Chapter 6 Wells
WELLS
The first night, she was quiet and contemplative. Curious enough about the house—or maybe just the weight of being back in it—that she wandered into Elspeth’s room and slept in the recliner no one had touched in over a year.
Tonight, she’s a fucking hazard.
She’s been stomping around upstairs for the past hour, slamming doors and muttering under her breath. I’m haunted, it seems, by the thud of her clumsy boots. The scrape of furniture on her bedroom floor. The distinct sound of a drawer being yanked open too hard and then shoved closed again.
I press the heel of my hand to my eye and exhale.
She shuffles down the stairs, opens another door. A beat of silence, then, “Jesus Christ,” she yelps.
A thump. A clatter.
I grit my teeth. It sounds like she’s in the Hearth Room beside me, probably trying to wrangle the radiator. She should know that thing has barely worked over the last five years. That’s why we have the fireplace, the stack of wool throws, the extra quilts folded on the cedar chest.
That’s why I have my own personal space heater set up by the edge of my bed.
Once I’m up, I shove on a sweatshirt, drag my fingers through my hair, and pull open my door. By the time I’m padding through the dim hallway, she’s already disappeared up the narrow stairwell to her attic-side room.
I climb the steps two at a time, irritation sharp enough to keep the cold from sinking in, and knock once on the door, flat knuckles against wood.
She appears a moment later, cheeks flushed, curls loose, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to her elbows. It would almost be cute if she weren’t so determined to dismantle the place piece by piece.
I clear my throat. “You rearranging the entire upstairs or just trying to wake the dead?”
“I was looking for an extra blanket, thank you very much. It’s freezing in here. The radiator sucks.”
“It’s an antique, like the rest of the house.”
“It’s also frigid, like the rest of the house. Like the outside of this house. Like this whole damn town,” she mutters. “Should’ve stayed in Florida.”
“Yeah, probably.” She narrows her eyes, and I add, “You could’ve just asked me where the blankets are.”
“I was going to, but I didn’t want to owe you another favor. Heaven forbid I further burden the resident handyman.”
“Come on,” I mutter, half-hearted. “I’ll show you.”
She trails after me, mumbling about “medieval heating standards.” I don’t bother responding. The house doesn’t need defending. It’s weathered a hundred winters, and she’s only been back for two days.
Across the short landing, I pop open the narrow attic door, flick on the light, and climb inside. She follows, arms wrapped around herself.
“The good quilts are in the trunk,” I say over my shoulder. “Elspeth kept the thickest ones up here for emergencies.”
“Does this count as an emergency?”
“Well, it sounded like you were being mauled by a bear. So, yes.”
She huffs. I ignore it.
The attic is crammed with dust and the weight of lives half remembered. Unlike Elspeth’s curated antiques downstairs, this is pure accumulation—boxes, trunks, forgotten furniture stacked like a memory palace no one’s walked through in years.
I kneel beside an old cedar trunk, flip it open, and pull out the softest blanket I can find. Blue and white, edges hand-stitched with tiny silver stars. A little dusty, but a few good shakes will fix that.
When I hand it over, Elsie brushes her thumb over one corner and exhales.
“This used to be on the Wisteria bed.”
“Elspeth must’ve moved it up here that last summer and forgot to put it back. Those last few months were . . . hard.”
She doesn’t say anything. I half expect her to gripe about me invoking grief or complain that her grandmother moved her things. But she just stands there, wordlessly, gripping the quilt between shaky hands.
When Elspeth was alive, the inn knew how to soften the world for those who needed it. Fires lit on their own. Blankets found their way to the end of a bed before the cold set in. Windows closed themselves with a gentle click.
Once, I swear the pantry restocked its salt when I was halfway through a recipe.
But since she passed, it’s been quieter here and much colder. It’s like the magic’s still around, hidden maybe, unsure what to do with itself.
I think it misses her. I think I do, too.
“I can show you how to wedge the window and doorframe,” I say, “so the heat stays in a little better.”
“Yeah, okay. That would be great.”
We’re quiet as I carry a heap of blankets back across the landing. In her room, I show her how to wedge a sliver of cedar between the windowpane and the sill. She watches closely, fingers brushing the frame when I’m done.
“How’d you figure all this stuff out?”
“Trial and error,” I say. “Mostly error.”
Her mouth quirks up slightly. “That sounds right.”
I head for the door, and she curls up on the bed. The star-patterned quilt is bunched around her hips with two extra throws stacked on top. Her nose is still pink from the cold, and her eyes are tired, but she’s here—settled, for now.
I watch her for a beat too long. I shouldn’t care that she’s cold. Shouldn’t want to make it easier for her. But I do. So, I grunt to cover it and stalk down the narrow steps.
The cold will punish my joints, but I unplug the little space heater from the corner anyway and carry it back toward her room. It buzzes like a dying bee, more noise than warmth, and it won’t do much more than blunt the edge of the chill. Still, it’s something.
She bolts upright when I return. “No—no, you don’t have to do that. Really. You’ll freeze.”
“I’m a big boy, Hart,” I say.
Six-three, broad-shouldered, solid. Scruff on my jaw, hands rough from years of repairs. Past partners used to call me a furnace in my sleep. Giving up a space heater for a few nights won’t kill me.
I set it at the foot of her bed and plug it in. “You can use this until we dig up a second one.”
