“You’re glaring at the table like it insulted your mother,” I say, wiping flour from my hands.
“Don’t care that much about my mother,” he says, flat and sharp. “I’m just making sure everything’s in order.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“It feels like something’s wrong.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.”
I know I should let it go. Guests are going to be walking in the door any minute, and it’s not really my business why he’s upset. But the half-healed people-pleaser in me balks at leaving things unsettled. And I’ve never been particularly good at holding myself back from pushing when I shouldn’t.
“Not now, or not ever?”
He finally looks at me, eyes dark in the lamplight, golden hair a little mussed like he ran a hand through it too many times. He’s the kind of handsome that sneaks up on you—quiet and uninvited—because you were too busy being irritated to notice. The kind of man who guards his silences like he’s afraid they’ll give something away.
And I’m not immune to it. Not even close.
“The latter, really,” he snaps. “You shouldn’t have agreed to host the meeting.”
I laugh, quick and unsure. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly.” He grunts. “I don’t want the house listening in while you argue it’s worth less than it is.”
“That’s not how its magic works,” I whisper.
At least, I don’t think it is. The house has always felt half-alive to me—less a ghost than a presence in the walls. It reacts when it wants to. A draft that slams a door. A drawer that opens before you reach it. Floorboards that hush or creak depending on the words you choose.
Butfeeling? I’m not sure I ever believed it went that far.
“It’s not?” His voice drops lower. “You’d be surprised what she hears, what she feels. I know you talk to her, too.”
My brow shoots up. “Her?”
Before I can push him, the front door opens, cold air sweeping in with Bobby’s booming voice. “Knock-knock! Hope we’re not too early.” He stamps snow from his boots, cheeks red, smile broad.
Alma follows at her own measured pace, shawl trailing, eyes sharp enough to make me stand a little straighter. Jack Rhodes brings up the rear, scarf hanging loose, mullet still wild from the wind, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
I’m still not sure this is entirely fair. The mayor, the town doctor, Wells, and his very best friend. And then me, the girl who vanished and came back with a to-do list and a deadline.
“Evenin’, Wells,” Bobby says, dropping his papers on the table. “Elsie, these the scones you made?”
I wince. “Attempted to make.”
Jack picks one up, turns it over in his palm like he’s weighing a stone. “Looks like you could patch a roof with these.”
“They’re . . . rustic,” I mutter, cheeks hot.
Alma sets her shawl neatly over the back of a chair and lowers herself. It’s the kind of precision that makes me feel twelve again. The kind of quiet authority that doesn’t need to raise its voice.
I was treated by her once or twice as a kid. I can remember lavender compresses, the sharp smell of calendula, her voice low and steady while my fever spiked. Western medicine is sort of a funny concept when you have magical plums and honey that chase off the ache before it blooms.
But Alma still stitched my knee when I gashed it on the orchard gate, muttering about tetanus and herbal practices in the same breath. She’s a good doctor, a serious one.
Which is why my stomach knots when she says, “We’re not here for baked goods.”
Bobby chuckles, takes the head of the table, and gestures to me. “But it’s mighty hospitable of Miss Hart to open her home for us.”
