cupboard. There was a full set of dishes in a beautiful robin’s egg blue. She opened another cupboard and found glasses and bowls.

Now barely aware of Lisa and Paul who had stepped inside and were grinning as they watched her, Claire began pulling open drawers and cupboards. They were filled with everything she could need.

Then Claire opened a tall cupboard and froze. Tears stung her eyes.

Among canned goods and staples of all sorts, a giant box of Choco-Krunch cereal sat on a shelf at eye-level.

She loved Choco-Krunch cereal with a passion. But she was the smallest kid in the house she’d grown up in, and the bigger kids never left her any. She’d always wound up with shredded wheat and no sugar. Claire kept her head turned to the cupboard for a moment until she’d mastered her face.

Then the fridge caught her eye, and she went to it with a swelling anticipation. Sure enough, it was fully stocked. A big foil-covered dish sat on the top shelf with a handwritten note taped to it that said, “Welcome Neighbor” with a smiley face.

“That’s Maggy Lynn’s famous mac-n-cheese,” said Paul. “Fresh made this morning — it’ll spoil you for the boxed stuff forever.”

“I can’t believe …” Claire struggled to find the words. “It’s got … there’s everything!”

She glanced around the kitchen again and raised her eyebrows in surprise. On the wall above the serve-through counter hung an old-fashioned teal colored landline telephone like something from the seventies. Curly cord and big ol’ handset. And not even pushbuttons, but the kind with the wheel and numbers under each hole.

“What on earth?” said Claire. She put the handset to her ear and heard a mechanical buzz.

“Cell coverage isn’t great here,” Paul explained. “You can get a solid Wi-Fi connection at the library, and some data, but it’s kind of hit and miss. So we have our own local phone network here in Thyra. You’ll want to go to the park if you want to get a signal for calls to the city or wherever, but for local calls you’ll get a better connection using that. It only works for numbers within the Thyra city limits, but you can get me, Lisa, your neighbors, get a message to the Landlord — that kind of thing.”

“I’m not sure I even know how to use this kind of phone,” said Claire.

“We’ll show you,” said Lisa. “And there’s a list of numbers on that note sheet taped on the wall.”

Turning from the vintage phone, Claire moved to the back door, curious to see the back yard. But when she grasped the knob, it refused to turn. She looked for a lock, but the knob was completely plain, with no deadbolt or keyhole in sight.

“That door doesn’t open,” said Paul. “The Landlord will get to it eventually. But you can get to the back yard from around the side of the house.”

“But you haven’t even seen the rest of your house yet,” said Lisa, nodding toward the hall at the far end of the living room.

Claire gave the doorknob a final, fruitless tug, then turned and headed down the hall.

Like the kitchen, the small, clean bathroom was stocked with everything she could need, down to toothbrush and floss. When she’d thoroughly explored it, Claire continued down the hall to the only bedroom.

Again, she stopped in the doorway and stared. The full-sized bed was covered in a white bedspread, and a little bedside table held a lamp with a shade covered in a butterfly pattern. She would never have thought of herself as someone who went in for butterflies, but she instantly liked it. And to her amusement, next to the lamp was another old-school landline phone — this one a table-top version in yellow.

A comfy-looking chair and a chest of drawers with a mirror stood against the wall facing the end of the bed.

“Open the closet,” said Lisa.

Claire opened the sliding door to the small closet and found five pairs of shoes and more than a dozen outfits. She shuffled through them finding sweats, jeans, slacks, shorts, sweaters, blouses, all in her size, and two dresses, one in her favorite shade of blue. Taking it out she held it up to herself in front of the mirror on the closet door. It was the right size but looked like it was going to be a little loose.

“I hope you won’t be offended if I say you could stand to put on a few pounds,” said Lisa. “Don’t worry — a few of Maggie Lynn’s mac-n-cheeses and it will fit just right.”

Claire looked up, speechless, but caught herself smiling. She returned the dress to the closet and crossed to the chest of drawers where she was hardly surprised to find pajamas, an assortment of t-shirts (including one that said “Thyra” on the front) and even underwear.

“So what do you think of your house?” Lisa asked.

“I don’t know what to … It can’t be …” Claire trailed off, trying to process it, groping for some shred of skepticism to hang onto.

Lisa said, “How about that lunch at the café while you think about it?”

As if in a dream, Claire followed her back to the living room where Paul was waiting. But before she could say anything, Claire’s eyes fell on a small stand in one corner of the room that she had overlooked before. On top was a turntable flanked by two speakers, and underneath stood what looked like two dozen record albums, still sealed in plastic.

Abandoning any attempt at nonchalance, Claire gasped with delight.

“A record player! I’ve always wanted a record player — they’re so cool!”

There was something about vinyl that held a special fascination for her — the vintage aura, the glossy black surface, the grooves that made her feel like she was actually touching the music. The father of a friend from years ago had owned some old vinyl records and Claire had held one just once and never forgotten it. But to have her own records — much less a player — had seemed wildly out of reach. Claire knelt and flipped through the albums finding some of her favorite music, some she knew the names of but had never heard, and more that were completely new to her.

Standing she picked up an envelope lying on top of the turntable. Her name was written across the top in a strong, clear hand.

Shaking her head in wonder, Claire tore it open and pulled out a white notecard with gold music notes on the front. Inside, she read,

Dear Claire,

This will chase away the silence better than infomercials.

Your Landlord and Friend,

— E.

Claire felt weak in the knees as a jolt of emotion shot down her spine, followed by a warmth like strong arms wrapped around her.

How??? How could he have known? For she had never, ever told anyone.

Silence terrified her.

It was on the carpet of silence that the fear crept in, in the chasm of silence that the guilt and anger and uncertainty chased each other in circles, and in the dark cave of silence that the cravings grew.

She hated silence.

And her favorite (well, second favorite) remedy was infomercials. Whenever she had access to a TV, she hunted through the channels to find them. In infomercials people never argued, never demanded anything, never failed one another or themselves. No heartbreak. Just an endless stream of perky promises of a better, more orderly life. She could finally fall asleep to the sound of mops and blenders being praised.

How had he known?

Claire gasped for breath and tears stained the gold notes on the card in her hand. Never, ever had she been known — and cared for — like this.

*****

Later, at the Window Seat Café, Claire sat across from Paul and Lisa at a booth next to the huge, sunny window that looked out onto the park. She had been peppering them with questions trying to understand why and how she had been given a home, and at the very moment she needed it most. But no matter how she approached it, the answers always came back to the same thing. No reason but the inexplicable kindness and knowledge of the Landlord.

Remembering a comment by Lisa when they’d first arrived, Claire asked, “You said these houses were just temporary. Does that mean I’ll have to move out soon?”

“Eventually,” said Lisa. “But we never know exactly when. Most people stay her for several years.”

“Well, I couldn’t expect the Landlord to give me a free home for the rest of my life,” said Claire, with a shrug.

“Oh, he will,” said Paul. “He’s building us each an even nicer, permanent place in his hometown, Olam. Thyra is just a temporary community where we each live until our permanent home is finished.”

Claire looked at the two with renewed surprise. “What kind of a home?”

“We won’t know until we see them,” said Paul. “All he’s told us is that they are highly customized and make our current homes look like cardboard boxes by comparison.”

Lisa nodded. “In most cases it takes years to build, although some of them are finished sooner and the residents only stay in Thyra for a short time.”

“Have you been to Olam? Is it close to here?”

“Nope, pretty far away I understand,” said Lisa. “And we’re not allowed to see it until we move.”

Seeing Claire’s raised eyebrows, Lisa laughed. “I get it. It sounds fishy. But considering everything the Landlord has given us here, and that we’ve never had reason to distrust him, we’re willing to take him at his word.”

Claire started to protest, but then she remembered her new home — complete with the record player — and closed her mouth.

“So …” said Paul, with raised eyebrows, “am I right in assuming you’re going to stay?”

Claire looked around the café, breathing in the scent of fresh coffee and warm toast. She thought of the stocked pantry. Of the chair by the fireplace. Of gold notes on a white card.

She nodded as a smile slowly spread across her face.

“Yeah, I’m staying.”

*****

“Your garden is coming along so nicely! I can’t wait to see what it looks like by the end of the summer.”

Claire, on hands and knees at the edge of a future flower bed in her yard, looked over her shoulder.

