Chapter 28 Wells
WELLS
Correspondence from the county arrives sooner than anyone expects. Three days after Elsie kissed me in a blur of wine and grief—and spent the next morning flushed, skirting my eyes, blaming everything on “too much plum”—Bobby turns up before breakfast with an envelope clutched in one fist.
He’s half-frozen, nose red, boots tracking slush across the floor, but his grin is so wide it looks painful.
“From Wicklow County,” he declares as he strides into the dining room. “Figured you’d want the honors. It should have gone to Elsie in the first place, but, as it stands, the county sent it to town hall. Perks of being mayor, I guess—first peek at all the good gossip.”
Jack and Alma arrive within the hour. The four of us gather around the table. Elsie sits wrapped around her cinnamon coffee, hair pinned back in an uneven knot. Alma draws a penknife from her pocket and slices the envelope cleanly across the top.
She reads aloud in her measured tone. “The Blue Willow Inn has been approved for official historical designation by the Wicklow County Office of Heritage and Preservation, effective immediately.”
Silence. Half a breath. Then Bobby lets out a yell that could wake the dead. Jack hides his smile behind his mug. Alma only nods once, satisfied.
Me, I fold my hands and stare at the table. It’s real. After six weeks of inventory and interviews, floorboard measurements and town testimony—it’s finally real.
And Elsie. She looks at the letter like it might disappear if she blinks. Her lips part in astonishment. For a moment, she’s the same child I once saw on these steps, chasing sparrows with her palms stretched wide, certain she could catch the sky if she moved fast enough.
It’s real; I remember now.
The memories returned after she asked me about the kiss. The girl in the yellow dress. The tart she pressed into my hand. The shy, unexpected brush of her lips beneath the roof of the best place I’d ever been, back when I was thirteen and didn’t know what to call the hole she left behind.
The bog takes things. Wears down the edges of joy and grief alike until all that’s left is the shape they once made. It feeds on feeling, and most people are glad to give—sacrifice to soil and water, hoping it’ll turn into something they can use. But not everything it takes is gone forever.
Sometimes, if the spark is strong enough, the past fights its way back.
And I’m grateful. Grateful for the memory. Grateful, most of all, that the kiss ever happened in the first place.
Alma clears her throat gently. “It’s rare for the county to approve anything on a first submission. Most petitions sit for months.”
“She’d be so proud,” Elsie says quietly. Then, almost sheepish: “If only I hadn’t waited so long to come back.”
I give a soft, aching smile. “At least you’re here with us now, Hart.”
Alma taps the paper. “We did it.”
Bobby slaps the table. “Damn right, we did. And to celebrate—” He jerks his thumb at the doorway, where Jack is hauling in a long package wrapped in brown paper. “Thought we could use a little fanfare.”
They peel it back together. Fresh cedar gleams, edges sanded smooth, letters carved deep. A sign meant to outlive us all.
BLUE WILLOW INN
The Blue Willow Inn has stood at the heart of this ridge since the late 1800s, when the Hart family built a modest boarding house for travelers heading through town. Expanded over generations, the house grew into a gathering place for seasonal workers, festivals, and neighbors.
Elspeth Hart, who took ownership in the mid-twentieth century, preserved its hospitality with a keen eye for community traditions.
Under her care, the inn became a fixture for storytelling, seasonal celebrations, and local history.
Through winter storms, harvests, and generations of guests, Blue Willow Inn has remained a cornerstone of the town’s identity.
Recorded Local Historic Landmark, 2025
Marker is property of the Town of Blue Willow
The sign glows as if it carries its own light. I swear the house warms around us, too. A low, contented hush moves through the walls and out into the garden. Ever since that night in the alcove, when Elsie’s lips touched mine again, it’s been radiating with approval.
And now, with proof of its endurance carved into cedar, it feels triumphant.
Elsie presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling. I look away, because if I watch her fall apart over this, I’ll give in to every want I’ve swallowed for weeks. I’ll lift her up, spin her around, and kiss her senseless in front of all of them.
“Shall we?” Alma asks.
We step out to the porch, the sign carried between us. No one says who should take the lead. We all fall into place without thinking. It isn’t ceremony so much as instinct—one person holds, another drives the nail—but it’s Elsie who makes it something holy.
She presses her fingers lightly to the wood, tracing the letters. Her shoulders ease. The strain she’s worn since the day she came home begins to fall away, the kind of shift you only notice if you’ve been watching her long enough to understand what it’s cost.
When she finally steps back, we all stand together in reverent silence. It feels like a brand-new door swinging open. And the house, I think, must be taking its first full breath in years.
Elsie exhales right along with it. And for the first time, she doesn’t look like she’s bracing for disappointment or waiting to be turned away. She looks rooted.
We don’t linger in the cold for long. The whole committee—and half the town, it seems—winds up at the Harbor Light Bar, strings of lights glowing warm against frosted windows. Inside, the place is packed elbow to elbow, laughter and chatter drowning out the jukebox.
Drinks flow, food arrives in heaping baskets, and toasts ring out over the clink of glasses.
Alma to the committee: “To the patience of historians and the power of evidence.”
Bobby to Elspeth: “To the woman who taught me how to swear and sand a banister in the same afternoon.”
The whole room cheers. People clap Elsie on the back and press drinks into her hands. I hear Mrs. Fowler say it as she passes me a napkin: “She’s a Hart through and through. Elspeth would be proud.”
Elsie blushes at the attention, but I can see how she folds it up, tucks it away for later. It bolsters her in quiet ways.
I nurse a beer and do my best not to stare. It works until Beau Langford walks in, all effortless charm and polished boots. He moves through the crowd with ease, shaking hands and making jokes.
