Chapter 14 Elsie
ELSIE
The next morning, Wells has left me alone with a list of small chores he plans to tackle downstairs—tidying, dusting, polishing the brass fixtures that always tarnish too fast. Making a few calls to the county clerk about missing documents.
He says he doesn’t need or want my help today. Rude, but whatever. He seems almost relieved to have something he can throw himself into that doesn’t involve ladders or my questionable assistance, and who am I to get in the way?
So, I set off into town with my notebook and pen, determined to collect the first of the statements Alma asked for. It’s something I can provide without aching hands or strained shoulders, though the work feels flimsy beside Wells’ tangible repairs.
The air bites as I trudge along, boots crunching through snow that shows no sign of thaw. Wells was right—Florida softened me. This is cold with teeth.
I don’t mind the bundling up; it’s like wearing a portable fortress. What I mind is what comes after. The wet socks, the stiff coat, the hat that tries to pull my hair out one strand at a time. It’s enough of a sensory hell to make me want to stay cocooned forever.
When I reach the bookstore, I half expect to turn into my younger self. Tucked into the corner chair, legs swinging, nose buried in a paperback. I’ve always loved reading, but I haven’t had as much bandwidth for it in recent years.
The shop bell jingles as I slip inside, shaking snow from my coat.
Mrs. Fallon looks up over her glasses, her expression brightening when she places me. Thank God for small mercies. Another Blue Willow resident who doesn’t dislike me on sight.
“Well, if it isn’t a Hart,” she says warmly.
“Hi, Mrs. Fallon. How are you?”
“I’m well, dear, and you? I’ve got a great selection of new romances right up front. And there’s a Valentine’s display going up next week—early, I know, but the tourists love it.”
“I’m here for business, not pleasure, I’m afraid.” I smile to soften the blow. “I’m trying to collect statements for the committee from longtime patrons of the inn. Alma thought you might be willing to share?”
She waves me toward the stool by the register, settling her glasses lower on her nose. “Of course. Spent my honeymoon there, you know. My late husband and me. That was fifty years ago last week.”
“Wow, that’s incredible.”
She waves me off, eyes going soft and faraway.
“Elspeth put us in the corner suite, the one with the bow window that faces the willows. January wind rattled those branches all night, but somehow, it sounded like music. Your grandmother swore the inn was built to sing if you listened hard enough. She wasn’t wrong. ”
The hairs on my arms prickle. I can’t exactly jot magic trees that hum into Alma’s tidy designation packet, but architectural charm, cultural significance, continuity of use—those are things the county will care about. I make sure to frame my notes that way.
“She baked us a cake herself. Vanilla with blackberry jam. Said no one should start a marriage without the exact right amount of sweetness to carry them through. That was Elspeth—half innkeeper, half soothsayer.”
I press my lips together, writing furiously.
When my pen pauses, my gaze drifts to the front display. Romance novels crowd the table, glossy covers and swooping fonts promising scandal and devotion. The sight makes something tug inside me—familiar, hungry.
Mrs. Fallon notices. “Still your favorite, aren’t they?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Always.”
“Elspeth used to grab everything from the dollar boxes in the summers,” she says fondly. “Told me she didn’t see any harm in a young girl learning the world through love stories.”
And that, I did. Around eleven or twelve, I stopped making friends with whoever happened to be nearby—stopped running with the neighborhood kids or striking up conversations at the park. I started choosing solitude, and in that solitude, books.
I liked the ones with longing best. The ones where strange girls had entire worlds blooming inside them, waiting for someone to notice.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone. I thank Mrs. Fallon quickly, tuck the signed page into my folder, and promise to bring her a copy of the final packet when it’s ready.
By the time I reach Copper Hollow, the sun’s turned brittle, and the snow has hardened into glassy layers that crack beneath each step. The bog stretches out flat and endless. It’s beautiful, in its own way.
Photogenic, objectively. Though I’ve been wary of that black water for as long as I can remember. It took a memory from me without asking—I’d swear on my heartbeat—and never gave it back. A first kiss, stolen in the reeds, lost to the murk. That kind of moment should be sacred, not swallowed whole.
Still, like the fool I am, I’ve trudged all the way out here for another statement from a founder. One the county will actually care about. I know he and Wells have history, bad blood that seems to run deeper than the bog itself.
It’s probably because Wells is a whimsical sort of optimist, and Beau opposes that for practicality. But if someone with Beau’s money, lineage, and local roots might want the inn, shouldn’t I at least find out where he stands?
