Serenity, Michigan
November 1879
Harold Coburn could not believe his good fortune. Being a newcomer to the town of Serenity, nestled in the heart of the booming lumber industry of Michigan, he’d expected to have trouble finding lodgings. In fact, he’d been told there was a housing shortage in the area, given that everyone and their dogs were moving in, looking for work and following the timber trade as it had moved west from New England and into the vast forests of the peninsular state. What luck that he’d run into the genteel, well-dressed man at the train station, who’d noticed his confusion and uncertainty and approached him with a proposition.
“You are new in town, I take it?” the man had said.
Coburn had nodded, feeling all the more shabby in his well-worn clothing as he stood before the man in the black, double-breasted frock coat and sleek, charcoal trousers. “New and bereft of all comforts.”
“Ah. Looking for lodging, are you?”
Again, Coburn nodded.
The man had studied him for a moment, musing, then said, “Indeed, rooms are as scarce as hens’ teeth and will set you back heavily.” He let that sink in, watching Coburn’s face expectantly. When he saw the crestfallen expression he smiled and continued.
“Well, I have a large house on the north side of town, and I happen to be looking for lodgers. If you’re interested, you can have a room for two dollars a month.”
Coburn gaped at him. Two dollars a month was below average boarding rates, and well below what the man was hinting that he would have to pay in a booming economic area where housing was limited at best. In addition, this man was clearly of means, and Coburn was not used to such individuals demonstrating exceptional generosity. Their soulless greed, he’d always assumed, was how’d they made their money in the first place.
The man had smiled at his new expression: relief. It was a broad smile, revealing white, even teeth—a characteristic noteworthy due to scarcity—but it left Coburn feeling a bit chilled at his core. Still, the momentary discomfort was quickly squashed by the sheer power of his good fortune.
“Am I to presume from your expression that you wish to accept my offer?” the man asked.
Coburn nodded, wordlessly at first, but then a string of grateful thank yous and proclamations of his indebtedness poured forth. At last, the man held up one gloved hand to put an end to the appreciative tirade.
“Enough, enough. There will be plenty of time to thank me later once you’re settled in. You have your luggage?”
Coburn held up the single carpet bag he carried. “I travel light,” he said. “It is both efficient and sufficient, as I have few worldly possessions at the moment.”
“Very good.” The man nodded, and then abruptly stuck out his hand. “By the by, I never introduced myself. My name is Michael Parré. Welcome to Serenity.”
“Harold Coburn. And thank you.”
The two men shook hands, and it was like the bridging of two worlds, with Coburn’s calloused palm gripping Parré’s leather-gloved one.
And now Harold Coburn sat at the desk in his room at Mr. Parré’s enormous house on a hill, scribbling in his journal by the gas lighting. The room came equipped with a wall bracket gas light, which was something of a novelty to Coburn. None of the older, much less stylish boarding houses where he’d previously stayed had incorporated such a thing, having remained firmly within the grips of the paraffin oil lamp. He had to admit to an initial sense of unease over the integrated gas system but had gotten over this quickly due to the sheer convenience.
Now he put down his journal and rose from the desk, stretching and yawning. He’d already taken care of his nightly toilet at the central washroom down the hall and was dressed in his nightclothes, ready for bed.
He doused the light and went to the window, taking a moment to overlook the lights that still glowed warm and golden in the town below. It really was a spectacular view. And tomorrow he’d visit the town and begin asking around for work. He flexed his biceps and squeezed the muscle, feeling certain he’d be able to handle the demanding work of a lumberjack. As long as it meant a steady paycheck, something he had not had for some time, he could handle any kind of work.
He pulled the curtains over the window. He felt a little silly doing so, but the illusion of privacy comforted him, even though he knew that no one would be peering in his window.
And then he walked to bed, slipped beneath the covers, and fell almost instantly asleep.