It looks like an elf house.

I laugh and stare at it in awe and then, of course, I take photos and send him one.

It does.

Next door is The Woods, which I take a photo of.

I walk back on Torres to Sixth Avenue and turn right and I see a house with a large sign in front that says, ‘Hugh Comstock Residence’. Then ‘Comstock Studio’.

Who is Hugh Comstock? I ask. Is it the architect who made all these houses?

He is the one who made all the original cottages back in the 20s, but he was no architect. He was just a guy who came to Carmel, fell madly in love, got married, and when his new wife said she wanted a fairy house in the woods, he got to work. She was an artist I think; she was making dolls and wanted to showcase them. And then everyone loved the little house so much, they all wanted one.

That’s the cutest story ever. Almost, if not cuter than my own stories. See? So these things do happen. Not just in my imagination.

Did you notice how they’re not level? he texts. They’re quirky.

It’s like searching for ‘skewed’ in Google and seeing the page tilt to the side.

Ha! Exactly. That same feeling, he says.

I like them even more because of that and knowing he wasn’t trained to do this, and he made the first one out of love. It’s amazing!

I walk from cottage to cottage until I reach a dreamy one with a narrow arched three-light casement window with a heart shape cut out.

It’s like he built all of them for her dolls. They seem so tiny.

Yes. Some are incredibly small. That one is less than 400 square feet, he texts.

I hold my breath. That one? How would he even know what I’m looking at right now?

I have a strange feeling and turn and look around. There’s nobody on the street, except for a man and a woman talking at the corner of the intersecting road.

Which one?

A minute passes. No answer.

Ten

The one I just told you about. The Woods, he responds a couple of minutes later.

I passed it already. I’m at the heart-shaped one, I respond and instead of feeling relieved, I feel disappointed. For a second, I thought that maybe… I don’t know what I thought. I think it was more than a thought, it was hope. A hopeless romantic’s hope. Sometimes I have a hard time separating my imagination from the reality of this life. Where things like this don’t happen.

Our House, he says.

Our House, yes. It’s surely the most beautiful one I’ve seen today. Absolutely dreamy.

I still feel the disappointment. How silly of me to think such things. What did I imagine? That he’s somewhere around? That’s ridiculous. Just because someone is kind doesn’t mean there’s more to it. And how would I even react if he was here? Would I be scared or nervous or excited? Why would I be scared? Alisa would tell me to get out of here; that he could be anyone, a psycho, a stalker. But he’s not anyone, is he? He’s Max. And I know Max. Not sure where all these questions are coming from, but now’s not a good time for this. I’m having so much fun. Someone is nice enough to guide me through all this, someone who didn’t want me to be miserable and spend the day alone in the airport. This might be a fairy-tale town, but my life is not a fairy tale. It’s not one of my stories. Silly thoughts from a silly woman.