“Oh, hi, Maggie. Thanks!”

It was a sunny Tuesday morning six and a half weeks after Claire had come to Thyra. Maggie Lynn, of the renowned mac and cheese, stood leaning on the fence, a shopping bag over her shoulder. Her straight gray-white hair was pulled back and bunched up in a clip as always. Her familiar smile deepened the creases at the corners of her eyes, and Claire caught a whiff of the heady fragrance Maggie always wore.

Claire sat back on her heels and dusted her hands on her jeans.

“I’m anxious to see how it comes out, too,” she said. “I’ve put in a lot of iris and daffodils. I hope it’s not too early.”

“I’m no expert,” said Maggie. “But I’ve put in iris earlier than this and they’ve come out alright. But you know who is an expert?

Gloria Mensah, who has the flower shop and garden center down on Third Street. If you ever want gardening advice, she’s your gal.”

“I’d love to meet her,” said Claire. “Thyra seemed like such a small place when I got here, but now it seems like there are always bunches of people I haven’t met yet.”

That was one more of the inexplicable oddities of Thyra. Sometimes Claire was sure she’d wandered every street in the town on her morning rambles. Then the very next day she would turn down a street she’d never noticed before and discover a whole new neighborhood.

She was often puzzled by her new hometown but loved even the puzzlement. The unfamiliar peace pushing tendrils into her soul seemed to be growing daily.

Except for that one night, two weeks after she’d moved in.

Her first two weeks had been like a dream. She’d made new friends, explored the town, and been invited to three different homes for dinner, where her hosts shared their own stories of coming to Thyra.

One of the families that invited her, a middle-aged couple with a late-in-life son, lived in the yurt. To Claire’s amusement, she learned that they had no idea why they’d been given a yurt, but in the six years they’d been living there they had settled into the large airy space, which they’d customized with modular walls and curtains, and they had (mostly) come to love it.

She’d also had tea with Emiline, a widow whose beautiful Victorian home stood just across the park from Claire’s single-wide mobile home.

When Claire had commented on the beauty of Emeline’s home, the older woman had enumerated all the problems that came with the upkeep of a house that size and how it was really too much home for her and such a lot of trouble. But she’d given Claire the tour anyway and the two of them had gotten along well enough.

Two weeks in a dream.

But one night at 2 a.m., Claire had awakened in a cold sweat, and she knew the dream was over.

A dream town with her own cozy home — it was just that: a dream. One she didn’t belong in.

She belonged in a nightmare. She felt it in every frantic beat of her heart and every drop of sweat on her skin. She was not one of these people living in a wholesome town and inviting each other to dinner. She belonged to the worst parts of the city. And her craving seized her with a vengeance.

Claire had decided to flee that night without telling anyone, to walk to the highway and hitchhike back to the city. But her conscience had hammered her when she thought of the people she knew … friends? ... worrying about her. Or worse, yet, calling the police. So she had phoned Lisa to tell her she was going.

Lisa had answered groggily on the fourth ring. Claire had kept the conversation brief and hung up without saying goodbye. But before Claire could finish dressing and throwing a few clothes into a bag, Lisa’s car was pulling up in front of her house.

The two women had talked through the night.

Lisa shared parts of her life before coming to Thyra that Claire would never have imagined of her confident, put-together friend.

Yes, friend.

And Claire shared things she had never told anyone.

They lost count of the times one or the other exclaimed, “You too?”

When the first glow of morning crept around the curtains, it had found the two women curled up on opposite ends of the sofa with mugs of coffee in their hands, a dwindling box of tissues, and big bowl of dry Choco-Krunch between them.

Claire’s urge to flee had faded with the night, and a word she’d never experienced had become real.

Home.

Now, on this cool, bright Tuesday that night seemed ages ago.

“I’m headed to the Bits and Bobs shop for some candles and potpourri,” said Maggie. The older woman loved anything perfumed.

“That’s right across from the garden center. Why not come with me, and I’ll introduce you to Gloria?”

“I’m kind of a mess,” said Claire, looking down at her jeans powdered with soil.

“You just look like someone who has been planting a garden. I think Gloria would like that.”

“Well … I just finished with the daffodils, so, why not?” said Claire, standing and brushing at her jeans. “Do you want to come in while I wash my hands?”

Maggie said she’d stay where she was and soak up some vitamin D from the sun.

Claire was back in a few minutes, having scrubbed most of the dirt from under her nails and run a brush through her chestnut hair.

“Let’s cut across the park,” said Maggie. “I want to drop off some pumpkin muffins I baked for Charlie. They’re his favorite.”

“Sure,” said Claire. “I love anything that gives Charlie a smile.”

Charlie — or rather his circumstances — were another one of the oddities of Thyra. But this one bothered Claire deeply.

Charlie lived in the small tent in the park that Claire had spotted on her first day in town.

That was the home the Landlord had given him.

If anyone in the town deserved a better house — a Victorian — a Victorian mansion even — it was Charlie. Charlie’s smile made anyone feel like a better person, a treasured person, just for receiving it.

He was also a brilliant woodcarver, which was truly astonishing considering the neurological disorder that made his legs weak and unsteady and his hands shaky. But Charlie spent painstaking hours in his tent, or in a folding lawn chair out front on warm days, turning any little branch or block of wood into breathtaking renderings of flowers and trees and woodland creatures that looked so real you felt sure they could crawl or hop or fly away at any moment.

Claire thought that if anyone needed a sturdy house with a good bed, it was Charlie.

Countless residents of Thyra had offered Charlie a place in their homes. But Charlie insisted that his “cocoon” as he called it, was his special gift from the Landlord, and he wouldn’t abandon it until the Landlord chose to give him a different home.

“He’s provided everything I need,” Charlie would say. “Warmest sleeping bag a man could want, a nice little camp stove and all my gear. I’m snug as a bug in rug. And no walks to shovel or floors to mop.” And he’d wink.

Nevertheless, Charlie accepted an invitation to stay over in one of the nearby houses whenever the temperature dropped too far below freezing. And he had more invitations to dinner in any given week than there were days in the week.

“In a way,” Charlie had told Claire with his cheeky smile when they’d first met, “Every house in Thyra is my home.”

The leaves were coming in thick, and the grass was tender and green underfoot as Maggie and Claire crossed the park.

“Knock, knock,” Maggie called as they drew near Charlie’s tent.

The tent rustled and the zipper began to open. In a moment they could see Charlie’s unsteady hand pulling on the zipper.

Crawling out of the tent, Charlie sang out, “Maggie Lynn, oh where have you been?”

Then he laughed his infectious, cackling laugh.

“In my kitchen whipping up a batch of fresh pumpkin muffins and some piping hot coffee to go with them,” said Maggie. “That’s where I’ve been.”

She pulled a thermos out of her shopping bag followed by a plastic tub of muffins. She lifted a corner of the lid, and the aroma of pumpkin spice filled the air.

“Better eat them while they’re warm.”

“Don’t mind if I do!” said Charlie. He got to his feet with the help of two canes and made his way to the lawn chair.

“Would you two lovely ladies join me?” he asked.

“Don’t mind if we do,” said Claire, grinning back at him. “If we’ve got time that is.”

“The Bibs and Bobs shop isn’t going anywhere,” said Maggie.

“Then pull up a chair,” said Charlie. “You know your way around my place.”

Maggie reached into Charlie’s tent and pulled out two camp stools that she unfolded for herself and Claire. Then she took some paper cups from her bag, clearly having anticipated the invitation, and filled them with coffee from the thermos.

Together the three enjoyed coffee, muffins and conversation under the green canopy of the massive tree like old friends chatting in a living room.

When she and Maggie dusted the crumbs from their laps and took their leave, Claire walked in silence beside her friend for a while.

“I just don’t understand,” Claire said at last. “Why doesn’t the Landlord give Charlie a better place? It’s so unfair.”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” said Maggie. “That’s a question for the Landlord. But several of our neighbors have asked, and the only reply they’ve gotten is to be reminded that it’s only temporary.”

Then Maggie cast Claire a sidelong glance.

