Chapter 3

The following Saturday morning, Deniece was dropping her kids off at Jaclyn’s house for the day so she could focus on getting the rooms ready for her new tenants. David clutched his favorite action figure while Wendy dragged her stuffed unicorn behind her, both children excited for a play date with Mason and Lily.

As Deniece handed over their overnight bags, Jaclyn leaned in close with a theatrical whisper. “So, you’ll be all alone in that big house while Paul moves in? Just you and the chess master and all those ... empty bedrooms.”

“Pam is moving in today too,” Deniece reminded her, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, but she’s not coming until after three,” Jaclyn countered with a knowing smirk. “Which gives you and Paul plenty of alone time for him to ... position his rook properly.”

“For the love of—” Deniece glanced at the children to make sure they weren’t listening. “We will be assembling furniture and unpacking boxes. That’s it.”

“Mmm-hmm. Just remember, if he says ‘checkmate’ and winks, that’s definitely code for something.”

“You are impossible,” Deniece hissed, her cheeks flaming despite her best efforts. “It’s a strictly professional landlord-tenant relationship.”

“Oh sure, very professional,” Jaclyn agreed with mock seriousness. “Just like in those documentaries that come on after the kids are asleep. ‘Dear Landlady, I seem to be having trouble with my bed frame. Could you come upstairs and help me tighten some screws?’”

“I’m leaving now,” Deniece announced, turning toward her house. “Before my children learn things they absolutely should not learn from their honorary aunt.”

“Just text me if you need an emergency rental contract clause about fraternization!” Jaclyn called after her. “Or if you need me to keep the kids overnight!”

Deniece responded with a gesture that was decidedly not appropriate for the children to see, Jaclyn’s laughter following her all the way out the door.

As she approached the front door, a silver compact car pulled into the driveway. Paul stepped out smiling, looking boyishly excited in faded jeans and a university t-shirt. He waved enthusiastically before reaching back into his car to gather his belongings.

“Good morning, Mrs. D!” he called out, using the nickname they’d agreed upon during the lease signing. “Hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all, right on time,” Deniece replied, watching as he began unloading his possessions.

Paul’s belongings painted a clear portrait of his life: a weathered chess set in a handcrafted wooden box tucked carefully under one arm; a milk crate overflowing with dog-eared mathematics textbooks and spiral-bound notebooks; a desktop computer and monitor wrapped protectively in bubble wrap; and a guitar case covered in stickers from various chess tournaments around the country. From the trunk, he pulled out two duffel bags of clothing and a small box labeled “KITCHEN” in neat block letters.

Most endearing was the small potted plant—some kind of succulent—that he balanced precariously on top of his stack of books. It sat in a pot painted with mathematical equations that swirled around its circumference.

“Let me help you with some of that,” Deniece offered, moving toward the car.

“Thanks, Mrs. D,” Paul replied with genuine gratitude. “The rest can wait for a second trip. I travel pretty light—most of what I own fits in my car, except for my chessboard collection. That’s coming with my mom tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

There was something refreshingly straightforward about his possessions—no questionable items, no surprises, just the honest belongings of a dedicated student with clear passions and simple needs. As they walked together toward the house, Deniece felt a wave of relief wash over her. Maybe this new arrangement would work out after all.

Before they could move Paul’s belongings into the house, a bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle pulled up to the curb. Pam emerged, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, wearing paint-splattered jeans and a vintage band t-shirt. She waved enthusiastically before popping her trunk, which appeared to be stuffed to capacity.

“Mrs. D! Paul! Perfect timing!” she called out, jogging up the driveway. “I thought I’d be fashionably late as usual, but the traffic was miraculously light.”

Paul grinned at her. “I just got here myself. Haven’t even picked a bedroom yet.”

“Speaking of which,” Pam said, turning to Deniece with a hopeful expression, “I was wondering if I could possibly have the blue room with the clawfoot tub? I have this whole vision of evening baths with candles and my sketchbook. Total design student cliché, I know, but...”

“That works perfectly for me,” Paul interjected. “I’m more of a quick shower person anyway. Five minutes in, five minutes out.”

Deniece smiled at how easily they worked things out. “Then it’s settled. Blue room for Pam, gray room for Paul.”

What followed was a choreographed chaos of move-in activity. Paul’s belongings were modest and methodical—everything in labeled boxes, furniture limited to a desk chair and a small bookshelf that he assembled with impressive efficiency. His room was functional within an hour, populated primarily by books, electronic equipment, and his prized chess sets that he arranged on the bookshelf in what appeared to be chronological order of acquisition.

