My eyes land on the gallery wall as I look up. Framed family photographs fill the space. There’s Mom, smiling in a faded print, arms around Nate and me, frozen in a summer long gone on one of our family beach vacations. My throat tightens as I try to recall her laugh.
A low whistle snaps me out of the memory. “Well, don’t you look pretty.”
Heat creeps onto my cheeks as I adjust the pencil skirt from where it’d ridden up when I sat down. My heels sink slightly into the old rug.
“Thanks.” I bring the mug to my lips and take a sip. My time in California made me a matcha girl, but there’s something about the taste of Gramps’s coffee that’s nostalgic. When I was little, I’d scramble up onto his lap, sip his bitter brew, and let the drama on TV wash over me. For a while, it felt like the world stood still.
I feel his gaze as he studies me, lingering a touch too long, the way everyone does now. Like they’re trying to reconcile the girl who left with the woman who came back, rail-thin and hollowed out. A ghost of the girl she used to be. I shift, uncomfortable beneath the weight of it.
A beat of silence passes, filled only by the drone of the TV. Then, softly, “You know, Pumpkin, no one’s going to be upset if you decide this—Hannah’s Haven—isn’t what you want. Your gram, Dad, and I…we’ve all accepted that it might be too much.”
The words settle heavily in the space between us. I grip the mug and stare down at the dark liquid.
“You might have accepted it,” I murmur, voice thin, “but I haven’t. It’s the least I can do after leaving the way I did.”
The truth is, I don’t know what I want to do now that I’m back in Silo Bay. The only thing I do know is…I want to feel a piece of my mom, and if taking over Hannah’s Haven is the answer, then that’s what I’ll do.
Gramps’s eyes soften as he mutes the TV. “Wren, no one blames you for living your life. Your mom wouldn’t want you carrying all this on your shoulders.”
I blink hard, the weight of his words burning hot against my eyes, busying myself with a sip of coffee. It’s bold and bitter, exactly how I remember, the taste grounding me to the past.
But the guilt is louder.
They might not blame me for living my life, but I sure as hell regret letting things get this bad. At first, it was hard to come back with the heartache and confusion, but then being away from home it started to feel like a fresh start. An opportunity to learn more about who I am outside of the town and family that shaped me. Eventually, I came back for holidays until I moved West. Then everything started to shift, and the way I viewed my hometown and family farm became skewed.
But that’s another story for another day.
“Pumpkin…” he starts, voice thick with patience, with love. Before he can finish, a shrill alarm blares from my purse, making Gramps and I jump. “What the hell is that?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, digging for my phone. Hitting the screen, the noise cuts off. “I set my alarm for my meeting. This time change is kicking my ass.”
“You’ll get used to it.” His smile is warm.
With the clock app closed, I take a second to skim the never-ending notifications. Messages from Collin, my lawyer, and Leo, my trustworthy security guard, wait for me. Their messages remind me of the mess I left behind, but allow reassurance that I made the right decision in coming home. Finally.
I rise from the sofa, a few steps bringing me to his recliner, and I bend to kiss his cheek. His calloused hand, still strong despite the years, catches mine.
“I’m so glad to have you back, kiddo. Let Silo Bay heal you.”
The lump in my throat nearly chokes me. “Love you, Gramps.”
Chapter 2
Wren
Thelate-afternoonsunbathesmy face in gold as I step out of the credit union, but it does little to thaw the chill in my chest. For three hours, I’ve been shuffled from the waiting room to loan officers to sign over legal paperwork from my mom’s name to my name, all while transferring my finances from my accounts in California back to Silo Bay. I also took it upon myself to pay off some of the outstanding loans for Hannah’s Haven. I’m fortunate enough to have a hefty account, so why not help out the farm?
My mind replays the faces of the people in pressed suits from the day’s meetings. Their expressions were a mix of pity and polite superiority while questioning my financial decisions. That’s the problem of being back in a small town; you’re forever remembered as the little girl and not the woman you’re growing to be.
“Oh, Wren, we’re so sorry about your mom.”
“It must be hard coming back after so long.”
“You’re so young. Do you understand what this will take?”
They meant well, but every word landed like a punch to my gut. Still, I smiled, nodded, and tucked away the sting, reminding myself I wasn’t here to win their approval. I was here to get things in order—for Mom, for Hannah’s Haven, for me.
By the time I slide into Dad’s ‘88 cherry-red Chevy pickup, my body hums with exhaustion. The cracked leather seat creaks beneath me as I sink back, the smell of dust and motor oilwrapping around me like a memory. I’d expected a newer farm truck when I asked to borrow one. Instead, Dad handed me these keys with that familiar gruffness, like it wasn’t even a question.
