She pours while I open my notebook, flipping to a fresh page. For a while, we talk about business. She gives me her memory of harvest gatherings—Elspeth pouring Mirabelle cider by the pitcher, her mother playing fiddle in the parlor while half the town crowded shoulder to shoulder.
I scribble it all down, grateful for the details. Grateful, too, for the way her voice settles something jangly in me. And yet, sitting here still feels strange and distant, like picking up a conversation years after it’s gone quiet.
Isla and I used to spend entire afternoons on these orchard rows—mud on our boots, braids unraveling, daring each other to climb higher into the trees. She was the kind of friend who knew the shape of my laugh, the secrets I whispered into pillows at sleepovers.
And then, like most things, it frayed. By the time we were preteens, Isla had her school friends here in Blue Willow, the ones she saw every weekday, every game, every dance. I was the summer girl. The long-weekend girl. A novelty, not permanence.
By the time I left at eighteen, we were already half strangers, waving politely in passing instead of running barefoot down the orchard rows together.
There were college acquaintances after that. Work friends. People to grab drinks with or swap complaints about managers.But not one person I could go to in the hollow moments, the quiet hours when the weight pressed too heavily. Not one who knew me at the root.
Now, here’s Isla again, pouring tea for me like no years have passed at all.
“Your grandmother had a knack for making everyone feel at home,” she says, echoing the same sentiment I’ve heard thrice over. “I know it’s not the line the county might be looking for, but I needed you to know how much that place really means to me, to all of us.”
The words sting. Because still, I feel like an outsider every time I step across its threshold. Still, I stiffen when I should settle. I’ve always loved the inn, but I know we’ve lost our rhythm, too.
I force a smile anyway. “Believe me, I know.”
She studies me over her teacup. “How are things going over there?”
“Fine.” The lie comes out practiced. “Wells is bossy. Keeps me on a short leash. But I’ve . . . put some much-needed distance between us this week. No point in getting any closer when I’m not staying.”
Something flickers in her expression—amusement, sympathy, maybe both. She doesn’t press. Instead, she gets up, rummages in a basket, and hands me two jars of spiced plums. “For when the work feels too heavy. Sweet things help.”
I tuck them into my satchel. “Thanks, Isla.”
“It’s good having you back. If you ever want to walk the rows, to talk about anything that isn’t the inn, you know where to find me.”
The words settle somewhere deep in my gut. It feels like an invitation for me to remember what it was like to have a real friend. Not just a classmate or a coworker, but someone who wants me for the unremarkable hours, too.
I miss that, I think. More than that, I sort of crave it.
By the timethe committee gathers that evening, the parlor’s already tight and stuffy with heat. The inn’s old boiler has finally shaken off its sulk, and the house breathes warm again. Waking up, I suppose.
It should be comforting, but it isn’t. The heat clings like accusation, prickling my skin, crawling up my collar. Maybe it’s luck, or maybe it’s her—stirring from whatever sleep I interrupted.
I’ve started to wonder if my being back has something to do with it. If the warmth is for me. And if I walk away again, if I hand over the deed and cut ties for good, what happens to her then?
Either the house knows what’s coming, or my guilt has taken on its own temperature.
As I shrug out of my coat, Wells corners me in the hall.
“Where’ve you been?” His eyes narrow like he’s been keeping a tally. Not only today, but all week.
“Out,” I say, clutching the bag tighter against my hip.
“Out,” he echoes, bone-dry. He lifts his hand into the lamplight and flexes his fingers. The cut from the ladder accident has reopened—skin red and angry, one jagged line that bisects his palm.
“Split again. Might be because my wannabe nurse disappeared on me.”
“That’s a terrible nickname,” I mutter, stepping around him. “And it’s not fully healed because you’re not exactly a model patient. You need more salve.”
He follows me into the parlor, close enough that his boots scuff the back of my heel.
“You could’ve at least told me where you were going.”
“I didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