“Don’t let Charlie hear you call it unfair, though,” she warned. “He’ll give you an earful about how unfair it is that the Landlord gives him food and clothes and a free place in Thyra at all, much less in a beautiful park, since the Landlord doesn’t owe him anything. I’ve heard him give that lecture to more than one person who called it unfair. In fact, Charlie says before he moved here, he’d made himself the Landlord’s enemy, so everything the Landlord’s given him is double kindness.”

“Wow,” said Claire, “It’s hard to imagine Charlie being anyone’s enemy.”

Maggie Lynn sighed deeply and was quiet for a moment before answering. “We all have our stories from before the Landlord found us,” she said.

Claire turned to look at her. Maggie just smiled and patted Claire on the arm.

“That’s a story for another day,” she said. “This beautiful morning is for shopping and talking about gardens.”

Maggie stopped at the Bibs and Bobs shop first where she picked out some scented candles and a small bag of lavender potpourri and added them to her bag, thanking the shopkeeper as they left. Claire shook her head, marveling to herself as the shopkeeper waved and thanked them for coming.

That was one of the hardest parts of Thyra for Claire to get used to — never paying for anything. Groceries, hardware, socks, whatever she needed was available in the shops, but there wasn’t a cash register in sight.

Yet, people worked hard at jobs like anywhere else. And they shopped sensibly, taking just what they could use, even to small luxuries like scented candles or a lawn ornament.

Claire knew that if this system was tried anywhere else all the shops would be emptied in a heartbeat, even if only by a handful of people. And a lot of people would spend the rest of their lives sitting in front of a TV instead of getting up in the morning to go unload trucks or run an office or do all the other jobs.

But in Thyra, people who owed nothing for their daily living still worked as hard as anywhere. Harder maybe, Claire thought.

“Have you been to Gloria’s Garden Center yet?” asked Maggie, interrupting Claire’s ponderings.

“No, I’ve looked in the window a couple of times on my morning walks, but I was out early, and they weren’t open yet,” said Claire. “I picked up my garden tools and bulbs at the hardware store.”

The two were jaywalking, like everyone else in town, toward the storefront across the street. It had a bright yellow sign over the door and whirligigs in pots spun in the breeze. Behind the building rose the peaked glass roof of a large greenhouse and an open lot beside the building was filled with potted trees and landscaping materials.

A small bell chimed as Maggie opened the door. Claire followed her friend into the bright shop and the cool sweet scent of real flowers washed over her.

“Good morning!”

The hardy welcome boomed from the woman behind the counter who was repotting a plant. She looked to be in her 40s. Her round face and high cheekbones were framed by loose jet curls, and her maple brown skin glowed with health. Her smile revealed a gap between her front teeth that somehow made her even lovelier.

“Hello, Gloria,” said Maggie. “I’ve brought a fellow flower-lover to meet you. This is Claire. She has some questions about spring planting.”

Claire held out her hand, but instead of shaking it Gloria took it in both her hands and squeezed.

“Wonderful!” she declared. Coming around the counter she pulled two tall wrought-iron chairs close to the counter and said, “Sit down, and let’s talk spring gardening.”

Before long the conversation ranged far beyond daffodils, and Claire was sharing her whole vision for her garden, sketching it out on a piece of scrap paper. She caught herself talking louder than necessary as Gloria encouraged her, and her excitement for her dream garden mounted.

“It sounds beautiful!” said Gloria. “But you need to be careful about what you plant on that side of the yard. It won’t get much sun most of the year.”

“Would Astilibe work?” asked Claire.

Gloria sat back and looked at Claire with surprise.

“Perfect,” she said. “You know a lot about plants. Where did you learn?”

Claire smiled, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“Oh, not really. I love them but I was never trained or anything. I lived with a family for a while that had a big garden. I liked being out there better than with the other kids, and their grandfather taught me a few things. After I left there, I just read a lot about gardens. Kind of dreaming about maybe having one someday.”

Then her smile broadened. “I can’t believe I have one now.”

Gloria gave Claire an appraising stare and tapped the pencil she was holding against her pursed lips.

“You know,” she said, “I really need someone to help out here. I have some guys that come in and water and clean up around the garden center a couple days a week. But I need someone to help out with customers, making recommendations, that sort of thing. Especially in the mornings — I’d love to be able to open an hour earlier. Are you interested?”

Claire’s eyes grew wide. “You would trust me with that? I mean what if I didn’t know the answers to questions?”

“Nobody knows all the answers,” said Gloria. “And that’s how you learn. You’re a learner. And I like that.”

Half an hour later Claire left with a bag of fertilizer and the best job she’d ever had in her life, though, like all the jobs in Thyra, it came with no salary. She said goodbye to Maggie, thanking her profusely, and headed to Lisa’s house to tell her the good news.

*****

That night Claire fell asleep to the sound of rain pattering on the roof and dreamed of greenhouses. And she woke in the night to a terrific crash. She jerked up and fumbled for the light. She sat still for a moment in the lamplight, eyes wide as her curtains glowed with a flash of lightning followed by another crash of thunder.

Claire’s heart hammered, but as she looked around her snug bedroom in the soft glow of the butterfly lamp, her pulse slowly returned to normal.

Just a thunderstorm, nothing to worry about.

Laying back on the pillow Claire turned off the light and lay watching the flashes and counting the seconds till the thunder. The lightning and thunder soon passed, giving way to a rhythmic drumming of rain on the roof, and Claire went back to sleep.

When she woke early the next morning the sun was streaming in around the curtains. Claire dressed quickly and gulped down a bowl of Choco-Krunch. She was going to head to the library and do all the research she could on plants and gardening to prep for her first day on the job the following week.

But when she opened the front door, she received a leafy slap in the face. Claire staggered back, shaken.

The thin branch that had hit her stuck through the open door bouncing up and down. It was attached to a much thicker branch propped diagonally with the thinner topside resting on her porch and the thicker end disappearing out of sight toward the roof.

“What the…?” It took Claire a moment to make sense of the weird scene. “Oh my word. That wasn’t just thunder that woke me up.

A tree branch fell on my house!”

She fought her way through a jungle of damp leaves and pushed against the heavy branch, shifting it a few more inches forward so she could wriggle out around it and onto the porch. Wood chips and bits of bark littered the yard and one of the Adirondack chairs had a broken arm.

In the yard, the silver maple still stood, but looked lopsided with the big, graceful bough that had made up a third of its bulk torn away leaving an ugly, open wound.

Claire looked up to where the branch lay against the house and groaned. The gutter was smashed in, and a big patch of shingles were peeled off.

Claire ran her hands through her hair.

“What a mess,” she murmured. “I don’t even know where to start.”

The library forgotten, Claire walked around the house looking for any other damage and was relieved to find none. Then she picked her way back through the foliage into her house, thinking what a good thing it was that her front door swung inward. With a back door that still refused to open, she would have had to crawl out a window if the front door had been pinned shut.

Claire went to the kitchen phone and ran her finger down the list of numbers taped to the wall. She’d memorized Lisa’s and Maggie’s and a couple of others, but not Paul’s.

She was almost used to the quirky circular dial. Almost, but not quite. It usually made her grin when she used it, but now she was too agitated to think about it.

“Hello?” came the voice of the town maintenance manager.

It was also weird to Claire that with no caller ID on this antique phone no one ever knew who was calling.

“Hi, Paul? This is Claire. I have a problem and I don’t know what to do. A big branch broke off the maple in my yard and hit my house. It’s hanging across my porch right now … Yes, I can get out, but just barely. And it damaged the roof, but I can’t tell how bad.”

Paul told her that several houses around town had suffered damage from the storm and that he’d be over as soon as he could to take a look, but it might be a few hours.

He asked if she felt there were any safety issues and she told him she didn’t think so.

Claire hung up, ran her hands through her hair again, and paced back and forth three times across her kitchen.

It would be fine, she told herself. It would be fine. This kind of thing happens. Still, she felt rattled. It was her house — her beautiful house. Well, some would call it a trailer. But it was hers. Her house. And it was damaged.

Irrationally, it had never occurred to her that this plain but lovely gift from the Landlord could be … damaged. Wounded, felt more like the right word.

Tears stung her eyes for a moment.

Then she wiped her eyes, squared her shoulders, and grabbed a broom from the closet to tackle the woodchips on the porch.

As she headed for the porch, she heard a man’s voice outside.

“Claire? You at home there in this jungle?”

Claire opened the door as far as it would go and peered through the branches.

