Chapter 5 Elsie
ELSIE
I’m not that great at reading people, but I’m pretty certain Wells is fucking with me.
He’s shown me every uneven floorboard, every hairline crack in the paint, every window that sticks or squeaks or fogs too easily. He’s pointed out the scuffed trim like it’s a structural hazard and given me a twenty-minute lecture on the pros and cons of original plaster.
To his credit, some of it’s legitimate. The wiring is older than my great-grandmother. The floor in the Hearth Room slopes enough to make a marble roll. The pantry door sticks. But like Bobby said, the bones are good.
Still, Wells plays tour guide with all the subtlety of a cat dragging in a dead mouse (not Harold, to be clear), watching me squirm while he catalogs flaws. He gestures toward the gutters with a dramatic, world-weary sigh.
“These are definitely going to need to be replaced,” he says, squinting toward the roof. “You can’t see it from here, but they’re all warped along the northern eave. Could cause significant water damage.”
I rub my arms and try to keep my teeth from chattering. “You can fix them, right?”
“Fix them, she says.” He actually snaps his fingers, sharp and petulant. “As if it’s not a whole ordeal. Ladder, alignment, replacement brackets. We might as well talk about this charming, half-rotted drainpipe while we’re at it.”
“Is this a walk-through or a one-man show?”
He ignores me, jabbing a thumb at the porch. “Also, that step’s loose. Not immediately dangerous, but you never know with ice.”
I give him a look. “You mean the one I tripped on? Didn’t you just say you were coming back here to fix it?”
“I’ve been a little busy this morning, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “busy being a nuisance.”
He turns to me slowly, expression dry. “Look, all I’m saying is that there’s a lot to fix here. If the paperwork ever clears and you eventually get to sell, it’ll be for a pittance.”
He thinks I only see the rot and dust left here, not the way it settles into your bones if you let it.
This place has carried magic for generations, tucked into the beams and bricks like breath.
It may be quiet now, but it can be revived with a little more love and patience than I’m willing—or able—to give.
“I know you probably think I’m heartless and feckless, but I know what this house is.” I look up at the porch, at the frost-laced latticework, the stained-glass panes catching the last weak light. “What it’s worth.”
I rub my gloved hands together, hiding the sting crawling up my fingers. A breeze skims down from the ridge, kicking a flurry of snow across the walk, tugging at the chimes until they give a single, hollow note.
Wells shifts his weight and follows my gaze up to the house. His jaw ticks. “I really, really don’t think you do.”
“Think what you want. I’m done holding on to something that stopped holding on to me a long time ago.”
“Blue Willow?” He frowns. “You think this place let go of you?”
I shrug, helpless. “Elspeth stopped writing. She stopped calling. We fought, and I stayed away. When she died, I didn’t come back. You think the inn wrapped itself in warm quilts and waited for me to forgive myself? It’s moved on.”
If it had been waiting—if it wanted me here—I think I would’ve felt something when I walked through the door.
A spark, a hum, even a flicker of recognition.
But all I felt was dust. Cold corners. Silence.
Whatever magic used to live in this place, it’s dulled now.
Not dead, maybe. But distant, like it turned its face away.
“Elspeth never stopped waiting,” he says, blunt. “She kept your attic room the same. She made excuses for you to the whole town. Every spring, she bought those damn violets you liked and put them in the Wisteria Suite. You think she didn’t hope?”
I glance away, out toward the trees. A crow rustles somewhere in the pine. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop it from trembling.
My grandmother was the only person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t broken. Everyone else tried to fix me. Teachers called me bright but difficult. Doctors labeled me sensitive. My mother said I was exhausting. Too picky. Too quiet. Too much.
But Elspeth never asked me to be less. She never blinked when I couldn’t make eye contact, never told me to stop fidgeting and spinning or to smile more. She gave me space to be, and in that space, I felt safe. I felt whole.
Until I didn’t.