Her shoulders ease. She exhales slowly and sinks back into the pile of quilts. “Thank you. I mean it.”
I nod and turn away before I can let it settle.
Her gratitude is soft in a way I can’t sit with.
She’s grieving, trying to find her footing in a house that remembers more than it reveals, and I’ve done nothing but push since the moment she walked through the door.
Whether or not I think I’m right, she’s felt it.
“’Night,” I mutter.
Back in my room, I slide beneath the covers. The air is colder without the heater, but the draft through the window has eased, and the floorboards stay quiet when I shift. It’s a small change, one most people wouldn’t notice.
I’ve lived here long enough to know better. The house is waking up, slowly—for her.
I wonder how it treated her as a child when Elspeth kept it brimming with life.
I can almost see her: small, quick-footed, barefoot on kitchen tiles, talking too fast or not at all.
Maybe she resented the magic. Maybe she thought it unreliable, and the world beyond was loud enough to make her believe she didn’t need it.
Either way, it’s clear the house hasn’t forgotten her.
The sun hasn’t finished climbing the ridge when I wake. Quiet movements keep the floorboards from creaking; no sense in waking Elsie before she’s ready. If she starts soft, maybe the day will, too.
Downstairs, the hearth still holds last night’s warmth. A spark, a breath, and the fire brightens. The house feels cooperative this morning, light spilling golden through the lace curtains, snow glittering under a pale winter sun.
In the kitchen, I grind a pinch of cinnamon into the coffee grounds the way Elspeth used to. If her granddaughter’s visit to Juneberry was any indication, Elsie takes it with a whisper of cream, heavy on the spice.
While the coffee brews, I let the record player hum to life, Leon Bridges easing into the parlor. It’s my favorite way to start a winter morning.
By the time the skillet sizzles, the whole place smells of browned butter and vanilla. The old vent rattles in approval. For a moment, it almost feels like the house is showing off. Then the hallway creaks.
Elsie storms in, eyes squinted, curls mussed, one sock sliding halfway off her heel. She looks like she lost a fight with her blanket and came out swinging. So much for a soft start.
“What’s happening?” she asks. “And why does it smell aggressively pleasant in here?”
I flip a pancake. “Morning, sugarplum,” I say lightly. “I made you breakfast.”
She squints harder. “And why would you do that?”
I ignore the question and set a mug on the table with a soft clink. It’s not that chipped fox of hers. I still don’t get what she sees in that thing. This one’s glazed ceramic, cornflower blue. Elspeth used to set it out for guests she liked. The handle’s a little crooked, but it’s sturdy and warm.
“And coffee, too,” I say. “Just how you like it.”
She walks over, picks up the mug, and sniffs. “Was that Leon Bridges playing in the parlor?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, though I do feel like I walked into someone else’s maladaptive daydream. That kind of music . . . in my mind, it doesn’t suit you. It’s very wistful before breakfast.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I can be wistful. You’ve only just met me,” I say. “You have no idea the depths.”
Her shoulders stay high, the tension not yet eased by caffeine. I bite my tongue to keep from pushing. I’m trying to be decent this morning.
She winces as she lowers herself into the chair.
“You good?”
“I didn’t sleep much,” she says. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“You want to sit for a while? Eat some pancakes?”
“If I take a few Advil, I can be ready to start climbing ladders in an hour.”
“I was thinking we might take a walk first. Head into town.”
She blinks. “Why?”
“I want to stop by Bobby’s shop. Grab another heater. Maybe swing by Haven help keep the heat in better.”
“You want me to go on a hardware run with you?” She frowns. “Wells, I’d rather not putz around the town running errands. We need to get this place cleaned up, assessed, documented, and then listed.”
“You said ‘we,’” I interrupt. “But I’m just the guy fixing the busted steps, remember? This isn’t my house. If it was, I wouldn’t be doing any of the things you just listed. I’d be fixing it up to host guests again in Elspeth’s name.”
She opens her mouth, shuts it again, then gives me the kind of glare that could melt frost. It looks good on her—the scrunched nose, the forced pout, the fire in her eyes—but I refuse to let her know that.
“I’m just saying,” I continue, “we’ve got time. You’ve only been here for a couple of days. Thought maybe you’d want to look around, breathe a little, get your bearings first.”
“I don’t need to look around,” she says quickly. “I need progress.”
I turn back to the stove, flip another pancake, lower the heat. She still hasn’t sat down.
“Elspeth used to say no decision was worth making on an empty stomach.”
She sighs. “I know what my own grandmother used to say.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “It’s just a walk. An hour, maybe less. We can hit Bobby’s shop, grab another heater. Then stop by the window guy’s place for that sash lock replacement. I think the one in the Garden Room’s about to give out, too.”
She taps her nails on the counter. Three tiny clicks, then, “Well, okay. But only so you can’t continue to lord the heater over me.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, sliding the first pancake onto a plate.
She eyes it like she half expects it to bite her, then finally pulls out a chair. Her posture’s stiff, but she picks up the fork slowly and shoves a tiny bite into her mouth. Devours three more bites in record time.
I wipe my hands on the towel and head for the hall. “I’ll meet you back down here in an hour.”
She looks up. “You’re not eating pancakes?”
“Nope. I made ’em just for you, Hart.”