I climb the farmhouse steps and knock. The clapboards are pale with frost, the wreath on the door brittle and brown at the edges. Boots scrape on wood before the door swings open.
“Hey there, Hart,” Beau drawls, grin widening as he folds his arms. “Twice in one week. How did I get so damn lucky?”
If I weren’t pulled in a hundred directions, I might be charmed by the easy warmth of his greeting. As it stands, I’m too wary of him. I can’t tell if he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing or some angel sent to solve all my problems in one clean stroke.
“I’m just gathering statements,” I say, lifting my pen like a shield. “For the designation. Dr. Torres’ orders.”
“Then you came to the right man. Come inside, and we can talk where it’s warm.”
I follow him inside, unsure whether it’s the cold or the man himself that makes my skin prickle.
The house surprises me. No crooked beams like the inn, no threadbare quilts or creaky radiators. Everything is sleek and deliberate. Glass and steel, burnished wood, minimal clutter. The walls are painted in shades that feel expensive. Even the fire in the hearth crackles in an orderly way.
It’s beautiful, undeniably. But it doesn’t feel like Blue Willow. And it definitely doesn’t feel like the kind of place where a man lives alone by a bog, stewarding an enchanted harvest passed down through generations.
Beau disappears into the kitchen and returns with two glasses—one filled with a deep garnet red. He offers it with a roguish smile.
“Wine?”
“No, thank you,” I say, still clutching my notebook like it might protect me from saying the wrong thing.
He arches a brow. “Something stronger, then? Rum? Whiskey? I’ve got a bottle of brandy that’s older than I am.”
“Just tea if you’ve got it. With cinnamon. Or achehoney if there’s any in the pantry.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You in pain, Elsie?”
“It tastes better,” I answer. But the truth is my shoulder’s been aching since morning, and the fingers on my writing hand keep curling when they shouldn’t.
He nods, disappears again, and returns a moment later with a steaming mug. I take it with a quiet thank-you, letting the warmth seep into my palms.
Then he sits—closer than I expect, so close our knees almost touch—and leans back with an air of easy confidence.
“The inn and the bog go hand in hand,” he begins. “Harvest festivals, winter markets, midsummer feasts—half the town would end their day knee-deep in cranberry muck, then march straight up the hill for Elspeth’s supper.”
“I do recall some rowdy nights back then.”
He chuckles. “A reciprocal blessing. Weddings, wakes, solstice dances. That house holds more memories than any single family ever could.”
I glance up. “And always my grandmother at the center of it.”
He smiles, softer now. “She made people feel at home, even when their boots were soaked and their hands stained red. And she never turned anyone away. Not once. I remember being thirteen, soaking wet and too proud to go home after a fight with my father. She gave me a towel, a plate of stew, and told me I could sit by the fire until the storm passed.”
“That’s really sweet.”
“It was,” he says. “Elspeth made sure no one forgot the Hart name. And maybe that’s how it should be. But families change. Time moves. Someone has to take the reins when it does.”
There’s an awkward pause. “You mean . . .?”
“I mean,” he says, leaning just close enough for the words to land heavily. “If you’re looking for a buyer, you know I’d take good care of the place. I’m a member of a founding family, Els. We’re cut from the same cloth.”
My stomach twists. “And you’d be fine with the historical designation? You wouldn’t be able to tear anything down or expand the property.”
He shrugs, smile tilted. “Langfords have been here as long as the Harts. I know a thing or two about balancing history with progress. And who knows what could happen if outsiders start sniffing around this town for a hot piece of land.”
I frown. “If that’s how you feel, then why don’t you and Wells—?”
“Get along?” Beau supplies, grin widening like I’ve said something funny. “Because Wells clings to the past like it’s scripture. He thinks tradition means freezing the world exactly as it was when Elspeth ran it.”
“And you don’t?”
“Tradition without adaptation is just rot. There are decisions I’ve made that Wells doesn’t agree with. Especially when it comes to the Ashbys’ so-called claim on this bog. Wells—” He shakes his head. “He’d rather vilify me than admit I’m right.”
I bite my lip, unsure what to say. He’s smooth, confident, so sure of himself.
Beau leans back. “Think about it, Elsie. That inn deserves someone who’ll keep it intact, respect what it’s been, but also move it forward. Someone who knows the bloodlines and the history. Someone like me.”