When I told her I was leaving for college, she asked me to stay here with her. Just a year, she said. To rest. You can let the inn hold you, because the world beyond Blue Willow might not know how to. You’ve always been so tender-hearted, she added as a last-ditch effort.
Maybe she meant it with love, but what I heard was doubt. That I wasn’t ready. That I’d always need something, or someone, to shield me. That I couldn’t survive anywhere else.
So, I told her I didn’t want her old house or her small-town fairy tales. That I didn’t need her magic at all. It was cruel, but I thought cruelty would make the break cleaner. I felt ready for college, and she wanted to keep me wrapped in her cocoon.
When I fought hard enough, she didn’t press me. So, I packed up, left, proved I could build a life outside this place. Outside her. And I never came back.
All she left me was the house, and the savings from my old job are almost gone. There’s no safety net waiting for me anymore.
“I can’t fix what happened between us,” I say finally. “So, I’m finding a way to move on now, even if it’s not clean.”
Wells stares up at the slow-dripping pipe. “Get rid of what you can’t reconcile, right? Better yet, have someone else fix it for you, then get rid of it.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. He’s not wrong, and that digs at me.
“Okay, so don’t fix the steps or the gutters or the misaligned everything. Show me how to fix it, will you?”
His brows skyrocket. “You want me to teach you how to fix gutters?”
“And the trim. The steps. The hinges on the pantry. If I’m going to sell this place or rent it to someone who can take care of it properly, I want to do it with both eyes open.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s oddly noble for a girl who’s been shivering and stuttering after standing out in the cold for all of ten minutes.”
It is freezing out here, and I’m not used to being outdoors for this long without a plan. I’m a homebody by nature. I always have been.
I spent my early twenties holed up in small apartments with even smaller routines.
Early mornings at the clinic, afternoons with clients, nights curled on the couch rereading old novels I could practically recite.
I used to joke that my therapist’s office was the warmest place I knew, and I wasn’t really kidding.
When I quit my job as a speech pathologist—left it, lost it, unraveled from it, whichever word fits best—I stopped leaving the house altogether. My world got smaller, quieter.
And now here I am, standing in six inches of snow in the dead of a Connecticut winter, in front of an inn I technically don’t even own yet, with little icicle needles stabbing into my toes.
“I can do small bits at a time,” I say stubbornly, blowing on my fingers. “Just show me what to do.”
Wells tilts his head, considering. “You know it’s not just paint and hammer swings, right? Some of this is going to suck. It’s cold, it’s finicky, and it’s repetitive.”
“Sounds like my last relationship,” I mutter.
He snorts, which I take as a win. Then he sighs, long and theatrical, like he’s trying not to be swayed by something that’s already decided.
“Fine,” he says. “But if you fall off a ladder, I’m not catching you.”
“You’ve had your hands on me enough already.”
He narrows his eyes, but there’s something softer in the crease of his brow now. Not approval, not quite. But maybe the absence of suspicion. A single shred of understanding carved out in the space between us.
“All right, then,” he says. “You can start by grabbing the toolbox from the mudroom.”
“Done.”
He watches me with that quiet, assessing gaze like he’s trying to piece something together. Then he turns, heads up the porch, and mutters, “God help the gutters.”
We don’t start with gutters. According to Wells, that’s a high-level, “you’ll probably fall and crack your skull” kind of job, and I’m too fragile to risk a hospital bill. So, we start with the porch steps instead. Loose nails, split boards, one riser half rotted through.
I hold the flashlight. He wields the hammer.
“Steady,” he says, leaning under the bottom step. “Angle it down. Not into my eye.”
“I am steady,” I mutter, adjusting my grip with exaggerated care. “This is peak steadiness. The steadiest I’ve ever been.”
“That’s a little sad.”
“Well, not emotionally.”
He chuckles, and so do I. Then I roll my eyes to cover the spark it lights in me. Not because of him, in particular, but because I haven’t laughed in months without having to force it. And despite how irritating I find him, it’s nice to be able to forget myself for a second.