“Mr. Patel!”

Her middle-aged neighbor from the house on the corner stood at the bottom of her steps holding a long pair of loppers and a small handsaw.

“Looks like you could use some help,” he said.

“Wow, yes! I don’t even know where to start. Paul said he couldn’t make it over till later. Did the Landlord send you?”

Her neighbor had propped the saw against the porch rail and was already attacking the small branches with the loppers.

“I guess so, in a manner of speaking,” he answered, grinning over his should at her. “He made us neighbors and we could see the mess you were in. I suppose that’s call enough.”

“Well, thank you,” said Claire.

He handed her the loppers. “Why don’t you start paring down the small stuff with these while I get to work with the saw.”

Before long, three more neighbors showed up, one with a chainsaw, and a few minutes later, Charlie came into the yard leaning on his twin canes.

“Got a seat and a rake and some bags?” he asked. “I can’t lop, but I can bag.”

Two of the men carried the one undamaged Adirondak chair from the porch and Claire fetched a box of plastic trash bags and a rake.

Charlie eased himself into the chair.

“Toss the baggable stuff this way,” he said and started pulling scraps of bark and twigs toward himself with the rake and stuffing them into the bag.

As he worked, he set aside a little pile of wood scraps and branches that he declared “nice ones” for future woodcarving.

Claire’s neighbor Emiline came by walking her dog and clucked her tongue in dismay at the sight of Claire’s home.

“What a mess,” she said. “I really don’t know why the Landlord would leave such a big old tree so close to a house. That branch could have killed someone.”

“Good thing it fell in the middle of the night,” Claire replied. “I kind of love the big tree to tell you the truth, but I supposed that’s one of the hazards that comes with them. It threw me for a loop this morning, but this crew is making the job seem manageable.”

Emiline shook her head and clucked her tongue again in reply. “Well, you all be careful,” she said as she moved on.

With five of them working together the mess was cleared and the branch cut into manageable chunks in less time than Claire could have imagined. As soon as her door was free, Claire invited everyone in for lemonade and snacks.

By the time Paul arrived with a roofer later that day the place looked almost normal except for the damaged roof and gutter. Mr. Patel had even carried the broken Adirondak chair back to his garage to repair.

“I’ve never lived anywhere like this,” Claire told Paul. “It’s amazing.”

“Well, it’s not that we don’t have our share of squabbles and even downright meanness from time to time, much as the Landlord hates it,” said Paul. “But Thyrians are at their best when there’s trouble.”

The longer Claire lived in Thyra, the more she came to know the truth of Paul’s words.

*****

By the time the fall came around, Claire’s garden was becoming established and showing signs of thriving. She had also settled well into her work at Gloria’s Garden Center. She loved learning from Gloria and the customers, and she was as much at home in the greenhouse and shop as in her own house.

Paul and the Landlord had seen to it that the damage from the fallen tree had been quickly repaired and her humble but increasingly beloved house looked good as new. The landscape was altered by the loss of the big branch, but the tree healed, and Claire could even acknowledge the advantage of more sunlight to her front flowerbeds.

Since that storm she hadn’t needed to call on Paul much. Just once for a clogged sink (having never had a disposal before, she had overestimated its abilities), another time to ask him to ask the Landlord if she could have a hand-held showerhead, and once more to ask him if the Landlord would allow her to take out a large but troublesome shrub.

Now, with the nights growing colder and the first hints of the coming winter in the scent of the air, Claire’s thoughts turned to the inside of her house. Having lived in it for the better part of a year, Claire had started dreaming of a few small changes. So on a

Tuesday before leaving for work she dialed Paul.

“Do you have a minute for me to run an idea by you?” she asked.

“Fire away.”

“Well, I was wondering if you could ask the Landlord if he would consider having some under-counter lighting installed in my kitchen, and maybe a hanging light over the table. The overhead light isn’t too good for working at the counter because I’m working in my own shadow. And the table could use a little more light, especially when I have company over. Of course, those aren’t necessary, but it would be nice. What do you think of the idea?

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” said Paul. “As long as you don’t have all the lights on at once while you run the disposal and the microwave at the same time. You might trip a breaker with the extra load.”

“Oh, good to know,” said Claire. “So, would you mind talking to the Landlord about it?”

“Not a bit,” said Paul. “But, you know, you don’t have to go through me. You could just ask him yourself.”

Claire was silent for so long, that Paul said, “Hello?”

“Really?” she said. “I can call the Landlord directly? That seems so … I don’t know. I mean, he has this whole town to worry about and the other community he’s building, too. He’s got to be really busy. Would he really want someone like me just calling him up out of the blue? About something so small?”

Paul laughed. “He loves it when his tenants call. Even for no reason. He’s got a twenty-four seven number set up just for that. Call and leave a message about anything you want. He listens to them all personally, though he usually responds by letter. It’s just his way.”

“Wow, OK, I’ll give him a call. Thanks, Paul.”

But it took Claire another week and a conversation with Lisa, who confirmed everything Paul said, before Claire could work up the courage to call.

She chose a Saturday evening. Claire listened to one of her favorite records to calm her nerves and remind her of the kindness of the Landlord before picking up the phone and dialing. Leaning on her kitchen serve-through and winding the curly phone cord around her finger, she listened to a short ring on the other end.

She had expected several rings, but it connected immediately.

“You’ve reached your Landlord,” said a deep, soft voice. “Talk to me.”

The message might have sounded terse, but the voice was warm and welcoming, and it was spoken as an invitation rather than a command. A soft chime sounded.

Claire stiffened and stood mute for a few seconds, then stammered. “Hi. Hi … this is Claire. Claire from 40 Park Street. In Thyra. I’m sorry to bother you. I just had a question about my kitchen. I hope it’s OK that I called, since it’s not anything urgent. But I would like to install … well, I’d have to ask Paul or someone to help because I don’t know how … but I’d like to have some under the cabinet lighting installed under the cabinets, well I guess that’s where they would go, haha ... um, for a little more light when I’m working at the counter. And it would be nice to have a light over the table, too. I love to have people over and cook for them. I’m not very good at it but I’m getting better, and a hanging light at the table would be nice since it’s kind of dark there at night. Anyway, Paul said it sounded OK, so I wanted to ask you if it’s OK. But if not, I totally understand because the light that’s there is fine, really, and I don’t want to cause any trouble. So … anyway. Um, well, thank you. I mean, thank you either way. For listening, I’m mean. Thanks, bye.”

She hung the receiver on its hook with a jerk like dropping hot metal, then grimaced and put her face in her hands.

“That could not have sounded any stupider,” she said out loud.

Sighing, Claire put on another record and got ready for bed.

Early the next morning she was getting out of the shower when she heard two rapid knocks on the door and a voice call, “Delivery!”

“Just a minute!” Claire shouted from the bathroom door. She dried off quickly, wrapped a towel around her hair and put on her bathrobe. But when she opened the door a crack, there was no one there. Just a large box on the porch.

There was no address label, just “Claire” written across the top in a familiar hand.

Her heart beating a little faster, she pulled the box inside and opened it.

Packed neatly inside were boxes containing under-counter strip lighting and another with a pendant light. The pendant light wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind — plainer and smaller than the one she’d admired at the hardware store — but it would work fine over the table.

At the bottom of the box was a folded note.

Just ask. I want you to enjoy completely. I like that you’re being hospitable.

Your Landlord and Friend,

— E.

How on earth? Claire had left the message late the night before and she was pretty sure the hardware store wasn’t even open on Sunday. The Landlord must have his own warehouse. But the speed of the answer made her head spin.

She was standing at the kitchen serve-through with the open box, and she jumped when the phone next to her rang.

She pressed her hand to her pounding heart as she answered.

“Hi Claire, Paul,” said the town maintenance manager. “Would it be OK if I have Jeff the electrician come over tomorrow afternoon to install your new light fixtures?”

“Hi Paul. Sure, but how could you …”

“Got a message from the Landlord this morning,” he said. “Glad you called him.”

Paul said he would let the electrician in if Claire didn’t mind, since she would be at work.

When she came home the next day Jeff was just climbing down from the ladder having finished installing the pendant light over her kitchen table.

