She frowns. “Sure, I do.”
“Your plan is to get the hell out of Dodge, isn’t it? To never see these people again?”
To sell your grandmother’s magical inn, a Hart legacy, and leave a quarter of Blue Willow’s magic vulnerable toconsolidation, to rot. It’s already fading and dulled, as evidenced by the inn’s constant state of mood swings and half-function.
“Yes, but—”
“So, you shouldn’t give a shit whether or not they like you.”
The thing is, no one actually hates her. It’s too hard to. Even when she’s being inflexible about the sale, she’s still got that quiet intensity that draws people in. Alma sees it. Jack sees it. I’m certainly not immune.
If she weren’t so damn insistent on walking away, she’d be easy to fall for. Easy to defend. Easy to keep. But as it stands, she’s trying to escape, and I’m trying not to care when she does.
She chews her lip, near tears. Fuck if I know how to handle that.
“You did well enough during the meeting,” I add, if only to soothe the crack in her voice. “No one tried to run you out with a pitchfork.”
She looks up slowly. “Did I? Alma seemed ... sharp.”
I keep my eyes on the fire. “Alma only corrects people she thinks can handle it.”
A tired laugh slips out of her. She leans back, lets the chair hold her. “It felt like I was a moldy specimen under a microscope, the way they were looking at me.”
“That’s just how their faces settle. They look at everybody that way, especially Jack.”
She shakes her head. “Not you.”
“That’s different.”
Her mouth tilts, then steadies. “It’s not just them. It’s not just tonight.”
“What isn’t?”
The log in the hearth settles with a soft crack, sending a ribbon of heat curling through the room. It reaches us in a thick wave. Warmth, all-encompassing. The house must be listening—reaching—toward her, toward us.
It’s trying.
And I know exactly what she means. Exactly what it feels like to stand at the edge of a place that knows everyone but you. She’s planning to walk away, and I recognize the shape of that feeling all too well.
As I sit here and try not to reach for her, the ache in my hand becomes a low throb. The plum salve has already knit the angriest edges together, but God, I need that fresh batch. Almost more than I need to keep my mouth shut and head upstairs.
“I almost left this place once,” I say to the fire instead of looking into her honey eyes. What good is conviction if I can’t offer it to someone else when they need it most? “Before I realized I belonged in Blue Willow for good.”
Elsie shifts in her chair, the blanket slipping a little lower on her lap.
“I came here after grad school,” I say. “Or after I dropped out, I should say. Thought I’d work a season, help with repairs, figure out what came next. But one season turned into another, then another, and suddenly, three years had gone by. I woke up one morning and realized I’d built nothing. Hadn’t moved an inch since the day I unpacked my truck.”
I rub my thumb over the rough edge of the table. “So, I packed it back up. Made it as far as Hartford. Pulled into a diner with really bad coffee.”
“What stopped you?”
“I called to tell Elspeth where I was.” I can still see the laminate table, the ring of the mug, the pinboard behind the counter with curling photos of men who caught fish. “She didn’t ask me to come back. She said, ‘You’ll be here when supper’s ready,’ and hung up. Not a threat or a plea, but certainty.”
“Did you turn around right away?”
“I told myself I’d stay until morning. Find a hotel.” I give a derisive laugh. “I was back before it got dark that night.”
Elsie’s eyes find my hand where it rests on the table. There’s no bandage now, only a pink healing wound. She reaches for the mug near her elbow and nudges it toward me so I don’t have to stand.