As he works and I assist, we fall into a rhythm. Not exactly ease, but the shape of it, if I squinted. I keep the light where he asks. Hand him tools before he asks. Pull my sleeve down when the cold starts itching at my wrists.
I hate the way wool feels against my skin—too scratchy, too thick—but I’d packed in a rush and hadn’t given myself time to switch it out. Now I’m thinking about it too much, trying to breathe through the discomfort instead of tugging the sweater clean off my body.
“You always this tense around home repairs?” he asks, glancing up.
“Only when they involve splinters and social interaction.”
He smirks. “So, that’s a yes.”
I press my lips together to keep from answering in kind. I’ve learned it’s sometimes easier to let the words dissolve before they reach my mouth.
“You know,” he adds, almost begrudgingly. “You’re okay at this.”
“Okay at being your lackey?” I deadpan. “I can barely contain my pride.”
He wipes his hands on a cloth. “I’m serious. You’re very . . . focused.”
“Hyperfocus is kind of my thing, but it’s not usually helpful.”
His brow lifts slightly. “It is here.”
Something warm presses against my chest, brief and tight.
I crouch beside him on the risers, tuck my hands under my arms, and wait for my next instruction. I should ask about the porch rail or the sag in the north-facing eave, but my mind jumps tracks before I can stop it.
“Isla still lives at Mirabelle?” I say with a little too much eagerness. “I thought she might have moved into the rooms above the market or maybe that little house by the river bend?”
He wrinkles his brow. “She took over the orchard after her mom walked out on them.”
I blink. “I didn’t know.”
“It was five years ago. She’s done a real nice job keeping it going, though.”
“That’s good. We, um, used to play together when we were kids.”
He nods without looking up. “Elspeth mentioned that, too.”
“Did she talk about the orchard a lot?”
We loved outings to Mirabelle when the blossoms turned the air soft and sweet. But most of the time, my grandmother preferred staying northside, where the inn’s quiet magic suited her better. It’s a good thing the rest of the town was more than happy to come to her.
“She talked about a lot of things,” he says, still focused on the next board. “But yeah, the orchard came up. Mostly in reference to you and your penchant for fruit. Said you could eat your weight in plums before lunch and still ask for jam on toast an hour later.”
I smile, and for a heartbeat, I want to ask. About Willa and Walter Mott, who used to leave scones on the porch in spring. About the Ashbys and the Langfords. Whether their kids still bicker over tree houses like they did when we were eight.
But asking would mean opening a door I’ve been trying to keep closed.
I don’t need to fall in love with Blue Willow again. I need to sell this place so I can afford to rest for a while. I need to leave. And learning how everyone else stayed—how they made it work, made it matter—will only make it harder when it’s time for me to go.
So, I pivot. “What about you?”
He glances up, wary. “What about me?”
“You live here now. People seem to like you, but that’s all I know.”
He shrugs. “There’s not much else to know.”
“You just showed up out of the blue one day and decided to stay here forever? There must be another reason you’re here.”
“No.” He shifts his weight back and looks at me. “Elspeth offered up the space. She wanted a steadier handyman around, and I stayed because I told her I would.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay,” I say, letting the word fall like a pebble into still water.
He stands, brushes sawdust from his jeans, and glances back toward the house. “Sun’s going down. We can finish this up tomorrow. You still want to learn about gutters?”
“Depends,” I say, standing, too. “Are you gonna be gentle with me?”
“Not a chance.”
He walks ahead without another word. I follow a beat behind, my fingers curling tighter inside my sleeves. Maybe I asked for too much, too fast. He doesn’t want to talk about why he chose Blue Willow over anywhere else.
Was it the magic, the people, the house itself? Something he doesn’t want to name for fear it’ll disappear? Or maybe, like me, Wells Rourke knows what it’s like to love something that was never quite yours.
It’s easier, when you do, to make a habit out of holding back.