“You picked a good model,” he told Claire. “A lot of people pick lights that are too big for their table and they’re always banging their heads on them when they lean over to put a dish on the table. Plus the light can be too much for the space and they wind up unscrewing half the bulbs. I’ve swapped out more than one of those mistakes.”

Claire thought of the large decorative fixture she’d been eyeing at the hardware store and shook her head.

“Someone smarter than me picked it out,” she said.

The electrician wasn’t the only one that approved of Claire’s new lighting.

“Now that’s some good light!” said Charlie, as he sat at her table after supper on a late October night carving a small wooden pumpkin still sitting in its patch of impossibly delicate vines and leaves. “Days are so short now, I don’t get much good carving time in. Seems like my eyes aren’t what they used to be either,” he added.

“You’re welcome to come work at my table time any time you like,” said Claire, wiping the last of the dishes and putting them in the cupboard. “But I’m sorry to hear your eyes are giving you trouble.”

“Aww, they still do the job,” said Charlie. “I’m thankful to see the sun come up every day. Not everyone can, you know.”

“Very true,” Claire agreed.

When Charlie got up to leave an hour later, she noticed that his legs seemed even less steady than usual.

He left the pumpkin sitting in the middle of her table looking for all the world like it had just sprouted from the oak tabletop.

“A little something for my gardening friend,” said Charlie, as he made his way carefully down her steps.

Emilia commented on Claire’s new lighting too, when she came for supper the following week.

“Much better!” she said, approvingly. “The Landlord should have thought of that before you moved in.”

“I kind of think he was waiting for me to call and ask,” said Claire. “His note said he was pleased that I’d asked.”

“Well, it’s a sensible choice,” replied her neighbor. “That huge chandelier in my dining room is such a mess to dust, I can’t even tell you.”

Claire, who had always admired the chandelier, said, “I can imagine.”

After Emilia went home, Claire thought about the Landlord’s note, and how he’d told her he was glad she’d asked. And Paul said the Landlord liked it when his tenants called — for any reason at all. Charlie had been weighing heavy on her mind, and now she wondered if maybe she could leave a message for the Landlord about her concerns.

Once the thought occurred to her, it didn’t seem as daunting as her first call had seemed.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number on the sheet.

“You’ve reached your Landlord. Talk to me.”

“Hi, sir, um, this is Claire again. From 40 Park Street. Thank you for the lights in the kitchen. They’re wonderful. Everyone likes them. I’m sorry, I should have called earlier to say thanks. I, um, I also wanted to talk to you about Charlie. Charlie who lives in the park. I don’t know if you know, but I think his condition is getting worse. He said he’s been having trouble with his eyes. He didn’t complain or anything, he just mentioned it. And I think his legs are getting weaker. So, I was wondering … could you give Charlie a better house? He always says how he’s fine with his tent, but I don’t think it’s good for him, sleeping out in the weather and all. I know he has the heater and the foam mattress. But please, is there any way you could give him somewhere more permanent? Um, thanks for listening.”

She started to hang up then returned the receiver to her ear.

“Oh, I just remembered. The Patels’ garage door keeps malfunctioning, and no one seems to be able to figure it out. Paul’s worked on it, and Jeff the electrician. But it keeps breaking again. They’re kind of afraid it’s going to come down on someone’s head someday. I’m sorry, you probably know all about it from Paul, but anyway, I just thought I’d mention it, as long as I’m calling. Thanks again.”

The next morning as Claire passed the Patel’s house on her way to the store, she saw Mr. Patel standing in his driveway watching a man on a ladder working on his garage door opener.

“The Landlord sent over an expert,” said Mr. Patel, sounding pleased. “Just showed up this morning out of the blue!”

Claire’s heart jumped in her chest. He’d acted on her request on behalf of the Patels. Surely this meant that the Landlord would give Charlie a new house, too.

That afternoon, Claire found a letter in her mailbox addressed simply to “Claire.”

Dear Claire,

Yes, rest assured that I know all about Charlie’s situation. He is very important to me. But I can’t tell you how happy I am that you called on his behalf. I love it when my tenants reach out to me on behalf of others. And I love it when they say, “thank you,” like you did.

Your Landlord and Friend,

— E.

She felt her face grow warm with pleasure as she read the letter. The kind words of the Landlord and the thought of Charlie getting a snug, warm house filled her with joy.

But as the weeks passed, Charlie stayed on in his little tent in the park, and Claire watched as he grew thinner.

As her neighbor Emelia complained about the chore of shoveling her walks when it snowed and how her front sitting room was always too cool in the winter, Charlie insisted on staying in the home the Landlord had given him, and always talked of the Landlord’s generosity to him.

Claire, like several of her neighbors, did what she could for him. She had him in for dinner often and brought him hot breakfasts and coffee most mornings. Lisa had taught Claire how to make pumpkin flapjacks, and she had gotten pretty good at it. She could also prepare eggs just the way Charlie liked them, though he would never have complained however she cooked them.

One November night Claire stood in front of Charlie’s tent in a driving sleet with hands on her hips and hair whipping in the wind and refused to leave until Charlie came home with her to spend the night on her couch. He’d insisted it wasn’t that bad, but she wasn’t going to budge, and he finally came, with her half supporting him against the wind.

Claire felt confused and distracted every time she thought of Charlie. Why had the Landlord been so quick to take care of her neighbors’ garage door, while leaving Charlie to languish in his thin tent?

She talked to Lisa about it as they sat working a jigsaw puzzle at the table in front of the fireplace in Lisa’s beautiful oak-paneled dining room.

“I know,” said Lisa. “I don’t get it either. I trust the Landlord, but I definitely don’t understand what he’s doing sometimes. I guess all we can do is keep helping Charlie as much as we can and keep asking the Landlord.”

Claire agreed and decided to call again when she got home that evening.

“Hi, this is Claire. I’m calling about Charlie again. I’m sorry to pester you. I’m so glad you know about his situation and that you’re planning on helping him, but I was wondering if it could be soon? He’s really not looking good. The doctor says he’s losing muscle, and the medications aren’t helping him as much. You probably know about that, but please hurry with his house. He really, really needs it. And thanks. Thanks for caring about him. And thanks for my house, too. I don’t know why you gave me such a nice place, but I appreciate it. I just want Charlie to be as warm and comfortable as I am. OK. Bye.”

Claire no longer cringed when she hung up the phone even though she was sure she sounded as rambling and awkward as ever.

Something about the warmth of the voice that answered and the letters he sent made her feel like she could speak freely.

She never forgot she was speaking to her Landlord, but she was beginning to really think of him as a friend, too.

The letter came the next morning.

Dear Claire,

Call often. Call always — about anything. I love to hear from you. And don’t worry. I love Charlie. His new home is almost finished.

Your Landlord and Friend,

— E.

Charlie made it through the winter, often in the guest rooms and couches of his neighbors. As spring came, he was growing impossibly thin and had traded in his canes for a wheelchair.

*****

When she wasn’t at work or helping Charlie, Claire spent much of her time with Lisa. They watched movies from the library on a DVD player the Landlord had given Lisa or hung out at Claire’s, listening to records.

Lisa liked to walk as much as Claire did, and as the weather grew warmer the two friends took hours-long rambles through the streets of Thyra, usually stopping somewhere for coffee, or hiking through the rolling hills and woodlands east of town.

“I’ll never understand that,” said Lisa one morning as they walked through a shady neighborhood.

She nodded at a house with one boarded up window and a yard overgrown with weeds. “The Landlord gives us all a nice place to live. Why would someone just let it sit and go to ruin?”

“Or worse yet burn it down,” said Claire, referring to a house fire the previous summer started by a foolish neighbor making illegal fireworks in his garage despite repeated warnings from the Landlord. More than half the house had burned, and the neighboring houses were smoke damaged before the firefighters could put out the blaze. Now the contrite man, along with his wife and two children, were cramped into the kitchen and a single bedroom — all that remained of their three-bedroom house.

Claire and Lisa walked on in silence for a while thinking it over.

“I suppose,” said Claire, slowly, “that even though the Landlord’s gift lets us all have a new start, some of us bring old habits with us to Thyra.

Lisa nodded. “Maybe the difference is how much we hang onto those habits or turn loose of them.”

“Well, there’s certainly no excuse.” said Claire. “Whoever lives in that house should be ashamed. It’s no way to treat what the Landlord has given them.”

