Crumbs (a Tom Hiddleston fanfic)

Fondant Scraps

When I get to the cottage that night, I'm only slightly horrified.  It hasn't been kept up with at all, as my mother had reminded me of earlier. That said, it's still in surprisingly good shape. I pull up after a long night at Tiny Baker.  My mother had decided to drop off my old car earlier in the evening, though I had assured her I could walk home.  She was accompanied by the man who continually refers to himself as my stepfather, though he is not married to my mother and I in no way consider him a father or a father figure.  Steve is a good guy, but he's been dating my mother for three years and I've only ever spoken to him on the phone.  My own mother doesn't even refer to him as a boyfriend or a husband, but just as a "good friend".  I suppose she is closer to Al and B than most humans.

They dropped my car off at Tiny Baker, and then they tried to hang out at the shop for awhile.  I was far too busy for that nonsense, and kicked them out after half an hour.  It was good I had the car though because after I left the shop, I made a rather quick and depressing late night trip to the Walmart 15 miles away in the next town, grabbing a few essentials I knew I hadn't packed.  I am so exhausted by the time I park the car in the crunchy gravel driveway that I can barely see straight.  I grab my suitcase from the trunk, considering for a moment just leaving it in the car until morning, but then decide to lug it and the shopping bags inside.

I open the front door and the memories come flooding back.  Memories of summer days as a kid, running through the small main floor, ignoring my grandmother's warnings to slow down.  Thrilling, somewhat terrifying summer storms that would blacken the sky and push a relieving cold front through the sticky hot summer air for a day or two.  Long, breathless nights spent on the tiny beachfront just footsteps from the house, waiting for the sharp yells and loud shouting matches to die down.

This cottage belonged to my grandparents—my father's parents.  Both my grandfather and my father died young, in their sixties, from heart related issues. Thinking about them now, I'm filled with a mixture of emotions.  Emotions that I've been avoiding for quite some time. I can only say I'm not surprised that it was their hearts that gave out on them.  When your heart is so cold, so filled with self hatred and anger, why would it want to keep going?  I've often wondered.

Although I have some terrible memories of this place, I also have great memories.  Fantastic memories that mostly include my grandmother and my cousins Laura and Flip. I haven't seen Laura or Flip in just as many years, though I talk to Laura every few months on the phone.  She's married with two kids, and Flip just got engaged.  I'm looking forward to seeing them.  At the moment though, I don't want to see anyone unless their name is "bed" and they're soft, large and made out of fluffy material.  All I can think about is sleeping.  I've been up since 4:30 am and my body feels like it's about to give out.  Despite all this, I still need to check out the cottage and make sure a band of murderers and raccoons haven't taken hold of it.  I turn on all the lights as I walk in, and just stand and stare for a minute.

We call it a cottage because it is in every way a cozy little cottage.  I'm standing at the front door, and I can easily see about 75% of the home.  I'm facing the main room, which has worn hard wood floors, and rather dingy looking white walls.  There is a fireplace which takes up most of the wall to my left.  Directly in front of me is a huge bay window with a great view of the tiny beach.  To my right, there are stairs and then there is a wide entryway to the kitchen. 

Strangely, it smells the same—a bit like beach and lavender and firewood.  Sure, it's a bit more musty and has the smell of something that's been closed up for some time, but I am happy to say that I don't smell anything rotting, and no rabid raccoons seem to have made a home there.  I drop all my bags on the floor with a loud thud and then poke my head into the kitchen.  It's just the same as I remember it.  Sparse, small, and full of linoleum.  Yikes.  The counter space is nonexistent, but I get a flash in my head of lining the far wall with gorgeous wood butcher block, and maybe even a tiny island in the center of the room.  It would be enough space for some baking.  I'm not sure where it comes from, but it worries me.  Am I really considering fixing up the place?  For what reason? There's no way I'm staying here long term. But I feel as if I can't just leave this place as it is, rotting away on a gorgeous piece of land in a shitty little town.  Maybe I can fix it up and sell it.  It is mine after all.  My grandmother left it to me when she passed away six years ago.  Since leaving Maryland, it has been the one this I've missed.  It reminds me of her and how great she was despite everything she went through.