Chapter 34 Wells
WELLS
This godforsaken pie is a crime against butter and fruit.
Compared to the other offerings at the late-winter market on Main, it looks like a failed science experiment—sunken in the middle, overbaked at the edges, and leaking an alarming amount of cherry juice from a poorly pinched seam.
“I hope no one is entering that,” Isla says, eyeing the cracked crust with open horror. “It looks like it fought in a war.”
“It did,” I say, peeling back the foil. “A war against our oven. Elsie made it.”
She blinks. “Ohh. Oh.”
I glance sideways. Elsie’s down the row at the quilt booth, talking on the phone, her scarf slipping loose around her neck.
“She’s taken up baking lately,” I explain. “Says it’s the first thing in a while that feels easy. Safe. No pressure, only flour and sugar and the occasional charred pan.”
“Mmm,” Isla hums. “Jack took some of her scones after your first committee meeting. Said they were . . . structurally creative.”
“Scary-looking. And hard as a rock.”
“That’s the one. Are we sure she should be allowed near an oven unsupervised?”
“She can do whatever the fuck makes her happy.”
Isla gives me a knowing look. “And what if what makes her happy is hooking up with the first out-of-towner who books a room at the inn?”
It takes a second for the words to land. When they do, my elbow clips the jar of marmalade. It hits the floor and shatters, golden syrup bleeding into the concrete.
“Jesus,” I mutter, crouching down.
Isla winces. “I was kidding.”
“Hilarious. I’ll be sure to return the favor next time Jack brings up the girl from the co-op.”
She huffs, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Bullseye.
I toss the broken lid into the trash, wiping my palm on my jeans. My pulse is racing. I know it’s irrational, but she makes me feel unsteady. When it comes to her, I have everything to lose.
We agreed to take it slow. Let the house breathe.
Let her breathe. Give the inn a full year to come back to life before we open the doors again.
Until then, she’s allowed to rest. To make pies that collapse in the center.
To fall asleep in the Wisteria Suite with her toes stealing all the covers and her hand curled on my chest.
I want that for her. A year of soft experiments. Of doing what she wants, whether or not it makes sense to anyone else. We don’t have to define our relationship out loud, though I would. We don’t have to promise anything yet, though I already have.
So, the thought of some stranger staying under the same roof, brushing her hand at the coffee pot, asking what brought her home—
Well, she’d never entertain that shit.
Not with the way she looks at me in the mornings, still sleepy, like she’s not sure if she dreamed me up. Not with the way she always ends up wherever I am, hovering while I fix something. Not with the way she reaches for my hand at night and doesn’t let go.
She’s choosing me. Even when she’s tired, even when she’s healing.
Still, I might have to banish the first guest who flirts with her.
“You’re spiraling,” Isla says lightly, handing me a cup of cider. “Drink this and pretend you didn’t threaten a fictional man over your very real girlfriend.”
“Is she my girlfriend?”
Isla raises both brows. “You live with her. You’re in love with her. You’re definitely sleeping together regularly, based on the way your entire personality softened over the past two weeks.”
“I don’t appreciate the implication that I haven’t always been charming.”
“Well. Take it up with literally anyone who’s met you.”
We stroll toward the next booth, where a wool blanket is draped over a spread of mismatched wooden crates. Rows of handmade candles sit on top. Some are poured into teacups, others molded into animals or wrapped in twine with bundles of dried herbs.
A little sign reads:
Midwinter Magick
small batch. all heart.
I reach for a fox-shaped candle tucked near the corner. One ear is slightly squashed, and the tail’s crooked.
“You should get it for her,” Isla says, glancing over. “It’s a little weird, but cute nonetheless.”
I turn it over in my hand. The wick’s too long. The wax dips unevenly around the base. It looks like something a kid might make in art class and be impossibly proud of. Elspeth would’ve loved it. I know Elsie will, too.
“I will,” I say, pulling a five from my wallet. “The Hart women have a thing for strays.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m quite literally a stray.”
She snorts. “Nah. You belong to the inn now. You belong to her.”
I don’t argue. I feel it too clearly in my chest—that low warmth whenever she walks into the room, the hush that falls over the house when she’s asleep beside me. It’s the first winter I haven’t spent counting the days left until spring.
We keep walking, and the rest of the market is a parade of familiar chaos.
Bobby’s haggling with the cider vendor, waving his arms emphatically. Alma bustles past with a basket of herbs, pausing every few steps to scold anyone who so much as sniffles. Winnie trails after Goldie, who’s a sugar-dusted blur with jam on her cheeks and mittens on the wrong hands.
Somewhere near the coffee stand, someone strums a banjo.
Kids launch snowballs with terrible aim, laughing when they miss and the ice shatters harmlessly against storefront doors.