The friends walked on, their conversation turning to other topics, as they enjoyed the morning.

When Claire got home, a little before noon, she stopped to check her mailbox. She had given up trying to figure out a pattern to mail deliveries in Thyra, which seemed to arrive any time of day and sometimes more than once a day, so she was in the habit of checking her mailbox any time she passed it.

Her heart gave a little leap as she saw the envelope addressed with only her name.

Flopping down in one of the Adirondack chairs she tore it open with anticipation. But when she read the message, her chest tightened with dismay.

Dear Claire,

You’ve thanked me for giving you a home even when you didn’t deserve it. But the best way you can thank me is by imitating me. Show others kindness when you don’t think they deserve it. Instead of criticizing your neighbors, help them. Think better of your neighbors than you think of yourself. You’ve received a gift you didn’t earn. So give freely to others.

Your Landlord and Friend,

— E.

Claire felt her cheeks growing hot with shame as tears filled her eyes.

The gentle rebuke by the Landlord stung, most of all because she knew it was deserved. She was guilty of criticizing, even condemning, her fellow citizen of Thyra. She slipped the note back in the envelope and went inside.

Her lovely home looked suddenly dull and shabby. She knew nothing had changed except her relationship with the Landlord, which now seemed out of joint.

Claire paced aimlessly for a few minutes, her stomach tight. She was angry with herself and felt a sense of loss at having damaged the warm report with that mysterious person she had come to think of as a friend. She wondered if she had ruined it forever.

Then her jumbled thoughts began to calm, and a new thought occurred to her.

Claire pulled the note from the envelope and looked at the signature again.

Your Landlord and Friend.

Friend. He had signed it just the same, and it felt like more than a formality.

Biting her lip, Claire reread the message.

With the word “friend” in mind, she saw it in a new light. The rebuke was still there, but it was the rebuke of a friend, sent in kindness. The Landlord had taken time to write to her and tell her what she needed to hear, not out of harshness but out of care for her. Pointing out a weed, so to speak, so she could pull it up before it spread.

The next Saturday morning found Claire ringing the doorbell of the house with the weed-infested yard.

“Hi,” she said when a harried-looking woman with a baby on her hip and a toddler at her knee answered the door. “I’m Claire. I live over by the park. This might sound weird, but I love gardening and I noticed that your yard is really shady. I’ve been wanting to try my hand at some shade gardening, but I get quite a bit of direct sun in my yard. Would you consider letting me do a little gardening in your yard?”

*****

It was an especially beautiful morning in early June when Claire walked to Lisa’s house a few blocks away to meet for their regular Sunday walk. The sounds of heavy machinery grew louder as she neared Lisa’s street, and Claire assumed they were building a house. She wondered who Lisa’s new neighbor would be and what kind of house they would get.

But as she turned the corner she stopped and stood perfectly still. She had no idea what was happening, but her heart started drumming with alarm.

Several pieces of heavy equipment surrounded Lisa’s little bungalow and workmen were methodically tearing down the house.

Lisa was nowhere in sight.

Claire gulped in air, trying to replace the oxygen that seemed to have been punched out of her lungs.

Then she broke into a run.

“What’s going on?” she demanded of the first workman she came to. “Where’s Lisa?”

He turned to Claire with calm but serious eyes.

“Moved,” he said, gently. “The Landlord finished her place in Olam yesterday. She’s your friend?”

“Yes!” cried Claire, much louder than she’d intended. “My best friend! Why are you tearing down her house?”

Claire had loved that house. She’d spent so many hours in that house, cooking with Lisa in the kitchen, doing puzzles at the beautiful old dining table, talking about everything and nothing.

“The Landlord always has a house torn down after the resident moves to Olam,” said the workman. “Every home is custom-built, so he never gives a house to someone it wasn’t built for. And remember, they’re only temporary.”

Claire stood watching the work as a mounting nausea seized her. Just when she thought she was going to be sick, she was jolted out of the sensation by a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, Claire, I just heard! I was hoping to tell you myself, but when I went to your house, I saw you were gone.”

It was Maggie Lynn. She pulled Claire into a warm embrace. And Claire dissolved into wracking sobs on Maggie’s shoulder.

“Why didn’t she say goodbye?” Claire gasped when she could finally speak.

Maggie pulled back and brushed the damp hair from Claire’s eyes.

“We don’t always get enough notice,” said Maggie. “Sometimes, but often not. When our new home is ready, we move right away.”

“But Lisa was my best friend!” said Claire, her voice high and strange to herself.

“Is your best friend,” Maggie corrected. “Don’t talk as if Lisa’s dead, dear. You’ll be living in the same town again when your place in Olam is ready. This is only temporary.”

The realization struck Claire like a thunderbolt of joy so sudden it was almost painful.

Seeing the roof pulled off her friend’s familiar house and the walls pulled down, it had felt like a permanent loss. She had really thought of Lisa as gone forever. And she had honestly forgotten for a moment that she would be moving, too, at some point.

Yet with the joy of that knowledge came the thought of the time between — the untold time when Claire would still be living in Thyra without her friend. Who would she go walking with? Who would she call up for no reason at all and laugh with until their stomachs hurt?

Claire already knew that there was no phone connection and no mail service to the new community.

Maggie, with an arm around Claire’s shoulders, felt like a pillar, and Claire leaned into her again, tearless now but weak.

“I’d seen other houses being taken down,” Claire said, her throat thick. “But I just thought it was — I don’t know — renovations? I guess I realized the people had moved, but I never knew any of them personally until now.”

Maggie squeezed her shoulder. “I know,” she said. “The in-between is hard.”

The in-between continued to be hard for a long time. But with the passing days the sharpness of her friend’s absence receded to a dull ache that seemed to Claire more like part of her own body than something wrong.

And Karol and her husband came to Thyra, followed the next year by Lydia and her daughter, and others, slowly filling Claire’s world with new friendships. And a few years later, there would be Mark.

*****

Two weeks after Lisa moved away, Claire packed up her usual containers with warm pumpkin flapjacks, eggs, bacon, and a thermos of coffee, hoping Charlie would feel well enough that morning to eat some of it. She taped a photo of a tropical bird clipped from a magazine to the lid of the top container, because Charlie loved to see new animals that they didn’t have in Thyra.

She placed the breakfast containers in a plastic bin and headed over to the park.

But as soon as she crossed the street, she realized that something was very wrong.

Charlie’s tent was gone.

She looked around in confusion, and headed for the patch of trees near where the tent was normally pitched. Had he moved in closer to the big tree for shelter from the wind?

Then she stopped short as the realization struck her. She knew it in her bones.

Like Lisa, Charlie had moved to Olam.

Claire stood in the middle of the park holding her bin with the warm smell of breakfast floating away into the morning air.

How could she not have realized?

The Landlord had said his new home was almost finished. Why, Claire asked herself, had she assumed that it would be a newly built house in Thyra? Why would the Landlord build a second temporary house when the fully customized house in Olam was close to completion?

Claire walked to the spot where Charlie’s tent had always stood and looked down at the grass. She could find practically no sign that he had ever been there. Even the grass had begun to unfurl again leaving hardly a trace of the tent’s imprint.

Charlie was so light, thought Claire, he barely left a mark.

Tears stung her eyes as she turned for home.

Trudging back up her steps the breakfast bin suddenly seemed heavy. She went inside and set it on the table. And there was the pumpkin Charlie had carved for her, so lifelike with its unfurling leaves and curling vines.

She thought of the countless times Charlie’s wisdom had helped refocus her perspective and even more times he’d made her laugh.

There’s his mark, thought Claire.

The coming days would prove the truth of that, as everyone in Thyra had a story to share about Charlie.

Like Claire’s thoughts, the conversations with her neighbors often turned to speculating on what kind of house Charlie was living in now.

“Fully accessible, we can be sure of that,” said Mr. Patel.

Claire had run into the Patels at the foot of the big tree and begun to talk of Charlie. More neighbors seemed to collect, drawn by the sound of Charlie’s name.

“I would hope so,” said Emilia. “He needs a fully wheelchair accessible place.”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Patel. “Somehow I don’t think he’ll need an accessible home for long.”

Emelia frowned but she nodded. They all seemed to share Claire’s feeling that now that he had his new home, Charlie was going to be OK.

