Chapter Text
Two hundred fifty six miles, that’s how far Santana Lopez had driven to escape the past six months of her life. As she reaches the sign announcing her arrival in Copper Hollow, New York, population six-hundred-twenty-three, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She’s exhausted, she’s so exhausted. Twelve days ago, she’d finally appeared for the last time at that imposing New York City courthouse. Twelve days ago, the judge had finally ruled in her favor on her claims accusing her former boss of sexual harassment and discriminatory firing practices. But she wonders, she wonders if the whole thing was worth it, if she should have just walked away with her dignity remotely intact, preserving her reputation and future career prospects. She lost so much. Her job, her faith in humanity, too many of her so-called friends. And her ex - whatever, not girlfriend per se, had dropped her before she had a chance to blink. Too much stress she said, given the conflict surrounding Santana’s existence, she just couldn’t handle it. So Santana left the city alone, no plan for what she’d do next, beyond pretending the past year of her life didn’t happen.
Her friends, the few she has left, they think she’s crazy, that she’s completely lost her mind, when she walked out of that courtroom and told them she was going upstate, finally opening the envelope her grandmother’s lawyer had sent her in the midst of everything else, detailing the inheritance she was left, primarily, a property up in Nowheresville. What could she possibly do outside the city, they’d asked her. But she doesn’t care. She can’t stay there. Not when she feels like she’s going to combust. Not when she feels like she can’t even walk outside of her apartment without people staring- whether it’s in her head or not. She’s not staying. She needs to get away for a while and this place, well… It’ll do.
As she drives down Main Street, she takes in how quaint it all is. Something she’d normally snicker at, but now, she breathes in the quiet, the smell of early spring in the country. Without the perpetual honking and yelling, she already feels like her nerves don’t jump so much. It’s funny, really, the way she hardly recognizes this town. She’d come here for a week, every summer, until she was sixteen, but now, she can’t tell you anything about it, beyond the name, and that it had almost more churches than people.
Santana continues driving, until Main Street turns into a dirt road, and the houses are miles apart. She takes another deep breath, and she sees the number on the gate that encloses the property, number two-fifteen, Maple Lane. Fumbling through her center console, Santana digs out the array of keys the lawyer sent her, searching for the right one. She steps out of the car, and as she jams the key in the chain lock and pushes the old farm gate open, she scowls at the crabgrass, grown nearly up to her waist. She struggles to get the gate open wide enough to fit her car through, batting at the weeds that tickle her legs. As she pulls at the hem of her dress to turn back, and she feels the heel of her right foot sink into the mud, she knows for certain, she’s definitely not dressed for this. She gets her shoe unstuck finally and flops back into the driver’s seat. Putting the car in gear and driving through the gate, she’s suddenly hit with this sense of regret that she doesn’t have four wheel drive. Something she’d never in her life imagined she’d need. But if the outside of the property was bad, the inside is an absolute disaster. It looks nothing like the place she remembers, like everything overgrew, and then a river ran straight through the property, washing it out. She grits her teeth and looks to the sky, silently cursing her grandmother for what feels like one final spite.
“What the fuck!” Santana has been uttering the expression over and over again for months, both out loud, and in her head, and now here, in the place where there’s no one around to hear her, she screams it, pounding her fists against the steering wheel.
Luckily, for Santana’s sake, the old farmhouse is in far less disarray than the land that surrounds it, and spends her first few days settling in, unpacking her clothes in the upstairs bedroom that she used to stay in. She makes great efforts to avoid the room that had been her abuela’s, trying, as best as she can, not to even walk past the door. She pointedly avoids the knowledge that eventually she will have to go through her stuff. But for now, she simply sits in the kitchen with her laptop, trying to make herself write something, anything, though no words come. She’s left the house exactly once, for groceries, and she swears, the plants outside are growing. She swears, they’re going to overgrow the house, trapping her inside, and somehow, she’s going to end up living a modern day lesbian version of Grey Gardens- and she could definitely do without the cats, since that’s not the kind of pussy she’s into- if she doesn’t make some kind of move to fix things now.
