Jack stops by twice a week to help with the heavy things. He and Wells bicker over wood species and the correct angle for a scarf joint. I sort linens on the porch and let the clean ones sun themselves sweet.
We make a game of small victories. A window that opens after years of being painted shut. A doorknob that turns without sticking. A strip of wallpaper that peels clean, revealing smooth plaster beneath.
In July,I wear a clover crown Winnie and Goldie show me how to weave. I forget it’s there until a bee hovers near my ear and Wells says, “Careful, princess.”
I stick my tongue out at him. He bows low like I deserve it.
Children streak through Juneberry with jam-slick mouths. The summer market hums. Isla brings a basket of plums from the early tree and says, “Jam?” and I say, “Yes,” and the kitchen becomes a cathedral of bubbling fruit.
At night, we sit on the back steps with bare feet and the hush that only belongs to towns that roll up their sidewalks by nine. Fireflies scribble their quiet notes above the grass.
Blue Willow exhales.
I think, wildly, I might actually be happy without waiting for the fallout.
One August evening,I fall asleep on the parlor couch with Hemingway stretched across my stomach and a notebook of to-do lists curled beside me. I wake to a blanket tucked beneath my chin and the softest kiss pressed to my hairline.
“You see that?” Wells whispers to the house, unaware I’m awake. “Our girl’s got big plans for us.”
The chandelier gives one bright, smug chime.
AUTUMN
Come September, leaves drift into the eaves and whisper themselves to sleep. One morning, I climb to the attic alone and start opening boxes. I do it gently, like waking old animals.
Hatboxes with faded ribbons. A tin of keys labeled in Elspeth’s tidy hand—Rose, Thistle, Wisteria. A bundle of handbills from past Harvest Dances, their edges browned, dates scrawled in pencil. A stack of postcards bound with twine, corners softened from being read.
Recipe cards in that same looping script—one stained plum-purple for jam, one marked “shortbread” with a stern underline. Now that I’ve read (memorized) every letter, I’m no longer afraid to crack open the past.
I catalog. I read. I get rid of only a few merciless things. A nest-chewed runner. A cracked chamber pot. The moldy guestbook that can’t be saved.
I sit cross-legged on the attic floor and speak into the quiet. “I know,” I say. “I know you were scared, too.” A draft slips through the boards and kisses my ankle.
When I carry a bundle downstairs, the stairwell is brighter than it should be for the hour. I don’t question the gifts she gives me.
After supper, I show Wells what I’ve found—how Elspeth crossed out “two sticks of butter” on one recipe and, with great conviction, wrote “three.” It’s a small thing, but it feels like magic, too.
We drink cider by the hearth. The house creaks like an old friend settling its bones.
“You ready to think about reopening?” he asks.
“Slowly,” I say. “We’ll let the inn tell us when she’s ready.”
He smiles into his glass. “I can wait.”
On the lastmild day of October, Jack fixes the storm window in the Thistle Room while Isla sits on the sill and tells him he’s doing it wrong. He’s not. He acts like he’s irritated, but we all know better.
I bring them cinnamon coffee and think,This is how you rebuild a life. You pass around cups. You pass around time. You study what’s broken until you figure out how to fix it.
A week later,someone leaves a bouquet of wild asters on our porch with a note:
For when you open. We’ve been waiting. The Motts.
I press it—and a flower—into Elspeth’s ledger. The petals keep their purple for a long, long time.
WINTER AGAIN
By the time January rolls down the ridge, the inn smells like lemon oil and thyme. The hallways glow with fresh paint. The attic is sorted into neat aisles of history. The guest rooms are shy with new linens and old light.