“The Landlord will see to it,” said Paul, stating it as matter-of-factly as if he was talking about fixing a furnace or replacing a roof.

Claire smiled. “I have a feeling it has a full workshop with every woodworking tool you can imagine.”

“And huge windows, and maybe even a garage door that opens up onto a big garden full of birds and fat squirrels and sassy chipmunks,” added Mrs. Patel.

The little group all smiled at that and bid each other farewell with an inexplicable sense of wellbeing.

*****

Ten years had passed since Claire came to Thyra, and this was the hardest day she’d ever known there.

She stood between two flourishing hydrangea bushes at the peak of their bloom with a diamond ring in one hand and her heart tearing open.

“C’mon, don’t do that Claire!” said Mark. “Just give it a try. The city’s a nice place.”

“I’ve been to the city,” said Claire, struggling to control her voice. “You know I came from there. But Thyra is my home. It’s …” she struggled to find the words. “It’s my life.”

Claire felt her dreams of a life with Mark dropping to the ground like brittle leaves from a dying plant.

Mark had come to Thyra two years ago, and they had met at the garden center. He knew nothing about gardening but wanted to learn. Long talks about flora had quickly turned into long talks in general. Then walks together through the town, dinner, and soon to deeper feelings.

Even before he proposed a month ago, Claire had started dreaming of a life shared with Mark in Thyra, and wondering what their new house might look like.

Whenever a couple married in Thyra, the Landlord always gave them a new house. Sometimes he vastly remodeled one of their existing houses, adding a new wing or a floor so it was vaguely recognizable as the house it had once been, yet completely changed. More often, though, they both moved into an entirely new house and their old ones were dismantled.

Claire had imagined standing on a new porch with Mark, waving goodbye to friends who had come for dinner, or welcoming new residents to Thyra and showing them around the town together.

She had never been so happy since the first day she came to Thyra.

Now those beautiful dreams were crushed beyond repair. Mark wouldn’t budge. Nor would she.

Claire held the ring out to Mark. They had been working together in her yard when the conversation had come to a head, and she still held a spade in her other hand that she let fall to the ground.

The hurt expression in Mark’s eyes hardened into anger.

“So, you’re just going to live out the rest of your life in Thyra, working for nothing and living in that tin trailer with the leaky roof?”

His disdainful reference to her house hurt Claire maybe more than he had intended. It was true that, despite repeated repairs, there had been water problems ever since the tree had fallen on the roof. But they were only occasional, during bad storms. His dig was too sharp for her to find words to respond to it. So she focused on the rest of what he’d said.

“I don’t work for nothing,” she said. “I work for my neighbors. For the town. To grow beautiful things and make a beautiful community even more beautiful. Why should I want a salary or a 401K when the Landlord gives me everything — everything (and here her voice broke a little) — that I could ever need. And he’s building me an even better home in Olam. And he’s offered you all that, too.”

“That’s great,” said Mark. “And yeah, I’m grateful. It’s given me a leg up. But there are opportunities in the city that just don’t exist here in Thyra. A whole world of things that I can’t get here. I took some savings I had in the bank in the city from before I moved out here, and I’ve put a downpayment on a gorgeous condo right downtown by the river. I did that myself, Claire. Through my own hard work in the city. And I thought you’d be excited. But you won’t even come and see it.”

“There’s no point,” she said. “I’m not leaving.”

“Look, I have nothing against Thyra,” said Mark, clearly making an effort to soften his tone. “Like I told you, we could come out here and visit. We could even keep your trailer and stay there on the weekends. But I’m not going to let the Landlord dictate where I live, and I’m not going to spend my life in that out-of-date split level he gave me.”

“This is my home,” said Claire, so softly the words were nearly lost in the rustling of summer leaves. “And the Landlord is my friend.”

Mark clenched his jaw and finally took the ring Claire was still holding out to him.

“I guess I just don’t have the same feeling for your invisible Landlord that you do,” he said, his voice hard and sarcastic.

Claire felt the tears start to make their way down her face.

“No,” she whispered to Mark’s back as he walked away. “You don’t.”

*****

Claire heard that Mark had packed up whatever his car could hold and left town that night.

Some small corner of her heart hoped, despite what she knew, that he might come back. But when she saw the heavy equipment surrounding his house a few days later, she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

The morning after Mark’s house in Thyra came down, Claire left for work, eyes puffy under the makeup she’d liberally applied. It didn’t help that there had been a hard rain the night before and she’d had to put a bucket under a slow drip from her living room ceiling. Her house smelled musty, and she felt crushingly tired and more than a little scruffy.

Before heading out the gate, Claire trudged around the house to the back yard to fill the birdfeeder. She had long-since stopped reminding the Landlord about the back door because he’d assured her it would eventually be seen to.

Finished, Claire stowed the birdfeed and walked to her gate, stopping to check her mailbox. Opening it, she saw a small envelope with her name in the script she’d come to love.

Heart lifting in anticipation, she tore it open and stared with wonder at the little notecard inside. On the front was what looked like an original watercolor. An exquisitely beautiful little painting … of her trailer.

The pink blush of sunrise illuminated the front of the house and made the hydrangea bushes blaze with color. The grass was so softly painted, and her yard looked like a garden paradise, with the tall but wounded tree arching elegantly away and out of the painting on top.

Claire stared at it for several minutes. She looked up at her very ordinary house and back to the painting. For all its beauty, the painting was highly realistic, depicting her house accurately. Yet with a beauty she had never seen before.

After staring for a moment longer, she opened the card.

Inside was a single sentence.

I will never leave you or abandon you.

Your Landlord and Friend,

— E.

*****

After turning up the heat against the autumn chill, Claire turned over the page on the wall calendar in her kitchen and shook her head. Another summer has passed and the first day of autumn was nearly here. How was that even possible?

More than thirty years had gone by since she’d been given her beautiful new home.

Then she smiled to herself. Why did she still think of it as her new home? Claire pondered that as she stirred sugar into her coffee and carried it to the table by her chair in front of the fireplace.

I suppose, she thought, that it’s because I think of my life before I came here as the “old.” So everything since is the “new.”

Claire began to cough. That darn cough, more annoying than serious. She took a long soothing drink of the strong coffee and the cough subsided.

“Thirty years,” she said aloud, in wonder.

The years had rolled past in a colorful succession, marked by weddings and new neighbors, and more than a few tears as many old friends moved away. By the birth of friends’ babies and small trees she had planted growing taller than the house.

Mostly the years were marked by the growth of the four children she was godmother to. The boy was still young and lived at home with his parents. The three girls were grown and had moved to the city, but two had moved back to Thyra. And to Claire’s delight one of them — her Ruthie — had been given a cute Victorian cottage on a recently vacated lot right next door to Claire. She had watched its construction with interest, never dreaming that it was being built for her own goddaughter.

Smiling at the thought, Claire sank into to her old wingback and took the lid off her box of letters that she kept next to the chair.

Claire had trained several new staff members at the garden center, and a few months ago both she and Gloria had decided to cut their work hours to part time. Gloria because she wanted to spend more time with her grandbaby, and Claire because she regularly helped so many people with their yards that she hardly had a day off.

Now, with a little more time, Claire cherished her quiet early mornings by the fireplace with her coffee and her box of letters. It would soon be cold enough to turn on the gas fireplace, she thought.

Pulling the box of letters, grown heavy with the years, onto her lap, Claire took out a thick letter from the front of the box and began to read.

Dear Claire,

This is how it all started. Everything was a mess. But even then, I had Thyra in mind …”

This was one of the Landlord’s longest letters, yet Claire knew it almost by heart. It still thrilled her that he had taken the time to tell her about his thoughts and plans years before she had ever heard of him, or her home was ever built.

Before I invited the first resident, I planted a garden …

Without realizing it Claire had started to read the words aloud in a whisper. But the vibration of her voice started her cough again. She took another long swallow of coffee and read several more pages of the letter in silence. When she got to a good stopping place, she folded the letter and returned it to the box with a smile.

Getting up, she refilled her coffee cup and took a few sips to moisten her throat before picking up the phone and dialing the number she knew by heart.

“Good morning,” she said after the familiar greeting. “I was just reading your letter about how everything got started. I know I’ve said it before, but I wanted to thank you again for that letter. It’s beautiful — and it reads like watching a movie. You know how much I love gardens and I love that you planted one right at the start. So anyway, thank you and good morning. Talk to you later.”

