“Bobby.”
I’m not usually this coldhearted, this sharp around the edges. But this town and all its ridiculous delays and folklore logic . . . it’s like being slowly strangled with a pretty silk ribbon. And it hurts, to be back here. To care more than I want to.
“Okay, okay. Yes, the will was filed. But there’s still the matter of the historical designation review.”
I stare at him. “The what now?”
“The inn was nominated last year for local historical status. It’s pending.”
“For how long?”
He shrugs in a way that makes me want to launch something across the room. “We were supposed to finalize it last spring, but then I had a knee thing, and the committee sort of dissolved after Eileen moved to Florida.”
“So, it’s just ... sitting in limbo?”
“Not limbo,” he says quickly. “More like a respectful pause.”
“And because of this ‘pause,’ the house is stuck.”
“If the designation goes through, it changes the zoning and the terms of what can be done to the property. Thefirst registered historic site in Blue Willow. A real milestone for the town. Until that’s resolved, the transfer’s frozen. It’s a preservation clause—meant to protect the town’s character from, well, getting chipped away bit by bit.”
“How do weunfreezeit?”
“We can wait a few weeks while we reinstate the committee. Then you can show up at the hearing and make a case.”
“I’ll still be able to sell it in the end, won’t I?”
“You should be able to, yes. But the new owner will have to abide by preservation guidelines. Might limit renovations, signage, modernizations—stuff like that.”
That’s a relief, but, “What am I meant to do in the meantime?”
His face is all false innocence and maple-syruped concern. “You could hang around a bit. Let the paperwork catch up. The house isn’t going anywhere. Who knows, maybe if you stay a while, you’ll change your mind about leaving.”
I raise a brow. “I don’t think so.”
“Either way,” he says with a grin, “the Rourke boy is good company.”
“Wells?” I ask, and he nods enthusiastically. “Is there a reason he’s still living at the inn? I’d rather not have him evicted, but—”
“Evicted? Oh no, Lil’ Miss, you can’t do that.”
“I’m not going to. I assumed—”
“No, I mean legally. Like I said, the transfer’s frozen. Wells is still Elspeth’s tenant, and until the property’s officially yours, you’ve got no authority to remove him.”
Of course I don’t. Of course Elspeth would find a way to tether me to both the house and the aggravating man living inside it. I love my grandmother. I always have and always will. But the woman was a control artist with a flair for long-game sabotage.
I force a smile. “Thanks, Bobby. Really. You’ve been—so helpful.”
He beams. “Anytime, Elsie. Always happy to serve.”
I step back out into the snow, which has somehow doubled in depth and spite since I went inside. The wind nips at my ears and worms down the back of my coat as I trudge through it, my boots sucking against the slush with every step.
Charming, postcard Blue Willow is starting to feel more like a themed endurance test than a snow globe sitting on an old mantel.
As I make my way down Main Street, the cold needles through my coat, and the hush of snow muffles everything. Not many people are out. Most of Blue Willow seems to keep to their porches in the early hours or sleep in when they can.
I pass the grocer, its front window full of canning jars and pyramid stacks of winter citrus, then the old bookshop I used to frequent. The snow keeps falling, light and steady, and I wonder, fleetingly, if I’ll ever stop being cold again.
