They returned downstairs and exited through the door they’d come in. Harlow closed it behind them, checking to make sure it was locked before placing the key back inside the lockbox. “As soon as we get home, I’m calling the agent.”
“Who is it?”
Harlow clicked on the listing. “Alastasia Zehnder.”
“Allie. She’s been around for ages. I’m surprised you don’t remember her.” Aunt Birdie tapped the side of her forehead. “She’s smart as a whip and has probably sold more real estate on Mackinac Island than anyone else in the biz.”
During the ride back to Wynn Harbor Inn, Harlow struggled to look on the bright side. Maybe Lighthouse Lane wasn’t the property for her, and it wasn’t meant to be. The timing of the deal going pending struck her as an odd coincidence. Perhaps someone had visited the island during the Christmas holiday, gone by the place, noticed the for sale sign and, like Harlow, fallen in love.
As soon as they made it back to the cottage, she dialed the agent’s number. It went directly to voicemail, so she left a message, explaining the reason for her call.
“You can always take me up on my idea to split Petoskey Point,” her aunt said.
“I appreciate your generous offer, but I really had my heart set on Lighthouse Lane.” Harlow placed her hand on her chin, glumly staring out the window. “I was so close.”
“And maybe you still are.” Birdie patted her shoulder. “Don’t give up yet. There’s still time for the deal to fall through.”
“You’re right. It’s not over until the ink dries on the closing papers.”
“That’s the spirit.” Her aunt left to head home, claiming she needed to finish tweaking Mort’s costume.
Harlow, thinking a walk would help lift her spirits, bundled back up, donning her ski jacket, the UGG Adirondack boots, perfect for cold snowy weather, her knit cap and fur-lined gloves.
Despite the arctic air, she took the long way around, stopping by to check on her father, who was hard at work making minor repairs to his fishing shanty.
Harlow filled him in on the pending sale, and he echoed his sister’s sentiments. “You’re no quitter. Deals fall through all the time. If the place is meant to be yours, it’ll happen.”
“I know, and I’m trying not to dwell on it, but this is such a bummer.”
“Chin up.”
“Always.”
“I think Mort is ready to head home.”
“Let’s go, buddy.” Harlow followed Mort along the path circling the perimeter of the Wynn Harbor Inn. She thought about her recent visit to Locke Pointe, where she met Morgan Easton. Despite her initial skepticism about the woman, she found a kindred spirit.
Morgan struck her as someone who knew what she wanted and had worked hard to continue her family’s legacy in a way that preserved the past and honored those she loved. Similar to Harlow, she’d suffered a great loss.
In many ways, their lives had taken similar paths. Both had lost their mothers. While Morgan gained a brother and grandmother, Harlow still had her aunt and father.
Initially unsure about downsizing Wynn Harbor Inn, after seeing Locke Pointe she could see the appeal of her father rebuilding on a smaller scale…not as small as Morgan’s bed-and-breakfast, but not as massive as the family’s resort had been. More of an “in between the two.”
The direction she and the pup took led them past her mother’s gravesite, to a second path intertwining with the main lodge.
Harlow slowed, stopping in front of the walkway. A demolition crew had arrived weeks earlier to start taking down what was left of the building, and the thought of watching the last remnants being hauled away made her heart hurt.
Before the demolition crew arrived, Jim Cook, the fire investigator Harlow and her father had hired, completed a thorough investigation of the lodge and surrounding structures.
Caleb Jackson, Harlow’s high school sweetheart, who was now the island’s fire chief and also a personal friend of the investigator, had been on hand for most of the process.
The expert had taken samples and tons of photos of the ruins with plans to piece together the exact timeline of what had taken place that fateful night.
Because of the time lapse and extent of the damage, he warned the Wynns it would be weeks, maybe even months before he completed his preliminary findings. Cook alsocautioned them that it might be a bust, depending on several factors. In other words, there might never be a “smoking gun.”
Back at the cottage, Harlow turned the Christmas tree’s lights on. She found a local station with holiday music and trekked into the kitchen. It was time to get down to the business of baking cookies for the Mackies’ annual cookie exchange.
Harlow, having gone all out decorating the cottage, invited her friends for an evening get-together. At the top of her cookie list were her mother’s frosted sugar cookies, a recipe passed down for generations. She dug out the cookie cutters Ginger Wynn had used for as long as Harlow could remember.