Claire hung up the phone. She had long since gotten over her awkwardness about calling the Landlord and she usually phoned him several time a day. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d bothered to tell him who was calling because it was clear he knew.

“Oh!” she said, snapping her fingers. Claire picked up the phone and dialed again.

“Hi,” she said. “I forgot to mention that my cough is back. I’d like to ask for some more of the medicine you sent a couple of years ago. It worked really well. I thought my cough was gone for good, but it seems to have come back now that I’m home more. Anyway, if you wouldn’t mind, I would really appreciate it. Thank you.”

Claire put on her favorite cardigan, wrapped a scarf around her neck for warmth, and sprayed some disinfectant air freshener around the kitchen and living room. She always sprayed before she left, to keep the place from smelling too musty when she got back.

Tim, the new town maintenance supervisor who had taken over when Paul moved to Olam a couple years earlier, had called out a team to do a full mold mitigation on her living room. But the mustiness had soon returned. Claire had almost grown used to it, but it still bothered her, especially when she was going to have people over. More often, these days, she cooked and brought food with her to other people’s houses.

Claire was a little discouraged by these problems, but all-in-all she felt she couldn’t complain. Her little house had sheltered her and been a place of warmth and joy all these years.

On the sidewalk out front she ran into Ruthie pushing a lawnmower around her yard. Ruthie had taken to mowing Claire’s yard too, which Claire insisted she didn’t need to do, but was grateful for.

“I’m bringing a peach pie tonight,” Claire told her goddaughter. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can bring?

“Nope. It’s just the five of us, and I’ve got everything else planned.”

“And maybe you want to show Beau what you can do in the kitchen?” Claire teased.

Ruthie grinned and blushed at the same time. “Well maybe a little. I guess the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing is kind of important but I’m trying not to make it seem like a big deal.”

Beau had moved to Thyra a few years before Ruthie had moved back. They had met soon after Ruthie settled in, and Claire had a feeling they were right for each other.

“OK, well, give me a call if you need anything last minute,” said Claire.

“You mean like a fire extinguisher?”

Claire just rolled her eyes and laughed as she headed down the sidewalk and Ruthie restarted the mower.

She was due at the garden center at noon, but she had left an hour early to enjoy a long walk around town, savoring the crisp morning and the smell of autumn leaves.

Her walks through Thyra were always filled with beauty punctuated with pangs of sadness. After all these years, she still felt a heaviness when she passed Lisa’s street. She missed her first friend and wondered sometimes how long it would be before she would see her again in Olam. But Thyra had become so much a part of Claire that it felt like her own skin, and she found it hard to imagine a life anywhere else.

There was the sweetness of greetings from neighbors and the flourishing garden in front of that little house that had once been overrun with weeds. The single mom who lived there had become a friend, and Claire had taught her three children how to garden.

And there was another pang as Claire passed her once favorite coffee shop, now closed and likely soon to be demolished. The two brothers who had run it for years had a falling out so bitter that they had parted ways, and each had opened his own coffee shop on opposite sides of town.

She smiled sadly. No, Thyra wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t paradise.

But the people here and her little house were her life. Her home.

*****

Claire heard the crack of the big tree giving way, even over the sound of her own wracking cough. And she shuddered, as she heard the crash from somewhere on the other end of her house. The kitchen, probably.

Moments later, a draft of icy air came in through her open bedroom door.

She really should get out of bed and go look at the damage, Claire thought. But it was a remote thought, abstract. Not really within the realm of possibility.

She longed to at least close the bedroom door. But she was already so chilled. The thought of getting out from under the bed covers filled her with dread.

Outside the blizzard sounded like a rough, unceasing exhalation, changing pitch occasionally but never stopping. And ice crystals pelted relentlessly at her window.

If only the ice would stop, she thought, she could bear the wind.

This chill had come on so quickly. Or maybe it had been years? No that was the cough. Just last week … or was it last month? ... she had been at Ruthie and Beau’s for dinner, and she hadn’t felt so bad then. She had even been strong enough to pick up little Lyddie, the youngest of their children.

Ruthie was going to stop by in the morning and take her to the doctor if she wasn’t feeling better. Or had she stopped by this morning? Maybe both? It was so hard to sort things out when she couldn’t catch her breath.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing the doctors had tried had been able to fix what was wrong with her lungs. Just like Tim and his crew couldn’t stop the leaks and the mold despite repeated, sometimes drastic, repairs.

And now the … what was it … that crash? Her dear, new home was broken. Beyond repair. She knew it with certainty.

With all her might, Claire raised herself on one elbow, trying to angle her chest downward, hoping to loosen the tightness there and make her cough more productive.

But once she started coughing again, it was impossible to stop, and each cough sent a searing knife into her chest.

It was only sheer exhaustion that finally stilled it, as Claire fell back limp on the pillow, her gray hair splayed around her damply, stirred by the icy draft from whatever it was that had … something about the kitchen?

She gasped for air.

More than anything Claire wanted to talk to the Landlord. She had called him several times that day. Or she thought it was that day. A few of his letters lay scattered on the bedspread but she hadn’t been able to read them because of the coughing.

Get some air. Any air. Just a little. She fought for it.

Without turning her head, Claire flung one hand out toward the yellow phone on the nightstand.

“Hello. It’s me. I wanted to call you.”

She hadn’t managed to hold onto the receiver, much less dial. The yellow handpiece slid from the nightstand, bouncing at the end of its curly cord. But Claire was unaware.

“I wanted to call and say … thanks …” said Claire, no sound coming from her moving lips. “Thank you for my home. It’s broken now. But that’s OK. I loved it. I lived in it. I lived in it so …”

Fight. Fight for air. No air. Fight.

Claire opened her eyes for a split second, saw a flicker of light, and her vision swam and faded.

“You lived in it well,” replied the voice she knew and loved. “I know.”

A strong hand grasped hers. Claire thought she squeezed it, but in truth she hadn’t the strength to move. All her energy was centered on drawing in one more breath.

But she failed. Darkness swallowed her.

“I know,” said the Landlord.

Claire opened her eyes and saw the One who had given her everything and to whom she’d entrusted her life. He was gazing steadily at her.

She gasped with pleasure and sat bolt upright but didn’t notice that she did so with no effort.

“You’re here!” she said.

“As always,” he replied. “And especially now. Now, it’s time to see your new home.”

He was still holding her hand and gave it a gentle but insistent tug. Throwing back the covers Claire leapt to her feet. And she suddenly became aware of the change.

She was stronger, fitter than she had ever been. Vigor and wellbeing flowed through her sweeter than sap in a maple, and she felt sturdier than an oak.

With eyes fixed on her Landlord, Claire realized that the room was bright with sunlight, though somehow misty and indistinct.

Then the other changes flooded into her awareness.

The sound of the blizzard had ceased. The chill air had turned balmy. And the smell of the mold was replaced with an indescribable perfume that made her feel at once giddy and exceptionally sober.

She wasn’t sure what she was wearing, and it didn’t matter, but she had a vague awareness that her hair and body were utterly clean.

Claire took all this in as the Landlord led her down the hall to the living room.

Beyond the Landlord’s shoulder, Claire could just make out part of the kitchen roof caved in and the big tree lying across what was left of the cabinets.

With the Landlord holding her hand, none of that worried her at all.

She heard music that she assumed at first was coming from the record player. But it sat silent in the corner of the room. The music, which resonated deep inside her, was coming from somewhere outside.

“Thank you for this home you gave me,” Claire said to the Landlord, and this time her voice was full and strong.

The Landlord had stopped in front of the back door, and he turned to her.

“Your home?” he said, not unkindly. “Oh, my daughter, this was never your home. This was only ever the entryway. Nothing more than the foyer.”

Still holding Claire’s hand, the Landlord reached with his other hand for the back doorknob. In his grasp it turned with ease. As the door swung open, music, light, and joy enveloped her.

“This is your home,” he said.

All Claire’s purest longings met her in blazing reality.

She felt her senses merge into a single vibrating harmony of delight. The backyard was nowhere in sight, and what lay before her cannot be described in human language.

But it has a name.

Olam.

Claire stepped through and was, in every sense known and not yet known, utterly and forever home.