The walk back home is slower. By the time I make it there, the sky’s gone peach at the edges. Upstairs, a curtain shifts—Elsie’s window. A shadow lingers, then disappears once more.
On the porch, Hemingway waits, tail flicking, yellow eyes fixed on me.
“I know,” I mutter, bending to scratch his ears. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll always come back.”
The threshold doesn’t bite. The house, it seems, has already forgiven me.
31
ELSIE
The first thingI smell when I wake is cinnamon. It winds warm and steadily through the inn, curling up the stairwell and tugging at me. For a moment, my chest tightens with the weight of an old memory.
Elspeth downstairs in her apron, fussing over breakfast for all the patrons. Then I blink—or maybe I flinch. Because in my heart of hearts, I know she’s gone. The house is quiet. The inn hasn’t welcomed guests in years.
My face is sticky with salt, throat scraped raw. I dress slowly, pulling on fuzzy socks and a sweater with sleeves that swallow my hands.
When I step into the small landing below, I pause to imagine Wells waiting for me in the alcove, coffee in hand. He’d apologize, talk to me, kiss me.
But he isn’t there. He isn’t in his room, either. Or anywhere to be found downstairs. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.
At least the coffee’s fresh.
My fox mug is already washed and waiting for me on the counter. Next to it, a note torn from a flowered pad.
Coffee’s hot. I’ll be around to talk in a bit. – W.
My fingers hover over the scrap. His handwriting leans, the letters sharp where the pen pressed too hard. I flatten the paper with my palm, holding it down like it might fly away.
One sip, and then I set the mug down. There’s already too much heat in my chest.
But there’s no use pacing the kitchen, either, rereading his note until the ink runs. I need to get out of here, if only for a little while.
My hands tremble as I pull on my boots, coat, scarf. I leave the mug steaming where it waits, tug the door shut against the inn’s groan, and step into the snow.
Last night’s melt froze hard over the path. If I go that way, I risk slipping. If I stay, I might lose my nerve entirely. Heart pounding, I call Isla. She answers on the second ring, something clattering in the background.
“Hey, Els.”
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Silence, then softer. “No. I’m at Winnie’s. We’re sorting Goldie’s old clothes for donation. Are you okay?”
I bite down on a sharp breath. “I—no.”
“Do you want to meet me when I’m done? We could go to Juneberry and—” Another pause. “No, you know what? Don’t wait. Come over here now.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to—”
“Elsie. Come.” The line ends before I can argue.
I pocket the phone and keep walking. I won’t risk driving in this weather, but the path is slick, and part of me is afraid I’ll fall. Still, I move forward. Each careful step shakes something loose inside me. Wells’ words echo, not the ones shouted in anger but the ones thick with doubt.
That question—if I had a thing for Beau—has taken root in my chest. Maybe he didn’t mean it in the romantic sense. Maybe it was worse than that. Maybe it was about principle.
Because Beau stands for everything Wells resents. Where Wells is steady, deliberate, loyal to the old ways, Beau is forward-facing. Restless. Where Wells sees legacy, Beau sees leverage. One believes in tending what’s already been built. The other believes in negotiating around it to make something new.
And somehow, in Wells’ mind, that opposition has tangled itself around me.
