It wasn’t exactly a Shakespearean sonnet, nor did it erase the memory of his earlier, thunderous disapproval. But from Captain Grumpy, the man who communicated primarily in minimal sentences and intimidating scowls, itwas practically a declaration of undying admiration. My heart had done a ridiculous little flutter kick.
Sipping coffee—real coffee, brewed in my brand-new, extra-fancy coffee maker—I replayed the brief interaction in his kitchen. The way he’d looked so utterly uncomfortable having me there, like a bear who’d discovered a determined, slightly manic raccoon hosting an impromptu tea party in its den.
The way his voice, usually so controlled, had been rough, almost hesitant, when he’d admitted to being “abrupt.” The almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth when I’d babbled about my less-than-epic summer-camp trout-catching adventures. It was amusing. And, if I was honest with myself, oddly appealing. Austin was so buttoned-up, so fiercely guarded. My cookies, my humble peace offering, had clearly managed to short-circuit at least a few of his grumpy defenses.
My thoughts drifted to his dark, thick hair, slightly messy from the sea wind or from running his strong-looking hands through it in exasperation. The dark scruff shadowing his admittedly fine jawline gave him an air that was both ruggedly handsome and a little dangerous. It made his intense gray eyes, the color of a storm-swept ocean, even more striking.
There was no denying it. The man was distractingly attractive, even when scowling at me like I was a persistent barnacle he was trying to scrape off the hull of his life. I could just picture him, tall at the helm, standing firm against an ocean storm.
“Whoa there, girl.” I gave my head a little shake to dislodge the image of Austin Coleridge looking windswept and heroic. “You have more important things to think about. Bed & Breakfast. Renovations. Not brooding, handsome, probably-still-annoyed sea captains.”
I set my coffee cup down and turned my attention to the mountain of tasks Heron House presented. The small victory of the cookie mission, and the unexpected crack in Austin’s grumpy facade, had left me feeling lighter, more hopeful. But the reality of this enormous, crumbling, glorious old house was a constant, sobering reminder of the marathon ahead.
I did a mental walkthrough, a familiar ritual of assessing the battlefield. The first floor was a symbol of a grander time, built for entertaining. A wide, sweeping staircase dominated the foyer, its newel post scarred but its bones still strong. To one side, the formal parlor with its massive, soot-caked fireplace would be combined with the living room to make a more modern space. A dining room that could seat twenty lay on the opposite side. In the back stood the cavernous kitchen, with its avocado-green appliances, which was currently my command center and chief source of despair.
The real heart of the B&B was upstairs. The second and third floors held nine bedrooms, a sprawling maze of rooms in various states of dusty neglect. Each had good bones—high ceilings, large windows that promised stunning views once the grime was scraped away. The real challenge was the bathrooms.
Or rather, the lack thereof.
My grand plan involved a bit of architectural thievery—stealing space from oversized linen closets, repurposing forgotten nooks, even sacrificing one small, sad room entirely—to create modern, luxurious en-suites for each guest room. It was ambitious, maybe even overreaching, but it was the only way to turn this grand old dame into a place modern guests would pay to stay.
For today, I’d tackle a built-in set of drawers in the living room, tucked beneath an old window seat thatoverlooked the enormous magnolia tree in the back yard. Cleaned up, the little nook could be stunning, a focal point. I envisioned guests perched there with morning coffee. Or me, curled up with a good book, the window open to the scent of those huge, creamy blossoms.
The bottom left drawer slid open with a surprisingly smooth, quiet sigh, as if it had been waiting. It was lined with faded, rose-patterned paper that smelled faintly of old lavender.
A single, cream-colored envelope lay nestled in the center. Beside it, arranged with care, was a sprig of what had once been magnolia blossoms, now dried and brittle, their petals the color of old ivory. A deliberate, poignant arrangement.
My heart gave a little jump. My fingers trembled slightly as I picked up the envelope. It was thick, the luxurious paper slightly brittle with age, addressed simply toIrisin an elegant, slightly shaky, old-fashioned cursive.
“Aunt Constance?”
The air in the living room grew thick, expectant. I hadn’t received anything personal from my great-aunt, just the stark pronouncements of her will. This was different. Intimate.
I had no proof the writing was hers, but who else could it be?
Pushing to my feet, I sank onto the dusty cushion of the window seat. The mayhem of renovation momentarily forgotten, I carefully slit open the envelope. Several folded sheets of matching stationery lay inside, crinkling softly as I unfolded them.
My Dearest Iris,
If this inheritance, and indeed this letter, comes as a surprise, Ican only imagine it is due to the unfortunate distance that has long existed between our branches of the family. I confess, old woman that I am, I held onto certain rigid ideas of propriety regarding your mother’s choices so many years ago when she found herself expecting you.
It was a different time, or perhaps I simply used that as an excuse for my narrowness. My disapproval, I see now with the clarity that often arrives too late, was a wall I built, not a bridge. For any coldness you may have perceived from me over the years, child, I am truly, deeply sorry. It was never a reflection on you, nor on the bright spirit I always sensed you possessed, even from afar.
My eyes stung,and I had to pause.
My niece Carolineand I were two sides of a stubborn, complicated coin, each convinced of our own unassailable rightness. It made for a difficult love, often overshadowed by pride and misunderstanding. And distance. Then she was gone, along with any chance for me to make amends. Until now. My hope was always for your happiness, Iris, for your security, even if my methods were clumsy and born of my limited, and perhaps judgmental, views.
A waveof sadness washed over me, a poignant ache for the lost years, for the connections never properly forged between my mother and her aunt. And what I had missed out on too.
This old pileof wood and memories, Heron House, has seen a lot of life, Iris. It has weathered storms both literal and figurative. It needs a strong hand now, and a warm, determined heart to coax it back to its former glory. I’ve watched you from afar, more than youknow. I always saw in you a stubborn sort of light, a creative, restless spirit that reminded me so much of my grandmother, Clara, who scandalized everyone by eloping with a lighthouse keeper. Perhaps this house, with all its daunting flaws and forgotten beauty, along with my accompanying financial estate, can be the canvas for your own unique masterpiece.
My breath caught.She saw something in me. Aunt Constance, the distant, formidable great-aunt I barely knew, had seen a spark.
DoveKey has a way of testing you, child. It demands resilience, a certain comfortable relationship with the unpredictable. Don’t let the naysayers or the occasional hurricane of a problem deter you. The salt air here has a way of scouring away pretense and revealing what’s true, what’s lasting.
Iris, I leave Heron House to you not as a burden, though I know it will feel like one at times, but as a beginning. An opportunity. A place to put down roots, I hope. Make it your own. Fill its empty rooms with life and laughter and the scent of baking bread again. That, my dear girl, would be the greatest gift you could give this old woman.
With my enduring,if perhaps poorly expressed, affection and love,