And Jack—bless him—is trying and failing to flirt with a florist’s apprentice who’s at least a decade older and not having it.
I’m not sure why he even bothers when Isla is right there, pretending not to notice them, rearranging jars of spiced plum jam. If it’s in an effort to make her jealous, he’d better quit fucking around.
When Elsie finally returns to my side, she’s breathless and windblown.
“Sorry I took so long.”
I blink at her, caught off guard by the shine in her eyes. “Everything official?”
“As official as an email confirmation in my inbox.”
I grin and wrap an arm around her waist to pull her in.
This morning, she’d made the last of her calls to Florida. Canceling the lease, ending the utilities, tying up the final scraps of her old life before the deadline hit. And still, she didn’t want to miss the pie contest.
“Should we check out the judging?” she asks now, eyes glinting.
I think about telling her the truth—that her pie probably doesn’t stand much chance beside the others. But there’s something about the way she asks, like she already knows, like she’s bracing for the worst but hoping for a sliver of surprise.
And hell, maybe it will taste good. Maybe it’s the kind of mess that works. I want it to. I want her to win, if only to see that grateful little smile on her face.
God, I should have fucking sabotaged all the other fucking pies.
“Later, baby.” I nod toward the far end of the market. “Let’s walk a bit.”
We spend another hour wandering, arms full of jars and loaves and things we have no use for. At one point, Goldie insists on riding my shoulders, her sticky mittens gripping my ears while she tells me about her plans to be a baker/astronaut/veterinarian when she grows up.
By the time we head home, the pie is soggy and cold. We carry it back anyway and set it on the parlor table on top of a doily. Elsie makes a whole show of digging out mismatched plates and arranging everything perfectly.
“All right,” she declares, raising a knife. “Moment of truth.”
I watch her cut into it. The crust crumbles in sad little heaps. She serves me first.
I take a bite and chew with care. “It’s . . . really good, Els.”
Her eyes go wide. “Honestly?”
I hesitate. It’s my job to make her happy, but is lying through my teeth really the best way to do it? Maybe I should—
“Wells!” She swats my arm, scandalized. I must have waited too fucking long to answer.
“It’s . . . edible.”
“Oh, my God. It’s not that bad, is it?” She takes a bite of her own, chews once, and then promptly spits it into a napkin. “It’s fucking terrible.”
I nod, solemn. “Unspeakably. But . . . I like it. I’ll eat the whole damn tray if you want me to.”
She snorts, loud and unexpected. It bursts into full laughter she can’t seem to stop—shoulders shaking, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She bends over her plate, completely undone.
I watch her, chest tight, heart hammering. The chandelier above us sways with a gentle creak, the lights flickering like they’re laughing, too. The parlor windows shimmer in the soft glow, and the house seems to hum in time with her.
When she finally catches her breath, there’s a smear of cherry on her lip. I swipe it away with my thumb, then lean in and kiss her. She tastes like sugar and something much sweeter.
We kiss again. And again.
Until Hemingway leaps onto the table, tail twitching, and digs his claws into my shoulder in protest. I wince, then let him settle beside the plates. From my coat pocket, I draw the fox candle and set it in front of her.
Her laughter dims. She picks it up gently, cradling it like something sacred. “She used to call you her fox. Clever. Hard to pin down. Kind, but you sneak it in sideways.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Will you finally let me read the letter?”
My heart stumbles. I reach for my wallet and pull out the worn page—creased, softened at the edges—and place it in her hands.
“I want you to know,” I say quietly, “this isn’t why I love you. Not because she said I should. Not because she gave us some kind of blessing. You’re not Elspeth’s choice for me. You’re mine.”
She unfolds the letter and reads, silent but steady. I shift beside her, unsure where to look.
When she finishes, she doesn’t speak right away. She closes her eyes, lets out a breath, then folds the paper and slips it back into my hand.
“She knew you,” she says. “She knew me, too. And she saw this coming, I think. Not because she forced it, but because she hoped for it.”
I clear my throat. “You’re not . . . weirded out? That she tried to orchestrate something even after she was gone?”
“I’m honored,” she says. “It’s exactly the sort of thing she’d do. And I love you, Wells. The rest is just cinnamon on top.”
I strike a match and light the candle. The crooked flame flickers between us, catching the gold in her hair. The quilt slips down from the back of the couch, and I tug it over our laps. Hemingway stretches and settles in the space between us, warm and purring.
The house sighs into stillness around us.
With her knee against mine and our fingers knotted beneath the quilt, I kiss her—soft and slow. I kiss her until the quiet hum of the inn folds around us, until I can’t tell where the house ends, and we begin.
And for the first time, it feels like everything that came before led us right here.
Home. Together.