Pam’s possessions, by contrast, were an artistic explosion. Her car disgorged what seemed like an impossible amount of items: rolls of fabric samples; art supplies in colorful cases; string lights and tapestries; framed prints and canvases; and several plants in ceramic pots she had clearly designed herself. Her clothing arrived in three large suitcases that she explained contained separate wardrobes for “design studio days,” “client meeting days,” and “creative expression days.”

The blue room transformed under her touch, emerging as a bohemian studio space that somehow looked both professionally designed and comfortably lived-in. She hung lights around the vintage mirror, arranged her plants on the windowsill to catch the morning light, and immediately started sketching ideas for a small desk area that would “honor the room’s natural flow.”

Throughout the process, Deniece found herself moving between rooms, providing tools, answering questions about the house, and occasionally stepping back to marvel at how quickly these two young people were making themselves at home. There was something refreshingly natural about their presence, as if the rooms had been waiting for precisely these occupants.

By mid-afternoon, when they all took a break for the pizza Deniece had ordered, she watched Paul and Pam chatting easily about campus and their classes. She realized that her house suddenly felt fuller—not just with belongings, but with energy and possibility—in a way it hadn’t since before Michael died.

Deniece led Paul and Pam down to the basement with the pizza box, each of them balancing paper plates and drinks as they carefully descended the stairs.

“So this is command central for my mornings,” she explained, gesturing toward the home gym setup in one corner. “The kids don’t wake up until seven ... breakfast and off to school around eight, “I’m usually down here by eight-thirty on weekdays.

Paul nodded appreciatively at the well-organized equipment. “Nice setup. I usually run in the mornings, but it’s good to know I have backup on rainy days.”

“Feel free to use anything here,” Deniece offered. “Just maybe tell me first so we’re not both trying to use the same equipment.”

Pam was more interested in the workspace Deniece had set up in the opposite corner—a large table with storage bins underneath, currently holding various craft supplies and children’s art projects.

“This is where the kids do their projects when the weather’s bad,” Deniece explained, setting the pizza on a clear space on the table. “And where I occasionally pretend I’m going to take up scrapbooking or some other Pinterest-worthy hobby.”

“It’s perfect,” Pam said, eyes lighting up. “Would it be okay if I used this space sometimes for my bigger design projects? My room is great for sketching, but when I need to spread out materials...”

“Absolutely,” Deniece agreed, pleased by the request. “Just be warned that anything left unattended might get incorporated into a second-grade art masterpiece.”

As they settled around the table with their pizza, Deniece outlined the rhythms of the household: early morning routines, school drop-offs, typical dinner times, and the weekend variations.

“The kids will be back tomorrow afternoon,” she explained. “David’s usually up early watching cartoons on Sundays, and Wendy sleeps in but then comes downstairs like a tornado of energy around nine. Just so you know what you’re getting into.”

“Sounds like my little brothers,” Pam said with a smile. “I’m used to dodging human tornadoes.”

“And I promise not to challenge David to chess before he’s had breakfast,” Paul added with a grin. “Learned that lesson with my sister the hard way.”

As they continued eating and talking, Deniece found herself relaxing. The basement—like the rest of the house—felt different with these new presences. Not intruded upon, as she had feared, but somehow expanded, as if the walls themselves were breathing more easily with new life inside them.

Paul’s mother dropped by later that afternoon with the master chess set, announcing her arrival with a series of enthusiastic honks from her SUV. Paul groaned good-naturedly at the sound.

“Fair warning, Mrs. D—my mother has zero filter,” he said, heading for the door.

Deniece watched from the porch as a vivacious woman in her fifties with Paul’s same warm eyes and a shock of prematurely silver hair emerged from the vehicle. She carried an ornate wooden case with brass fittings under one arm and immediately enveloped her son in a bear hug that nearly lifted him off the ground, despite her being several inches shorter.

“There’s my genius! Already settled in with a beautiful landlady, I see!” she called out loudly enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. “Paul Alexander Evans, you didn’t tell me she was gorgeous. I would have worn my good bra!”

“Mom!” Paul hissed, his face turning scarlet. “This is Mrs. Wilson. My landlady.”

“Call me Deniece,” she offered, extending her hand.

