Marcus Anderson, Designer of Children’s Playhouses and Protector of Green Space in Vermont. She chuckled at her naughty joke and sneaked around the side of the porch to catch a glimpse of Mr. Mountain Man in the picture, maybe sewing the checkerboard curtains and keeping his axe well-oiled? Mountain Man was clearly outside, doing his mountain manly business. Knock on the front door, or investigate the strange noise? Mr. She clutched her handbag against her side. As she climbed out of the SUV, a rhythmic pounding echoed from the backyard. The only other vehicle on the property was an old Chevy truck that had seen better days. This place looks really isolated.Īmi parked her car in front of the porch. I hope this guy is on board with his mental faculties. It screamed Rustic Mountain Man Lives Here! A puffing chimney topped the two-story log house, and red checkerboard curtains lined the windows. She would never take over-priced, ulcer-inducing coffee products for granted again.Īfter another half a mile of driving, the cabin appeared. When she returned to the city, the first thing on her agenda would be to hug the pimply-faced kid at Starbucks who served her a latte every morning. Her sister found life in Cranville, Vermont to be “charming” and “restful,” but Ami missed well-paved roads and good cell phone reception. As soon as she dropped off this check, she’d hightail it back to town and grab a second-rate coffee from the general store.

Those noises were comfort food for her soul. What she wouldn’t give for the screech of the T or honk of an irritated driver yakking on a cell phone, or even the non-stop cussing tirade of her downstairs neighbors in Boston. But venturing this deep in the forest was creeping her out.Ĭity girls didn’t belong here. Ami had seen the sketches, and she had to admit they were spectacular. Lived on thirty acres of wilderness in the Vermont mountains, designed and hand built kids’ tree houses. Supposedly the builder was some sort of lumberjacky guru. Her sister had sent her on this asinine errand to deliver the deposit check for her niece’s playhouse. She smiled and imagined a grizzled stump of a man whacking at some logs with a rusty old axe. The frost heaves were wicked bad this year.įor God’s sake, just how deep in the woods does this guy live? What is he? Some sort of mountain man? Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.Īmi Jordan pulled her mini SUV onto the dirt road and bounced around like a rodeo rider. Except for the use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means is forbidden without the express permission of the author. Editorial: Helen Hardt, Īll rights reserved.

A Taste of Heaven by Penny Watson