Chapter 30 Wells
WELLS
After pacing the kitchen for nearly an hour, I climb the narrow stairwell all the way to the third floor. My fist hovers at Elsie’s door, knuckles poised to knock, but something in the stillness stops me.
Through the thin wood, the boards creak as she shifts her weight. I picture her there, curled up on the quilt, eyes swollen from crying. It makes me sick. It makes me furious—with her, with myself, with the way we’ve gone and bloodied something that should have stayed soft.
I close my fist, press it to the frame. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if she opened the door. If she let me inside, let me hold her, let me explain the fury I can’t quite swallow.
But I can’t do it. Not tonight. My chest feels cracked wide, too raw, and if I step into that room now, I’ll either beg or break. She deserves steadier than that. The Wells Rourke who can shoulder her hurt without adding more.
So, I pinch my eyes shut, drag in a ragged breath, and step back. The house seems to sag with me, the stairs sighing under my weight as I descend.
She doesn’t let me off easy. Every board, every beam groans as I pass. A lamp in the parlor flickers when I cross into the front hall. The mantel ticks, loose nail singing in the draft. Even the chandelier gives a disapproving clink.
“I know,” I mutter. “You wanted me to go in there. You think I should’ve knocked.”
The house creaks above me, a whine that rattles the windowpanes.
“Well, I’m not going to,” I say. “Not tonight. I’ve said enough. She’s said enough. If I walk in there now, it’ll only make things worse.”
Silence falls.
I shove my hands in my pockets and pace the hall, boots dragging. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been meddling.”
The lamp flares once, then steadies.
“Maybe you’re right to meddle. Maybe I’ve been irrational.” My throat tightens, the words scraping on the way out. “But I can’t do it tonight. Not when every look between us feels like tinder waiting on a spark. Not when she’s got me twisted into fucking knots.”
The chandelier gives a single, mournful chime.
She’s afraid. We both are. That Elsie will use this as the perfect excuse to leave. She’s a bolter. That’s what she does when things get hard.
And the worst part is, I was supposed to be the reason she stayed. I was supposed to make it easier for her to believe she could belong here again. I tried. God, I tried. But some days, it feels impossible to hold steady for someone else when you’re barely keeping your own balance.
“You’re not losing her forever,” I tell the house. “Trust me on that.”
She doesn’t answer, but the walls seem closer somehow, pressing in like they want to hold me steady, too. Elsie’s the favorite, but I’ve still been faithful. I’ve been here. That has to count for something.
I take the silence as a sign and head for the stairs. Not a word from the house this time. No creak, no sigh. Instead, it’s Elspeth’s voice I hear when I’m alone in my room. Come on. Don’t fold now.
I kick off my boots, drag my sweater over my head, and let myself sink into the mattress.
Outside, the storm slashes at the windows. Inside, the quiet presses in close—until I hear it again. The soft rasp of paper. The familiar weight in my wallet.
That letter. Folded smooth at the seams from being read too many times already. Waiting, always, for me.
Wells, my fox,
You’ve always been sly about your kindness. You sneak it in sideways, as if helping were something to hide. But I see it. I’ve always seen it.
You’ve lifted more than beams and banisters in this house. You’ve carried the weight of the winters, the leaks, the endless repairs that would have sent another man running. You’ve carried the inn when I was too tired to, and though I know you don’t like me to say it, you’ve carried me, too.
I don’t think you realize what you’ve given me.
It wasn’t just the roof mended or the steps sanded smooth.
It was companionship. It was laughter at the supper table when I thought I’d eat alone.
It was someone to argue with about whether hydrangeas were worth the water bill.
It was a life extended. At the end, you gave me a life richer than I had any right to ask for.
I know my time here is shortening. The house tells me so, in the way it creaks at night, in the way it sighs when I climb the stairs. It’s all right. I’ve had my years. But I want you to hear me plain: I trust you. I trust this place in your capable hands.
One day, Elsie will come back. She’ll be thorny and stubborn, half convinced she doesn’t belong here. She’ll carry her guilt like a stone in her pocket. But you—of all people—you’ll know what to do.
Not because she needs saving. She never has. But because she deserves someone who will look at her as if she’s worth the fight. She deserves patience, devotion, understanding. And you deserve her, too, if you’re brave enough to let yourself have her.
I watched her grow. That girl always wanted to run fast, faster than the rest of us could keep up with. She thought she had to earn her place, even here, even with me. She never saw that she already was the place.
I can’t take that stone of guilt from her hand, Wells, but you can help her set it down. When she returns, please don’t let her slip away. Don’t let your fear or hers trick you into thinking this house isn’t big enough for both your wounds.
It is. It always has been.
I can see you both growing old here, trading chores and quarrels, holding hands at the porch rail. I can see you carrying her laughter and stubbornness the way you’ve carried me.