“Margaret Evans,” Paul’s mother replied, bypassing the handshake for a warm hug. “But everyone calls me Maggie. So this is where my boy’s going to be living! Much nicer than that roach motel the university calls ‘graduate housing.’ And with a real adult to make sure he remembers to eat something besides ramen.”

As they walked inside, Maggie handed the wooden case to Paul with ceremonial gravity. “The family chess set, as requested. Try not to use it to seduce your landlady, dear. At least not during your first week.”

“MOM!” Paul looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Oh please, as if you haven’t been texting me about the ‘cool Mrs. D’ for days,” Maggie said with a dismissive wave, then stage-whispered to Deniece, “He’s brilliant with numbers, hopeless with women. Gets that from his father.”

Deniece bit back a laugh as Paul carefully set the chess set on the entry table and muttered something about checking on his room.

“So,” Maggie continued, linking her arm through Deniece’s as if they were old friends, “single mom with two kids taking in college students? Either you’re a saint or you’re as crazy as I am. Either way, I approve. Now, does that kitchen have coffee? I need to make sure you know all of Paul’s embarrassing childhood stories before I leave—it’s my maternal duty.”

By the time Paul ventured back downstairs, Deniece and Maggie were settled at the kitchen table, laughing like old friends over coffee as Maggie described teenage Paul’s disastrous attempt to impress a girl by solving complex equations at a party.

“Mom,” Paul interrupted, “please tell me you’re not sharing my entire awkward adolescence with Mrs. D.”

“Of course not, sweetie,” Maggie replied innocently. “Just the highlights. I was saving the story about the science fair explosion for Christmas.”

Paul groaned again, but Deniece noticed the affectionate smile he couldn’t quite hide. There was something infectious about Maggie’s unapologetic humor and obvious pride in her son that reminded her so much of Jaclyn that she couldn’t help but feel at ease.

“Your mother was just telling me about your championship match in Chicago,” Deniece said. “It sounds impressive.”

“It wasn’t that big a deal,” Paul demurred.

“Not a big deal?” Maggie scoffed. “He beat a grandmaster! While running a fever of 101! I had to practically carry him from the tournament hall to pump him full of Tylenol.”

As Maggie continued regaling Deniece with Paul’s accomplishments (interspersed with mortifying personal details), Deniece caught Paul’s eye over his mother’s head. Instead of seeing embarrassment, she was surprised to find him watching the interaction with something like contentment, as if seeing his mother and new landlady bonding was exactly what he’d hoped would happen.

After everything was moved in and in place, Deniece had gone to the kitchen and was fixing supper. She’d decided on a simple welcome meal of homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and a fresh salad—nothing fancy, but comforting and substantial after a day of moving. As she layered noodles and spread ricotta cheese, she could hear the sounds of her new tenants settling into their routines.

From upstairs, the gentle strumming of Paul’s guitar filtered down—he’d mentioned during move-in that playing helped him unwind after intense study sessions. The melody was something classical that Deniece didn’t recognize, but it flowed through the house pleasantly, giving the space a peaceful ambiance she hadn’t realized was missing.

Meanwhile, Pam had set up her sketchbook on the kitchen island, close enough to chat with Deniece but respectful of her cooking space. Her pencil moved across the paper with practiced precision as she worked on what appeared to be a design concept for a local coffee shop’s rebrand—the internship project she’d mentioned earlier. Occasionally she would pause, tilt her head thoughtfully at her work, and then dive back in with renewed focus.

“That smells amazing, Mrs. D,” Pam commented, looking up from her sketch. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You could set the table if you don’t mind,” Deniece suggested. “Plates are in that cabinet there.”

As Pam gathered dishes, she explained her weekend routine—Sunday mornings were for what she called “creative recharging,” which usually meant visiting local art galleries or farmers’ markets for inspiration, followed by afternoon sketching sessions. In the evening, she typically joined a virtual design critique group with friends from her program.

The guitar music paused upstairs, and soon Paul appeared in the kitchen doorway, drawn by the aroma of baking lasagna.

“Something smells incredible,” he said appreciatively.

While helping to finish dinner preparations, Paul shared his own weekend pattern—Saturday mornings for running and errands, afternoons for chess club, and Sundays dedicated to preparing for the coming week’s tutoring sessions and coursework. He admitted with a self-deprecating smile that he had a standing Sunday night video call with his mother and younger siblings, “to prove I’m still alive and eating vegetables.”