The floors were polished. There was wood ready in the fireplace. The kitchen looked like someone had just used it. The air smelled like pine and fresh coffee.
This wasn’t a forgotten “shack.” Someone had been taking care of this place.
I saw a photo on the mantle of my father as a young man. He was standing with an older woman I didn’t know. I turned the frame over and saw his handwriting: Rose. Summer of 1962. The beginning.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I jumped, and my bag hit the floor. An older man stood on the porch holding a bowl of food. He stood very straight, like a soldier.
“Captain Whitmore?” he asked.
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