The drive downtown takes about fifteen minutes, winding through residential streets before hitting the cluster of shops and cafes that make up Dark River’s heart. I turn onto the street and the building appears—three stories of brick that’s been there since the 1920s. Ruth’s framing shop occupies the ground floor, my unit sits on the second, and Mr. Castellano lives on the third.
I pull into the small parking lot behind the building and parkoff to the side, leaving the designated tenant space empty. The October air is cool when I get out, carrying that particular smell of rain coming off the Sound mixed with fallen leaves and woodsmoke from someone’s chimney. I head for the side entrance and climb the narrow staircase to the second floor.
The studio smells faintly like lemon cleaning products when I unlock the door and step inside, which means Danny’s cleaning service came through yesterday. Morning light floods through the south-facing windows, warming the hardwood floors and bouncing off the white walls. The space looks good. Clean. Empty. Ready for someone new.
I run through the mental checklist Danny usually handles, but part of me really doesn’t love being here.
I bought this place when I was twenty-three, young and optimistic and convinced that real estate was the smartest investment I could make. That owning property was what responsible adults did. Victoria and I lived here for four years while I got Harbor & Ash off the ground with Alex. The restaurant consumed everything in those early years. Eighty-hour weeks, maxed-out credit cards, constant stress. Victoria was in graduate school so we barely saw each other.
I thought the close quarters would bring us closer together, that sharing 600 square feet would somehow create intimacy. Instead it just meant we couldn’t escape the cracks in our marriage, couldn’t avoid the growing realization that we’d gotten married too young for reasons that made sense at the time but didn’t hold up under pressure.
When the restaurant finally started making real money and we could afford something bigger, moving into my current house felt like the answer to everything. Big and spacious with windows overlooking the water, surrounded by Douglas firs and cedar trees, enough breathing room that I thought it could save what was left of us.
She got pregnant with Chloe about six months after wemoved in. The marriage lasted about another year after Chloe was born before Victoria sat me down one night and told me she’d been seeing someone else for months and she was moving to Seattle to be with him.
She didn’t want to be a mom either, apparently. Didn’t want the responsibility or the sacrifice. So she signed off on only taking Chloe one weekend a month and left us to figure out our new lives without her.
That was six years ago. The sting has mostly faded, replaced by dull acceptance and honestly relief that Chloe and I get to build our life on our own terms. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, so I don’t regret any of it. But being in this apartment still brings some of it back. The hope I had when I bought it. The optimism that feels embarrassing now.
I check my phone again, looking for applicant information from Danny. Nothing yet. He’s probably still dealing with his plumber crisis. I scroll through our texts just to double-check and realize I don’t actually know the applicant’s name.
I glance at the time. Ten now, which means whoever’s showing up should be here any second. I’ll just avoid using their name until they introduce themselves and hope it doesn’t come across as weird. As if on cue, there’s a knock at the door.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and cross the room, pulling the door open with what I hope is a friendly, professional smile. “Hi, thanks for?—“
The words catch in my throat.
Emma Hayes. Her red hair practically glows in the light from the stairwell. She’s wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater, and her face goes through a rapid journey from polite smile to surprise to something that looks like amusement.
“You have got to be kidding me,” she says, laughing. “Okay, how small is this town actually? Because I’m starting to think there’s like fifteen people total and we’re all just running into each other on rotation.”
“Hardly fair,” I say, stepping back to let her in. “There’s at least twenty if you count the tourists.”
“Touché.” She steps past me into the studio, and I catch a hint of something fruity, like apricot jam. She sets her tote bag down near the door. “So in addition to owning the restaurant, I’m guessing you also own this apartment? What else—do you deliver mail in your spare time?”
“Just the first two. Ted has mail delivery covered.” I close the door behind us. “Though you did leave out my title as reigning chili cook-off champion. Very prestigious.”
She laughs at that, moving toward the windows where morning light floods across the hardwood floors. “Wow. This light is incredible.” She touches the windowsill, running her fingers along the wood. “South-facing?”
“Yeah. Gets good sun most of the day.” I watch her take in the space. “I’m a bit surprised to see you here, actually. I figured you already had a place in Dark River.”
She turns to face me. “You’d think. I’ve been staying at the Pine Lodge Extended Stay this entire time. The rental market is surprisingly difficult around here.”
“That place?” I make a face before I can stop myself. “The one out by the highway with the flickering vacancy sign?”
She laughs, and the sound fills the empty studio. “That’s the one. Questionable stains and all. Yours was the first listing I saw that wasn’t wildly overpriced and didn’t look like it came with a free tetanus shot. I practically lunged at my laptop to email about it.”
“Good places get scooped up fast around here,” I say, smiling at the image of her diving for her computer. “My property manager texted me the day after we posted it and said there were about a dozen applications, but he had a good feeling about the first one that came through.”
She grins, crossing her arms. “So does being Chloe’s teacher give me an extra advantage here? Because I’m willing to use that connection shamelessly.”
I laugh, caught off guard by her directness. “Assuming you’re not planning to use the place as some kind of underground lair for criminal activity, I think it’s fair to say it’s yours if you want it.”
“Damn.” She snaps her fingers. “I’ll have to find somewhere else to store all my stolen art.” She walks toward the bathroom, peeking inside. “This is really nice though. Perfect size. How are the neighbors?”
“Ruth downstairs owns the framing shop and lives in the apartment down the hall. Sweet as can be.” I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter. “Above you is Mr. Castellano. He’s nice but fair warning... he plays violin at odd hours. Usually around eleven at night or six in the morning. Besides that it’s pretty quiet, and thankfully he’s quite talented, which makes it more bearable.”
“How very Sherlock Holmes of him,” she says, laughing.
