When a chicken ran out in front of her, Quinn slammed on the brakes. She realized she’d been holding her breath for at least a half mile.

She missed hitting the squawking creature, but her heart raced.

Relax. It will be fine.

The next few miles were a blur, her excitement making it nearly impossible to concentrate on her surroundings any longer. Finally, she made the turn down Halama Street—her street now—and watched the numbers on the mailboxes until she came to the one marked 7895. Slowly, she turned into the property, hearing the gravel crunch under her tires as she rounded the small, curving driveway.

She rolled to a stop and put the car out of gear, then shut off the ignition and leaned back, taking a deep breath.

Well, this is it.

Her first look at Banyan Bungalow was anticlimactic, but Quinn tried to reserve judgment as she climbed out.

She shut the car door and leaned against it, taking in the property. It was picturesque—sort of. Or maybe once was. Could possibly be again.

Someone had once put some time and thought into the landscaping. It was artfully done, though a bit overgrown. She was relieved that the monkeypod tree was there, casting a big shadow over the walkway, looking a little worse for wear.

She’d expected the house to appear empty and lonely, but it actually didn’t look too bad. The owners had left behind a couple of rattan chairs that could be cleaned up and possibly repainted. A ragged doormat that read “Aloha” remained too.

For a moment she stood admiring the expansive porch with the hardy forest-green planks and the white trim that framed the floor-to-ceiling windows and porch. The steps leading to the door were painted red, now faded, but Quinn could imagine them fresh and welcoming again, especially with some brightly colored pots of flowers flanking them.

Between surfing Pinterest and all the home improvement shows she watched, she had a million ideas to improve the curb appeal. Once more, she wished Ethan was with her for the reveal, but he had high standards, and if it didn’t appear perfect on first look, he’d have a hard time envisioning what it could be.

She walked up to the porch and climbed the steps. Her pulse quickened as she stopped to fish in her purse for the key that the Realtor had mailed her.

Before she could get her hands on it, the door opened.

“What do you want?” a teenage boy said, running a hand through his wavy brown hair. He leaned against the frame, holding his cell phone, a bored expression pasted on his face. Quinn could see a small girl sitting on a couch behind him, her arms wrapped around a matching dark-haired doll, her eyes glued to a cartoon on the television.