“It’s my upholstery, too.”
“Exactly.” He disappears down the hall.
I peek out from under the cucumbers. The miniature chandelier above the daybed sways faintly in the light, like it’s laughing.
I stick my tongue out at it. It flickers back, delighted.
Apparently, Blue Willow approves of idle afternoons. Who knew?
The next morning,Alma stops by with a paper sack of citrus and her usual brand of medical tyranny.
“Vitamin C for the crud going around,” she says, pressing an orange into my hand like a prescription. “And if you must bake, try shortbread. Lower risk.”
She casts a withering look at the burnt loaf on the counter, then pats my cheek with maternal finality.
I do my best to hide my sniffles. I won’t give her the satisfaction of putting me on bed rest. I don’t want to be sick. I want to be well—here—present.
SPRING
Snow loosens its grip on the ridge, sliding into muddy ruts along Main Street. Wells and I walk into town after lunch, our boots filthy with it. We stop at Juneberry for coffee.
Winnie tucks a tiny posy of violets into my scarf “for luck.”
Goldie tries to sell me her rock collection, then gives me the whole box for free when she learns I only have paper money.
“It doesn’t jingle,” she says, frowning. “And that’s not any fun at all.”
She hands it over anyway, magnanimous. “You can owe me cookies.”
In early May,Isla and I drink wine on the back steps of her cottage while Jack replaces the porch rail. She tells me orchardstories—about grafts that took and grafts that didn’t, about her great-great-grandfather and his stubborn obsession with plum varietals no one else wanted to grow.
We watch Jack measure twice and cut once. We both pretend we aren’t watching him at all. A man with calloused hands and a level in his tool belt is, unfortunately, very hard to ignore.
In the afternoons,a warm breath blows up the hill from town. I leave the kitchen window cracked. I write lists: rooms to repaint, linens to mend, recipes to try. I cross off exactly one thing each day, then stop. That’s the rule.
One thing, no more. The house hums its approval every time I set the pen down.
I start reading romance novels again. Honest ones that admit people are messy and still deserving. Sexy ones that take their time. I tear through three in a week.
On one particularly raunchy night, Wells finds me in the alcove, ankle hooked over the arm of the chair, eyes glazed with fictional longing.
“You’re insatiable,” he says. “And not just in bed, apparently.”
“Get out,” I mutter, fanning the pages at him. “The duke’s about to confess his secret.”
He backs away, hands raised, grinning all the way to the stairs.
On the first mild evening,we walk to the cemetery together. I swap all the dried witch hazel for hellebores—pale green, waxy-soft, like something carved from soap.
“Hi,” I tell Elspeth, not because it’s polite but because I want to. “I’m resting, like you would’ve told me to. Don’t haunt me about the shitty baked goods.”
A breeze flicks my hair. Wells mutters, “She’s not promising anything,” and tightens my scarf just the same.
We turn toward home as the streetlamps blink on, one by one.
SUMMER
The garden explodes. Every morning before breakfast, I deadhead roses until my fingers stain and my wrists smell like cut green. Wells shows me how to sand a banister and how not to, which involves twice as much dust and much more swearing.