The house will love you for it, I know. And I think, if you let her, Elsie will love you for it, too.
Take care of her, my fox. Take care of yourself.
With all my love,
Elspeth
I press my thumb to the signature, the ink faded from years hidden in the attic. Why didn’t she give it to me before she passed? Did she mean for me to find it only when Elsie returned? Or did she merely trust the house to deliver it when the time was right?
My chest aches so hard it’s a wonder the rafters don’t feel it.
“She thought too highly of me,” I whisper. “I’m just a simple fucking man.” I tip my head back, eyes burning. “She thought I could be enough. For the house. For her. For Elsie.” My laugh comes out cracked. “She should’ve picked a better fox.”
The chandelier gives a single, stubborn chime. The house disagrees.
I fold the letter carefully and slide it back into my wallet, but the words stay. They echo through my chest, circling like fucking sparrows. Lord knows we need more of them here.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the wooden beams, and I think of Elsie one floor up, crying into her old quilt. I think of the way she kissed me and then waggled her finger, the way she laughed through her tears, the way she looked at me like she was choosing me, too.
Sleep doesn’t come. Only the storm. Only Elsie’s voice echoing: You think this is easy for me? To want something so much and still be afraid of it? To love this house, to maybe love you, and to know that both things could break me if I choose wrong?
By the time the first gray streaks of morning edge through the curtains, I give up on sleep. I swing my legs to the floor, tug on my boots, shrug into my coat. In the kitchen, I grind beans, add cinnamon the way Elsie likes, and set the pot to perk.
The scent seeps into the walls—warm, sweet, familiar. I pour a mug full, leave it on the counter where she’ll see it, then tear a scrap of paper from the pad by the phone.
Coffee’s hot. I’ll be around to talk later. – W.
It isn’t much, but it keeps me from walking out empty-handed. Proof I haven’t ditched her. That I haven’t left her to pick up the pieces alone. I can’t face her yet, but I won’t vanish, either.
The boards grumble as I step through the hall. I mutter a good morning to the inn and let the door shut behind me.
Outside, the air is sharp, clean. Snow crusts the lane in thin, crunching sheets. Last night’s dusting has settled over old drifts, softening them back to white.
I shove my hands in my pockets and make the familiar walk toward High Hill.
I’ve only ever been to two funerals in my life. The first was when I was just a boy—some distant uncle. I don’t remember the man, only the feel of stiff shoes and incense thick enough to choke on. Death felt like playacting then.
The second was Elspeth’s. And there was certainly no pretending in that.
I stood here on this very ground, frozen to the bone, while the whole town filed past—clapping my shoulder, pressing my hand, telling me how sorry they were. As if she were mine. As if I were hers.
Hell, maybe I was. Maybe I always will be.
I remember searching the crowd, waiting for her daughter to appear. Waiting for her granddaughter, too. That wild slip of a girl who’d bolted years before. Neither came.
Back then, my anger was sharp enough to cut. They let her down. They let me bury her without them.
But now—walking between the leaning stones—I understand things in a way I didn’t before. I understand what it costs to come back. To face what you’ve lost, and to recognize that the person you loved is no longer here.
And they never will be again.
I stop at Elspeth’s marker. Someone’s been by recently. There’s a bundle of witch hazel laid at the base, blossoms gone limp, browned at the edges. I crouch, brush my thumb over the brittle petals, breathe in the faint ghost of sharp, medicinal green.
“I’m making a mess of this,” I tell the stone. “You said not to let her slip away. But Christ, Elspeth, you didn’t warn me what it’d feel like. To want her this much. To be so afraid she’s already half-gone.”
The grave doesn’t answer. Only the trees groan in the cold.
“She’s been talking with Beau about selling. For weeks. And then last night, she said she wanted to stay.” I shake my head. “Wanted to, before I ruined it.”
I rake a hand over my face. “We fought, hard. I really fuckin’ hated it.”
The words catch sharp in my throat. “She’s breaking me, Elspeth. With her arguments, her stubbornness, her laughter. She’s breaking me, and I’m letting her. Do you think I’ve got enough left in me to carry the both of us?”
Silence stretches. A crow cuts across the sky, black wings flashing. The witch hazel rattles like bones in the breeze.
I push to my feet, brush snow from my coat. “You’d tell me not to give up. I can hear you saying it.” I touch the top of the stone, fingers stinging with cold. “Are you watching over me? Are you proud or disappointed?”
Again, no answer.
The walk back home is slower. By the time I make it there, the sky’s gone peach at the edges. Upstairs, a curtain shifts—Elsie’s window. A shadow lingers, then disappears once more.
On the porch, Hemingway waits, tail flicking, yellow eyes fixed on me.
“I know,” I mutter, bending to scratch his ears. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll always come back.”
The threshold doesn’t bite. The house, it seems, has already forgiven me.