I get up and make myself a full English breakfast and brew a strong cup of coffee. For our honeymoon, Nicole and I took a trip through the UK and stayed at nothing but B&Bs and now, I love an English breakfast. I sit at the alcove and enjoy my breakfast while I stare out the window at the lake.

For the first time, I feel at peace here. The house holds no menace or sense of dread, like before. It’s just a house. My house.

After breakfast, I go upstairs, strip down, and jump in the shower. I even catch myself whistling, which is weird for me. My thoughts turn to the novel. I can’t wait to hole myself up in the Writing Room and get to work.

But first things first.

I towel off, pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and head over to Mildred’s.

*

I tramp across the dew-covered grass towards her house, step onto the porch, and knock on the door.

A breeze kicks up off the lake. I turn my head.

Nicole is standing there near the water. The concern in her face, the worry …

“Good morning, Mr. Author.”

Mildred has opened the door, wearing a wide grin.

I glance back to the lake. Nicole is gone.

“Hi, Mildred.”

“Come on in.”

“How’d it go?” I ask, stepping into the kitchen.

“It was great. We played games. We watched a movie.”

“Which one?” I ask, gathering Caitlyn’s things from the floor by the table.

“The Wizard of Oz. We both knew the words to every song.”

“That’s my girl.”

“So,” she says, casually taking a sip of coffee. “What did you get up to last night?”

“Nothing. I just had a quiet night at the house.”

Her eyes widen and she points an accusatory finger. “Liar!”

“What?”

“Liar! Liar, liar, liar! The lights were off at your house almost all night. You went out!”

“No, I … Look … It wasn’t … It was nothing.”

My stammering causes her eyes to widen further.

“Something happened.”

“No. Nothing happened,” I reply.

“It did! Something had to have happened. Why else would you lie about being home?”

My face is burning. “Look, Mildred. I had a great night and I don’t want to—”

Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God … Oh my God! You had sex!”

“Mildred!”

“You did! You got laid!”

“No, Mildred. I did not have sex.”

“Then you at least had a date.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Ohhhh. I see … but you were with a woman.”

“Okay. Yes, Sherlock. I had dinner with a woman.”

“And it went well?” she asks like a prosecutor cornering a witness.

“Yes. We had an amazing dinner,” I concede, hoping it will shut her up.

I’m so wrong.

“You. Had. A. Date!” she cries out triumphantly. She puts her coffee cup on the counter, and proceeds to do an aged victory dance.

“Mildred, please stop.”