Chapter 27 Elsie
ELSIE
A neat stack of documents stares back at me from the top of my dresser. I printed everything Beau sent my way by email. Legal terms. Contingencies. Numbers lined up with unnerving precision.
Quite a bit of clarity, but very little comfort.
I pour another inch of plum wine, though I already know it won’t help much. It’s been a week since I saw him outside Juneberry. A week since Wells and I agreed to wait—on what, exactly, I’m not even sure anymore.
Starting a real relationship? Talking about the future? Making plans that involve him and me and the kind of life I used to think wasn’t mine to want.
Either way, not telling that steadfast, patient man about all this sits heavily in my chest. He’s been nothing but honest with me, and I keep finding new ways to hold things back. Terrified of how he might react. Moreover, worried he might change his mind once he sees how uncertain I still am.
This is the kind of thing that could be misread, but I remind myself I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m allowed to understand my choices. All of them.
Beau’s offer is tidy and sensible on paper. It looks like the kind of solution a responsible person would pick. A clean way to close the door. The kind I used to think I wanted.
But the pages feel cold, stripped of anything human. They’re waiting for a signature, for something final, and I’m not ready to give that yet. I set them aside before I can talk myself into believing I am.
My hand drifts instead to the bundle of Elspeth’s letters, bound in twine, wax seal still unbroken.
The sight of them makes my throat tighten. These aren’t tidy. They won’t offer escape or clean decisions. They’ll only ask for feeling, and I’ve avoided enough of that to know exactly how dangerous it is.
If I’m going to move through this, really move through it, I have to start here. I have to let her speak.
The only way out is through.
I take a long swallow of wine, wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and finally, finally open another letter.
Letter One
My dearest girl,
I saw a sparrow steal your toast crumbs from the porch this morning. Bold little thing, and I swear she winked at me before flying off. You would’ve laughed, I think. You always understood creatures better than most people.
Come home soon. The inn is much quieter without you, and it doesn’t suit her.
Love,
Grandma
Letter Two
Elsie, my Elsie,
Do you remember the boy who stayed here once, years ago? Quiet as a fox, soft blond hair, always watching the stairs like he wanted to know what secrets they kept. You shared a plum tart with him in the kitchen. I pretended not to see, but I did.
He kissed you in the corner, quick and sweet, like he was afraid the moment might vanish. Your first kiss. I wanted to tuck it away for you in case you ever forgot.
All my love,
E
Letter Three
Darling girl,
I don’t know exactly what I said that made you leave, but I keep replaying that day in my head, trying to find the words I should’ve chosen.
Sometimes mothers and grandmothers make the mistake of holding too tightly, and I fear I’ve done that to you.
If I pushed you away by wanting you too close, forgive me. I’d take it back if I could.
Always,
Grandma
Letter Four
Elsie,
Where have you gone? The house creaks with your absence, and I don’t know how to live in silence.
I am angry with you, if you want the truth.
Angry that you’d vanish without a word, that you’d let me go on setting two places for breakfast out of habit, then one, then none.
But I suppose anger is just love turned sour in its waiting.
Come back. Or don’t. But I hope one day you write me, so that I may be able to send these letters back to you in good conscience.
E
Letter Five
My heart,
I saw a pair of shoes on the stairs and thought they were yours. I spoke aloud before I realized I was alone. The inn misses you. I do, too. The lavender won’t dry the same way without you hanging it crooked on the line.
You are my marrow, Elsie. No absence can change that.
Grandma
Letter Six
Sweet pea,
The roses out front bloomed all at once this year.
I cut a dozen and filled the blue vase, the one you always insisted made them look regal.
They’re wilting already, but I can’t bring myself to toss them.
Some things I hold on to too long, I know.
But that’s the way of me, and maybe the way of you, too.
Grandma
More pages. More ink. I can barely see the words through the blur. Guilt comes first, then anger, then something worse: the slow dawning that I have carried the wrong version of her in my head for years.
I thought she was disappointed in me. Thought she believed I’d failed her. All this time, I’ve held on to that, certain she closed the door before I could. And now—here—she’s begging for me to come home. Apologizing.
Missing me until it made her angry and sullen. Sullen until it made her lonely.
It’s unbearable. I want to throw them into the fire. I want to clutch them to my chest and never let them go.
I hear her voice in every line, stubborn and tender. Asking for nothing but my presence. I don’t know what to do with that kind of love—the kind that doesn’t demand, only waits.
And then, slowly, the letters begin to change.
Letter Seventeen
Elsie,
The boy is here again—the one with the quiet eyes and the dark blond hair. He carries himself differently now, taller, stronger, but I still see the fox in him. You would’ve noticed it, too.
E
Letter Twenty-Five
Elsie,
I fear I’m getting too old to run this place the way it needs. I’ve closed the inn for now, until I can decide what’s best. Maybe one day you’ll come back and open it again. Maybe not. That choice belongs to you.
Grandma
Letter Thirty
Darling,
The fox is still here. He’s clever, quiet. Blonds gone scruffier, though. I like the way he fixes things without being asked. Reminds me of someone else who once stayed under this roof, someone who mattered more to me than she realized.
E
My pulse stutters. Is it possible? Did Wells . . .?
I shove the letters aside. The wine sloshes over the edge of the glass, but I don’t stop. Hallway, stairs, landing—I don’t even feel my feet. I find him where he often is, when I need him without meaning to: standing near the dormer, book in hand, brow faintly creased in thought.
I barrel straight into him. His hands catch my wrists before I face-plant into his chest.
“Elsie,” he says, startled. “What—”
“Do you remember your first kiss?”
He blinks. “What?”
“Your first kiss,” I repeat, breathless. “I think mine was yours. No—yours was mine. There was a plum tart. I thought I imagined it, or lost it in the bog, but—was it you?”
His hands fall away. His eyes search mine like he’s afraid to find the answer.
“You’re drunk,” he says quietly. “And you’ve been—crying.”
“Yes. Obviously. Irrelevant.” I jab a finger at his chest. “Did my grandmother call you anything? A nickname?”
He hesitates. Scratches the back of his neck. “She called me the fox. Sometimes. I never—”
That’s it.
I launch myself at him.
The kiss is clumsy, teeth and breath and relief. He grunts my name against my mouth, steadying my waist, afraid I’ll topple us both. Then he groans—low, guttural—and kisses me back with something that feels older than both of us.
Something that’s been pacing the halls, waiting.
The rafters creak. The chandelier gives a satisfied clink. The house, damn her, approves of this rash decision.
I break away first, drunk on wine and want and recognition, and stagger two steps up the stairs before spinning back.
He’s still there. Two fingers pressed against his mouth, eyes fixed on me like he’s not sure whether to laugh or follow.
I point at him. “That’s the last kiss you get until the designation goes through.”
He exhales—slow, wrecked—and I flee before I can take it back.
Door. Quilt. Bed. I collapse once more. Letters crumple beneath me, ink pressing into my spine. I stare at the ceiling, breathing hard.
This house. This town. Him.
I can’t sell this fucking inn. I can’t tuck it into a trust and walk away clean. Blue Willow isn’t just timber and ledger. It’s every stubborn hand that once held me. Every voice that waited for me to speak.
Maybe I don’t have to carry it alone. Maybe I don’t have to disappear to survive it.
My grandmother isn’t gone or buried. She’s here—woven into every hinge, every blossom, every light that flickers on before I reach the switch. Every snowfall in this beautiful, tragic, magical little town.
This is where a Hart belongs.
I press my palm flat over my ribs, where something warm and brutal begins to unfurl. It’s not grief this time. It’s home, waking up.