–
And so, five days after leaving the city, Santana finds herself once again at the kitchen table, her laptop opened in front of her. Beside the computer are the papers that detail what was left to her by her grandmother, that small cash inheritance that came along with the house, looking like it will go entirely into restoring the property surrounding it. The money from her settlement, Santana is truly trying not to put into this, because without a plan for her future, she needs to live on that for as long as possible. On screen, the words Pierce Landscape Architecture and Cleanup stare back at her, and she wonders how she’ll even begin to describe the disaster that looms outside the door. Can she just start with,it’s a fucking mess? Or is that too forward. She thinks it’s probably too forward, but still, it’s true. And what even is a landscape architect anyway? Does she really need that? It’s not like she’s showing off this property to anyone. She doesn’t even know if she’s staying here. This isn’t HGTV, this is tiny town New York. But this seems to be the only landscaper in a fifty mile radius, so she figures, she better just pick up the phone and call, unless she plans on cleaning this mess herself. She shudders at that thought.
“Pierce Landscape Architecture and Cleanup.” A voice, way too chipper, answers, before Santana even realizes she’d dialed the phone. “This is Brittany.”
“Uh.” There’s a silence on the other end of the line.
“Hello?”
“Um.” Santana feels like she’s never used the phone before. This is pretty much the only human contact she’s had, besides the cashier at the grocery store, and she’d almost forgotten what her own voice sounds like. “Do you do crappy old farms?”
She hears a giggle, “I don’t think it’s possible to do a farm. I saw a show on Discovery Health once about a guy who did tractors though. But I, um, don’t do those either. Is this a prank call?”
Santana is giggling despite herself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m not…used to this.”
“Used to using a phone? Are you Amish?”
“No I can use a phone. I mean, finding a landscaper.” Santana mentally facepalms. “This is a big job and I have no idea what it involves. Look, is there, like, one of the actual landscapers there?”
“Well, I prefer the term landscape architect.” There’s a silence from Santana for a moment, while she pieces it together.
“Wait, you?”
“Brittany Pierce, landscape architect at your service.” She announces. Santana sputters, feeling kind of foolish that she didn’t believe that the person who answered the phone could possibly be the landscaper- no, landscape architect- but she just sounds so happy, so, clean, maybe? She can’t imagine this disembodied voice all covered in dirt and bugs and whatever else is out there in that yard.
“I…sorry. I just didn’t think you’d answer your own phone.”
“People don’t believe I’m the owner of this place on a regular basis, it’s fine.” Brittany seems to brush it off. “Listen, I’m a visual learner, I have to see the property to really get an idea of what you need. Where are you located and when are you free?”
“Uhh, well, I’m free anytime. I don’t ever leave. Oh Jesus, I shouldn’t have said that…”
“Makes my job easier.” Brittany laughs a little. “I’m headed out to the west side of town now for a few hours. I could swing by after that, around three. Where’s your place?”
“On Maple. Two-fifteen, Maple.”
“That’s…the Lopez farm, isn’t it?” Brittany asks, and Santana hears some hesitation in her voice.
“Uh yeah… this is a smaller town than I thought.”
“I don’t have too many people to remember. But, I’m glad to see someone bought the place. I was pretty friendly with the old owner so, I hated that it was abandoned.”
“Yeah…” Santana brushes off the comment. “So I guess I’ll see you this afternoon. Thanks for taking the time to come by Miss Pierce.”
“It’s no problem, and please, it’s Brittany. What was your name again?”
“Santana, Santana Lopez.”
Santana works herself up into sort of a frenzy, trying to clean up the house before Brittany arrives. Looking at the stack of dishes in the sink, the mail, all addressed still to Alma Lopez that has been piling by the door, and the books she’d taken to reading strewn all about the porch, coupled with the fact that her abuela was sort of a hoarder, she feels like all she really needs are a few cats, and her first human contact will actually think she’s nuts. What is it about old people that causes them to acquire so much crap anyway? Who actually needs nine hat boxes? People don’t even wear hats anymore! She really needs to get around to throwing this all out, or donating it, or something to get rid of that lingering scent that reminds her far too much of her dead grandmother.
As she’s washing the dishes, Santana contemplates changing her clothes, and then realizes how truly pathetic she’s become, dressing up for the landscaper. And besides, one look at the place, and the girl is probably expecting Miss Havisham to open the door anyway, so at least she’s several steps up as she is. When she finally has the house in somewhat of a state of order, she realizes she never actually got the answer to her question, about what exactly a landscape architect is, so she sits down and types the phrase into Wikipedia, and then her name into Google, hoping Brittany Pierce isn’t some kind of person straight out ofMillion Dollar Listing. Her eyebrows lift when the results pour in, because Brittany is way more than a landscaper. She wasn’t even aware that people up here had this kind of work done on their property, and the library she’d done in town, it’s absolutely gorgeous. As is, apparently, Brittany herself. She gulps and decidesnope, she is absolutely not going down that road. Not right now, and definitely not with someone she’s hoping to hire to salvage this property.
