He gives me a stern look, hands folded together on the desk. “Please be honest with me. Are you staying in Fern River? Is this where you want to be?”
The questions surprise me. I hold my breath, gauging my answer.Is this where I want to be?
I used to be sure it wasn’t. Iused to take every opportunity to be somewhere else.
But this time, something’s different. This feels like the closest I’ve ever been to findinghome.
“Yes. Yes, sir.” I nod. “It’s where I want to be.”
He studies me for a long moment. Finally, he says, “I’ll consider allowing you and Garrett to buy the practice together. But nothing is decided yet. Iwant to know for sure that you’re sticking around here. I’ll be frank, settling down with Fable is a great start, but I need to know you want to stay permanently. Idon’t want to leave Garrett in a bind by trusting you.”
A tentative spark of hope ignites in my chest. “Right. Absolutely.”
“I’d like you and Garrett to take charge on the adopt-a-thon next month. Coordinate with the shelter. Plan the events and get involved in the community part of it. Show me you can be a good team, then I’ll decide about the practice.”
I nod. “Ican do that.”
“I’ll talk to Garrett,” Arthur says. “Make sure he knows the plan.”
“Thank you.” I stand and reach across the desk to shake his hand. “I won’t let you down. Ipromise.” That spark of hope flares brighter. Imight have a chance with this.
But as I leave his office, the reality of how I got that chance settles like a lead weight in my stomach. Accepting his congratulations about Fable was one thing—but this suddenly feels much bigger. I’ve just fabricated an entire relationship to make myself look better in his eyes.
And my only chance at making this right involves talking to Fable. And crossing my fingers she doesn’t try to murder me for what I’ve done.
Chapter 3
Fable
“Knocks, I think we’re cursed.” I nudge a bucket under the dripping pipe. Every time I think I’ve finally managed to stop this leak, I run into a new problem.
My tortoiseshell kitten nudges at my elbow, trying to worm his way under the bathroom sink to see what I’m doing.
“No, buddy. Iactually don’t need your help for this.” I drop the pipe wrench so I can set him back a few feet behind me. He gives me a sassymeowin response. “You’re already on my naughty list after the shit you pulled with my phone cord. Idon’t need you making this worse.”
His dark eyes blink once, completely unapologetic about the fact that my phone is now dead because he chewed through the charging cable.
I pull my laptop onto my thighs and press play on the video. The man on the screen explains the steps to cut and replace the piping while I make a supply list on the back of a receipt. When the video ends, I walk outside to shut off the water to the A-frame. At least while I’m at work today, I don’t have to worry about that small leak turning into a flood.
On my way back down the hall, my feet pause in front of thedownstairs bedroom door. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for my routine check-in as I turn the knob.
Dust particles dance through the sunlight streaming in from the window. They drift over the stacks of boxes, a sheet-covered armchair, and the table that sat in Gramps’s kitchen for as long as I can remember.
This room is a time capsule, holding memories for me that I’m too afraid to examine closely. Opening any of these boxes—seeing his books, blankets, puzzles, Christmas ornaments—would hurt too much. So they stay tucked in this room. Frozen in time. Undisturbed.
He’s still everywhere in and around this cabin. In the kitchen, where he used to make me and my sisters cups of tea every afternoon. In the living room, where he read me stories while I did puzzles. In the dining area, where we labeled jars of his fresh thimbleberry jam. On the back porch, where we sat, watching the seasons change.
After Gramps died two years ago, my sisters and I spent a weekend here, putting everything in boxes until Dad could decide what to do with it. When our parents started having conversations a few months ago about how run-down the property had gotten, they hinted at selling it, and I couldn’t let that happen. The thought of someone else owning this place made me nauseous.
Knocks brushes my ankle as he steps two paws into the room. “No, no, no,” I whisper, pulling him back. “This isn’t for you.” It isn’t for me, either—touching anything in this room would feel like poking at an infected wound.
I scoop him up and glance over everything for one more long moment before carefully shutting the door.
“He would’ve loved you though,” I murmur, nuzzling my cheek against Knocks’s head as I walk to the kitchen to make tea.
While the kettle heats up, I pluck the to-do list from the fridge and add a few items to it. The list seems to be growing instead of dwindling. There are some bigger, safety-related items that need to be done as soon as possible, like fixing the broken steps, replacing all the smoke detectors, leveling the house, and stabilizing the railing on the stairs.
Then there are things that would be nice to fix, like getting some insulation under the house before next winter and figuring out why it takes about seven years for the water to get warm in the shower.