The man has always known how to sell himself. That’s half the problem. The other half is that people keep buying what he’s offering.
I stopped trusting him the day he carved the Ashbys out of their own farm.
Copper Hollow had been in Greer’s family for generations. When her grandfather passed, the property shares went to his eldest son. Greer’s uncle, already in debt up to his ears, tried to sell them behind closed doors.
Beau stepped in. Paid off the debts. Bought him out clean. Said he was keeping the land in the right hands. Said it was about protecting the legacy.
Greer had just come home. She was ready to take on the family business, ready to make something of it. Beau swept in with a lawyer and a holding company before her boots had even dried.
The Langfords were in, the Ashbys were out.
Maybe he really did believe it was the best thing for the Hollow. Maybe he thought he was saving it. But from where I stood, it looked like betrayal dressed up as good intentions. And Greer? She deserved better.
He’s also just a smarmy little asshole. I don’t like his curly hair or his smug face, and I’m not particularly excited that he’s here, barging in on the celebration.
The two of us have come to blows over small things throughout the years. A cracked word, a crooked look. Fists behind the Harbor Light after one too many whiskeys. He’s the kind of man who smiles while you hit him and then hits back harder.
That’s why I freeze when I see him reach behind Elsie and rest his arm along the back of her chair. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t lean into it, either.
Still, my pint glass creaks in my hand.
The bar fades. All I can see is Beau, too close, too familiar. Then Elsie turns and finds my eyes across the table. She holds the gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
Hers says it’s all good, trust me. Mine says I’m trying.
Jack nudges me with his elbow, breaking the thread. “So. You and Elsie?”
I shift in my seat. “What about it?”
He smirks. “Don’t get defensive. I’m asking how it’s going.”
“We agreed to wait to pursue a relationship,” I tell him. “Until the designation went through. Until she makes her decision about the inn. I suppose that means we’re halfway there.”
“And if she decides to leave?”
The question lands harder than I let on. “Then I’ll deal with it.”
Jack raises one eyebrow. “That easy?”
“There are phones.”
He snorts into his drink. “You, of all people, are going to have a long-distance relationship built on phone calls?”
“I’m not a dog, Jack.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, more firmly this time.
Jack lifts his beer. When he turns, he catches sight of the dartboard. Beau is standing beside Elsie, hand on her elbow, whispering something in her ear.
She laughs and leans in.
Jack whistles under his breath. “Maybe you should go and get your girl.”
I rise before I can talk myself out of it. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Elsie looks up when I reach her. There’s a flicker of relief in her eyes before she tucks it away, shoulders lifting in that practiced, polite way I’ve come to recognize. I know this kind of crowd—too loud, too many eyes. She’s doing her best, but I can see the weight of it pressing in.
“Want another drink?” I ask, aiming for easy. “I can get it for you.”
She hesitates for half a second, then smiles up at me. “I’ll come with you.”
She turns to Isla, murmuring something about behaving, and then she’s beside me again. Close enough that I catch the scent of cinnamon and cold air on her skin.
At the bar, she raises her glass. “Cheers.”
I tap it. “Didn’t really think this was your scene.”
She gives a tired laugh. “It isn’t. But I’m making an effort. Still, I’m running out of steam.”
“You’ve shown your face. That counts for something. After your turn at the darts, we can head back to the inn.”
I kiss her knuckles, then step back and let her go. It’s fine that she’s playing darts with Beau. It doesn’t need to bother me, doesn’t need to make me feel possessive.
The only thing I should care about is whether she’s happy, whether she feels steady. That’s the part I’ll keep my eye on. The rest—his presence, the way he watches her, the easy jokes—I can live with that.
She doesn’t need my bruised ego on top of everything else.
While she throws, I drift into conversation with Reid Whitaker. He’s nursing a beer and telling me about the cracked window he sealed with duct tape, hopeful it’ll hold until spring.
“Goldie keeps asking when the bee puppies are coming back,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m in for it.”
We laugh, trade a few updates, but I keep glancing over.
And then—she’s gone.
I excuse myself and step into the hallway, assuming she’s headed to the restroom or stepped outside for air. I push the door open, already half-distracted.
Then I hear it. The door swinging open again, another set of footsteps trailing behind me.
Beau. Naturally.
“You enjoying yourself out there tonight?” he asks.
I sigh. “Hard to say. Air’s a little thick with bullshit.”
He smiles, all teeth and calculation. “Must be killing you, watching me with her.”
“If you’re using her to get a rise out of me,” I say, “don’t.”
He tilts his head. “She came to me. More than once. We’ve been talking about the sale. With the designation approved, there’s nothing holding her back. We’ve been hammering out the details.”
The words punch low. My gut tightens. “You’re lying.”
He shrugs, pulls out his phone, and scrolls like it’s no big thing. Then he holds it up.
Emails. Her name. Her words. My throat goes dry.
“Thanks for this, Beau,” he drawls, mocking her. “Really helpful stuff.”
The roar in my ears nearly drowns him out.
He tucks the phone away and smiles again, colder this time. “Fox doesn’t always win, you know. Sometimes the wolf gets the hen first.”
My grip tightens on the edge of the sink. I picture my fist meeting that smug face. For a breath, it’s all I want.
But then—her laugh, floating down the hallway, warm and unguarded. It pulls me back.
I release the sink and shoulder past him. He stumbles, hits the tile. I lean in close.
“Call her livestock again,” I murmur, “and we’ll find out what happens.”
He doesn’t flinch. “So sensitive.”
I leave him there, fists still clenched, heart pounding. He’s looking for a fight, but he won’t get one from me tonight.