When the doorbell rings, Santana jumps a little at the noise, and while she walks to get it, she notices that she still hadn’t opened the shades to let some light in. At the thought, she can’t help but mumble to herself ‘what reasonable recluse wants children peeping through her shutters?’ And then, when she laughs at her own reference, she shakes her head, really beginning to question her own sanity. She’s now comparing herself to Boo Radley. If there has ever been a point where she’s been convinced she’s lost her mind, it’s now, right this moment, when there’s a really gorgeous and probably entirely too expensive landscape architect just on the other side of the door. Shit, does she have pants on? She has to look down and check. Maybe Kurt was right about at least one thing, in terms of her temporary relocation. If she’s not sure if she has pants on, she might be turning uncivilized. Santana can’t help but peek through the old, dusty peephole, catching her first glimpse of Brittany Pierce, in the flesh, hair pulled up, ripped jeans and a white tank top, even in the April chill, and a flannel shirt tied around her waist.
“What the fuck?” She whispers, it’s the first time in months that those words have come out of her mouth in a good way. The pictures didn’t do her justice, this woman is the hottest person she’s ever seen. She hopes her mouth remembers how to work this time, and she has to remember to take a deep breath before she opens the door.
“Hi! I’m Brittany, you must be Santana?” Brittany beams, a huge grin spreading across her face, before Santana can even say a word.
“I’m. Yeah, I’m Santana. It’s nice to meet you, Brittany.” She extends her hands and shakes it. Squeezing the soft warmth. “Can I get you something? I pretty much have water and beer…”
Brittany giggles at that, it’s the cutest fucking sound Santana has ever heard. And Santana has to just look at her feet, because she’s really struggling here. She’s an adult, she should be able to make eye contact with someone she’s going to do business with. But her mind is so jumbled. She blames the implosion back home, and now her self-imposed exile, really. She’s sinking further into herself until Brittany speaks up.
“Water is good, unless you want beer. But I’ll only have a beer if you have one too.”
“I…I think I’m good right now with water.” Santana swallows hard. She knows it’s unwise for her to have a beer, not with this goddess standing in front of her. “But seriously, you’re welcome to my beer.”
“No, no, water is fine for me. We’ll save the hard stuff for some other time.”
Brittany winks, and Santana turns to head to the kitchen before she word vomits all over everything. She shuts herself up tight, because she’s not doing this, she’s not quite sure why she’s acting like a teenager with a crush over someone she’s talked to for three minutes. She just needs this yard fixed. She doesn’t need any kind of entanglements. Her life has been far too full of them, and the whole point of coming here is to avoid anything that will cause her more stress. Filling two glasses of water, she heads back outside to the porch and finds Brittany sitting in one of the crappy old wicker chairs. She’s embarrassed, because this place really is a dump, but, she’s only been here five days, and there hasn’t been much she could do.
“So, the property…is in pretty rough shape.” Brittany understates, and Santana’s strangely thankful that she didn’t come right out and call a spade a spade. “Have you talked to anyone about insurance claims?”
“Insurance claims? I don’t even know if my grandmother had insurance.”
“Alma was your grandmother?” Brittany asks, and Santana realizes that it had just sort of slipped out, without much thought.
“Until I was sixteen. She hates the homos, so…” Santana’s so bitter about everything she’s been through, about all the years she’d kept her personal life so strictly personal, that she spits it with venom. At Santana’s words, Brittany’s eyes widen, and immediately, she drops the subject.
“Okay, well, I think you should try to look into it. We had some flooding back in November, and a lot of the properties here were covered for it. It’ll save you a bunch of money, if you’re covered.”
“Yeah? Okay, well, I’ll see if I can find anything out about her insurance. Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course, I’m not here to beat you out of money. Do you mind if I walk the property a little? Then I can give you a real estimate of the cleanup and rebuild, and we’ll go from there, if you wanted to do anything else.”
“Yeah, no, of course, whatever you need to do. Did you need anything else from me?”
“I think I’m good.” Brittany tells Santana, and she’s so distracted, it doesn’t even phase her how obvious it is that Brittany actually knows the property.
“Okay, well if you need me, I’ll be wading through all the crap in this house”