A reckoning was coming, whether I wanted it or not.
And it sure as hell wouldn’t be quiet.
Chapter Two
IRIS
The old brass deadbolt,its surface mottled with rust, was a stiff, reluctant thing. My exit from Heron House’s front door was a daily wrestling match, a test of will against ancient, stubborn metal. Of course, I could use the easier kitchen door, but I had to teach this thing who was boss.
“Oh, come on, you ornery old beast.”
My fingers stung as I gave the tarnished thumb-turn another heave, putting my shoulder into it. For a terrifying moment, nothing happened. Then, with a groan, the bolt slid back. The monstrously heavy, nearly black door shuddered open begrudgingly with a horrifying, protracted creak that sounded like the dying moan of a forgotten sea monster. A sound rapidly becoming the official soundtrack to my life.
At last, I escaped into the Dove Key morning. Stepping onto the wide, dilapidated front porch, I shook out myshoulders, trying to dispel the dread that came over me every time that damn door shrieked.
I really needed to replace the awful, shitty door.
That thought made me frown as my gaze swept around the grand old manor. I was forming a new identity here in Dove Key: Iris Holloway, proprietress. It had a nice ring to it. A certain gravitas. And proprietresses in charming seaside communities likely didn’t punctuate their sentences with words that would make future guests blush.
“Note to self, Iris,” I said, making a mental list. “Item one—learn advanced carpentry. Item two—cultivate a vocabulary more befitting a gracious hostess than a frustrated longshoreman. More tea party, less dockside brawl.”
Pleased with my decision, I filled my lungs with the possibilities of the morning. The air still held a hint of the night’s coolness, rich with the sweet perfume of hibiscus from my neighbor’s yard. Definitely not from mine, which currently smelled more of centuries of compost and neglect. The warm air felt like a minor parole after two weeks of sleeping in Aunt Constance Lawson's old bedroom, the only habitable space in the house. My only changes there had been a new mattress and box springs for the antique bed I'd found on Main Street.
The tropical sun was already climbing, promising another day of balmy heat and humidity. It wasn’t the gentle, hazy light of Abingdon, Virginia, which I’d recently left. This sun was a bold, unapologetic glare that, once it fully hit Heron House, illuminated every speck of dust, cobweb, and daunting shadow within its crumbling walls.
I still couldn’t quite believe it was all mine. This grand, decaying Victorian lady. Ancient, dilapidated rooms, gardens so overgrown they probably hosted species unknown to science. Aunt Constance must have possesseda unique sense of humor. Or perhaps an overly optimistic view of her distant great-niece’s renovation skills.
I didn’t truly understand why she’d left me this enormous, beautiful, terrifying, money-eating behemoth. Or her shockingly substantial bank account. The lawyer’s letter had been brief and formal. No family anecdotes, no hazily remembered shared memories. With my mom gone eight years now, Aunt Constance had been my only remaining family, even if we were practically strangers. I never expected to hear from her, let alone inherit her entire world. The news had landed in my quiet life like a meteorite, displacing everything.
But I refused to dwell on the obstacles. My gaze caught on the tiny, resilient details—a patch of original stained glass in a grimy transom window winking in the sun, the elegant, though listing, line of the roof against the vibrant sky. My dream, the one that had been a low, persistent hum for years, surged again and chased away the tendrils of panic. That dream was on its way to becoming a reality.
A bed & breakfast.
Heron House Bed & Breakfast.
I could see it, clear as the cloudless sky above. This porch, not ramshackle and peeling, but restored, with comfortable rocking chairs filled with happy guests sipping iced tea. Or something stronger if they preferred. I didn’t judge. The gardens a fragrant sanctuary instead of a jungle. The house itself not groaning, but singing. Maybe my sociology degree would find its true purpose here—understanding people, creating community, fostering connection. This wasn’t just a building. It was a calling. At least that’s what I kept telling myself every time I smashed a spider.
I’d turned thirty a few months ago.
The number still echoed in my head with the faintclang of unmet expectations. My married friends back home were buying sensible minivans. I’d just inherited a house that might require an exorcism before an inspection. But Heron House wasn’t just an inheritance. It was a dare from the universe. A chance to stop drifting through receptionist duties and part-time winery tasting-room jobs and build something real, something lasting.
Something I would actually finish.
The memory of the half-renovated space in Abingdon was a sour taste in my mouth. The one with the perfect five-year business plan and the lease I’d broken after six months when it got too overwhelming. My pottery studio that was never to be. This time had to be different.
“Okay, house.” I propped my hands on my hips and surveyed the uneven floorboards and peeling shutters. “You and me. We’re going to make some magic.”
The sheer scale of the work, however, was enough to send my potent optimism into a temporary coma. I had a construction crew for the heavy stuff, but they were off on weekends. This morning, all was serene at the old mansion. Today, I needed a win. Something manageable. Something that involved fresh air and didn’t require battling a century of accumulated grime with a tiny sponge and a giant prayer.
My gaze fell upon the overgrown disaster of the side yard, the part that abutted my mysterious and aloof neighbor’s property. Specifically, the ancient, erratic sprinkler head that had been giving me the evil eye since my arrival. It was technically on my property, near the invisible line where Heron House’s jungle met his unnervingly perfect hibiscus hedge with its riot of red.
The sprinkler had a habit of sputtering to life at random, usually when I was trying to wrestle something large out of my car, and it had a distinct, almost vindictivetendency to overwater one specific patch of weeds while drenching a section of my neighbor’s immaculate hibiscus hedge.
I’d caught glimpses of him.
My construction foreman had told me his name, Austin Coleridge, though he’d said it with a sour look toward my neighbor’s beautifully restored house. Tall with dark hair and stubble, Austin was all lean, quiet economy of movement. The faded denim of his jeans stretched taut over powerful thighs, his bare arms corded with muscle when he crossed them over a chest carved from oak. A younger Clint Eastwood, maybe. Distractingly attractive, even if he’d never so much as glanced my way. Not a hello, not a welcome, just an occasional scowl thrown in my general direction. All of which had left me uncharacteristically unsure of how to introduce myself.
Now, peering through a gap in my overgrown foliage, I glimpsed him. He was on his covered back patio, relaxing in a rocking chair with a coffee cup in hand as he stared out at the sea. He looked peaceful. Undisturbed.
