The oven timer rings downstairs. The sound is so ordinary it makes me laugh through the tears.
“Must be the universe,” Winnie says, wiping her eyes. “Confirming you’re making the right choice.”
For the first time in forever, I believe her.
32
WELLS
By the timethe sun sinks behind the ridge, I’ve made a fool of myself in the kitchen.
I’ve cooked the one thing Elspeth drilled into me until I could do it blindfolded: roast chicken with Mirabelle wine and thyme. Potatoes slicked with oil. Green beans bright with lemon. Bread warmed on a low rack, Mirabelle jam on the side.
I polish the glasses, light the beeswax candles, set witch hazel in a vase. Fleetwood Mac spins on the record player. It’s Elsie’s favorite.
When the sky fades to blue-black, everything is ready. The latch clicks, and Elsie steps in, pink from the wind, curls spilling out from under her hat. Her gaze lands on the table, the candles, the music.
For a few heartbeats, she stands there unwrapping her scarf, gloves sliding from her fingers one by one. I can see the exhaustion in the slump of her shoulders.
When she glances up, our eyes meet across the warm light of the kitchen.
She gestures limply. “What is all this?”
“Dinner,” I say. “And an apology. The big kind.”
For a long moment, we only look at each other. It hurts like hell.
“Els,” I say, voice raw. “I’m really fuckin’ sorry. For not trusting you. For saying the ugliest thing I could think of. I was scared, and I made it all your fault.”
“You told me running is what I do best,” she says quietly.
“I know. It was cruel, and it wasn’t true.” My hands shake; I show her my palms in surrender. “And about the other thing I said—that was wrong, too. Wecanmake this work. If you still want me, that is.”
She studies me. “You think dinner fixes it?”
“No. Dinner feeds you so you don’t have to hold this on an empty stomach. Dinner is me hoping you’ll stay in the room, even if we argue. Dinner is me promising to always come back.”
Her mouth trembles. “You accused me of wanting Beau.”
I flinch. “I accused you of hurting me to avoid your own fear. Of reaching for something that stands against everything I believe in, so completely that it felt like a rejection of me at the core. That’s not the same. And it’s worse.”
“Why didn’t you just talk it through with me?”
“Because I didn’t trust myself to be decent. Beau baited me, and I built a whole lie around it. Clarity would’ve cost me nothing. I should’ve kept my faith in you.”
Her anger flickers, then falters. “I went to Winnie’s today. Isla was there. I cried in their bed for an hour while Goldie told me not to be sad anymore.”
Something in me breaks. “I’m glad you weren’t alone.”
“I told you I’m not selling,” she says, sniffling. “I’m not putting the inn in a trust, either. I’m staying here in Blue Willow.”
I want to fall to my knees in gratitude. I want to pull her close, press my face to her shoulder, and ask if she truly meansit. I want to memorize every breath between us so I never forget what this moment feels like.
All I manage is, “Thank you.”
“I didn’t choose it because of you,” she says quickly.
“I hope it has to do with a helluva lot more than me.” I swallow thickly, then, “Let’s eat before we talk more.”
