I give a soft, aching smile. “At least you’re here with us now, Hart.”
Alma taps the paper. “We did it.”
Bobby slaps the table. “Damn right, we did. And to celebrate—” He jerks his thumb at the doorway, where Jack is hauling in a long package wrapped in brown paper. “Thought we could use a little fanfare.”
They peel it back together. Fresh cedar gleams, edges sanded smooth, letters carved deep. A sign meant to outlive us all.
BLUE WILLOW INN
The Blue Willow Inn has stood at the heart of this ridge since the late 1800s, when the Hart family built a modest boarding house for travelers heading through town. Expanded over generations, the house grew into a gathering place for seasonal workers, festivals, and neighbors.
Elspeth Hart, who took ownership in the mid-twentieth century, preserved its hospitality with a keen eye for community traditions. Under her care, the inn became a fixture for storytelling, seasonal celebrations, and local history. Through winter storms, harvests, and generations of guests, Blue Willow Inn has remained a cornerstone of the town’s identity.
Recorded Local Historic Landmark, 2025
Marker is property of the Town of Blue Willow
The sign glows as if it carries its own light. I swear the house warms around us, too. A low, contented hush moves through the walls and out into the garden. Ever since that night in the alcove, when Elsie’s lips touched mine again, it’s been radiating with approval.
And now, with proof of its endurance carved into cedar, it feels triumphant.
Elsie presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling. I look away, because if I watch her fall apart over this, I’ll give in to every want I’ve swallowed for weeks. I’ll lift her up, spin her around, and kiss her senseless in front of all of them.
“Shall we?” Alma asks.
We step out to the porch, the sign carried between us. No one says who should take the lead. We all fall into place without thinking. It isn’t ceremony so much as instinct—one person holds, another drives the nail—but it’s Elsie who makes it something holy.
She presses her fingers lightly to the wood, tracing the letters. Her shoulders ease. The strain she’s worn since the day she came home begins to fall away, the kind of shift you only notice if you’ve been watching her long enough to understand what it’s cost.
When she finally steps back, we all stand together in reverent silence. It feels like a brand-new door swinging open. And the house, I think, must be taking its first full breath in years.
Elsie exhales right along with it. And for the first time, she doesn’t look like she’s bracing for disappointment or waiting to be turned away. She looks rooted.
We don’t lingerin the cold for long. The whole committee—and half the town, it seems—winds up at the Harbor Light Bar, strings of lights glowing warm against frosted windows. Inside, the place is packed elbow to elbow, laughter and chatter drowning out the jukebox.
Drinks flow, food arrives in heaping baskets, and toasts ring out over the clink of glasses.
Alma to the committee: “To the patience of historians and the power of evidence.”
Bobby to Elspeth: “To the woman who taught me how to swear and sand a banister in the same afternoon.”
The whole room cheers. People clap Elsie on the back and press drinks into her hands. I hear Mrs. Fowler say it as she passes me a napkin: “She’s a Hart through and through. Elspeth would be proud.”
Elsie blushes at the attention, but I can see how she folds it up, tucks it away for later. It bolsters her in quiet ways.
I nurse a beer and do my best not to stare. It works until Beau Langford walks in, all effortless charm and polished boots. He moves through the crowd with ease, shaking hands and making jokes.
The man has always known how to sell himself. That’s half the problem. The other half is that people keep buying what he’s offering.
I stopped trusting him the day he carved the Ashbys out of their own farm.
Copper Hollow had been in Greer’s family for generations. When her grandfather passed, the property shares went to his eldest son. Greer’s uncle, already in debt up to his ears, tried to sell them behind closed doors.
Beau stepped in. Paid off the debts. Bought him out clean. Said he was keeping the land in the right hands. Said it was about protecting the legacy.
Greer had just come home. She was ready to take on the family business, ready to make something of it. Beau swept in with a lawyer and a holding company before her boots had even dried.
The Langfords were in, the Ashbys were out.
