Falling Like Leaves (Bramble Falls, #1)(5)

It’s a far cry from our spacious, well-kept NYC apartment, but Aunt Naomi’s house has always been oddly charming and cozy.

“Why don’t we show you your rooms, and I can give you a tour later,” Aunt Naomi says. “It’s been so long since you were last here, some things might have changed.”

I scoff. This is the type of place where nothing ever changes.

Mom shoots me a glare, then nods at Aunt Naomi. “Sounds good.”

The four of us head upstairs to the guest bedroom.

“Annie,” Aunt Naomi says to my mom, “this will be your room.”

The light blue bedroom is simple, with a queen-sized bed against the wall, a desk in the corner, and a single mahogany dresser.

Mom sets her suitcase on the floor. “This is perfect, Naomi. Thank you.”

Aunt Naomi smiles and motions for me to follow her. “Ellis, I was going to set you up in Sloane’s room,” she says, “but your mom said you’d probably prefer to have a space of your own.”

Oh, thank god.

Aunt Naomi leads us down the hall and stops at a door I’ve never opened before. In fact, I have no recollection of this door at all.

“Unfortunately,” she continues, twisting the door’s wobbly knob, “we’re out of bedrooms.” She pulls the door open and begins climbing a creaky set of steps.

I reluctantly follow her. The temperature rises as we reach the landing, where rays of sunlight shine through the window, turning floating dust particles to glitter.

“Sorry, it’s kind of stuffy up here,” Aunt Naomi says, pushing open the heavy wood-framed window.

I glance around at the giant room spanning the length of the house.

It’s filled with boxes, most of them overflowing with what appears to be the entire autumn section of a party store—plastic pumpkins, fall leaf garlands and red, yellow, and orange artificial plants, wooden fall ornaments, autumn wreaths, and knitted coasters in the shape of pumpkins and apples.

I love a hot pumpkin spice latte and a warm sweater as much as the next person, but this seems a bit overboard.

I follow Aunt Naomi through the narrow path between the boxes, brushing away spiderwebs—both real and fake—until we reach a cleared-out space under one of the gables, where, presumably, I’m supposed to sleep.

There’s a standard bed with what looks like a vintage Laura Ashley bedspread and an antique-looking wrought-iron bed frame, a single whitewashed dresser, and a few rugs Aunt Naomi has layered across this section to cover the floor.

But none of them cover the fact that this is an attic. I can’t help feeling like Sara from A Little Princess. I sigh. At least there’s a window.

“I know it’s not perfect,” my aunt says quickly, no doubt noticing my hesitation. “But I hope you’ll be comfortable….”

I glance at my mom, who nods at me, prompting me to thank my aunt for her hospitality.

“Thanks,” I mumble. “It’s great.”

I’m beyond angry at my mother for putting me in this situation, but it isn’t Aunt Naomi’s fault. I am grateful she made space for us, even if this is the last place I want to be.

We’ll be back home soon enough. This is only temporary, I remind myself. Sloane comes panting up the steps, carrying the box with my sewing machine and materials.

“Sloane!” my mom chirps. “You didn’t need to bring that up. Ellis and I would have taken care of it!”

I let out an annoyed huff. Bringing it was her idea. There was no way I was hauling that thing up two flights of stairs.

“It’s no problem, Aunt Annie. Happy to help! Where would you like it?”

Before I can tell her it doesn’t matter because I don’t really sew anymore, Aunt Naomi chimes in. “Oh yes, that’s right! Annie said you design clothes, Ellis, so I brought up a table for your machine.” She points to our left at a dusty antique sewing table with a small stool. Sloane waddles over to it and drops the box with a grunt. “Now, I know you probably use all kinds of special city fabrics for your outfits, but we do have stacks of boxes up here with donations from last month’s clothing drive. We had so many come in, the donation center said I’d have to bring the rest back in December. So you’re welcome to whatever you find.”

I decide not to tell her that almost all my creations have been made from thrifted oxfords and instead opt for “Um, thanks. Sounds good.”

My aunt claps and beams at us. “Great! Well, I was thinking I’d make everyone breakfast. What do you think?”

“I’m starving,” Mom says. “Ellis?”

“I just want some coffee, honestly. I don’t suppose this place has entered the twenty-first century and gotten a Dunkin’? Or any coffee shop, for that matter?” I ask.

Mom sighs, exasperated, but Sloane laughs and says, “Still no Dunkin’. But we do now have the Caffeinated Cat.” I cock an eyebrow at her. “It’s a cat café. The coffee is to die for, and the cutest adoptable cats wander around inside. Trust me, you’ll love it. I’ll walk there with you.”

“Oh. You don’t have—”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not letting you walk around town by yourself on your very first day,” she says. “Come on.”

We all leave my dusty bedroom and file down the stairs.