Chapter 35 Elsie
ELSIE
The next morning, Wells leans against the kitchen counter, sleeves shoved to his elbows, the last curl of steam rising from his coffee mug. I steal a piece of toast from his plate.
“So,” he says. “Now that you’ve made all your grand decisions, now that you’re stuck with me and this inn forever—what are you planning to do with your year of rest?”
I chew, pretending to think. “Aside from being with you?”
He tips his head, amused. “Yes. Aside from me.”
We’ve been good about it. Wells and I both agreed—I chose to stay, but I still need some time to recover. It’s been nonstop since I got here: the trust, the letters, the storm, the fight, the decision.
Even with peace in my chest, my body hasn’t caught up. I need time to breathe.
He lifts a brow. “Come on, Els. If you could do anything, what would you choose?”
“Maybe . . . lay around for a while,” I say, ticking it off on my fingers.
“Read a lot. Go to the markets. Pick flowers with Winnie and Goldie. Drink wine with Isla. Help you fix things, because I like to feel a little useful, and I like you teaching me. Bake more, even though we both know I’m terrible at it.
Sip coffee by the hearth. Take long walks into town.
Make love in every room of the house—except Elspeth’s because that would be fucking weird. ”
His mouth twitches. “So, basically, you want to play house while I fix it.”
“That okay with you?”
“As long as you’re here, I’m okay.”
“Thank you, Wells,” I say softly. “For loving me while I’m still learning to love myself.”
He crowds me until the counter kisses my spine, hands braced on either side of my hips. I feel the warmth of him everywhere—chest to chest, breath to breath—before his mouth finds mine to kiss.
He lifts me onto the counter the same way he did the night we met—but this time, there’s no hesitation. No fear of what it might mean. Only want. Only us.
When we finally pull apart, breathless and a little unsteady, he rests his forehead against mine.
And I’m full. That’s the only word for it. Full of him, of this moment, of the house as it is now—no longer a question mark at the edge of my life, but something solid and sure. An answer I didn’t realize I’d been waiting for.
The kind of full that quiets the ache I’ve carried for so long. The kind that makes staying feel not just possible, but right.
I slide my hands into his hair and breathe him in—warm, steady, familiar.
“I like this version of us,” I whisper.
His smile touches mine. “So do I.”
LATE WINTER
The first time I try to bake after the cherry pie fiasco, I nearly poison us both. The loaf comes out lopsided, underdone in the middle, the crust black as coal. Wells takes a bite anyway, valiant to the end. Then coughs so hard I have to smack his back.
“Swear to God,” he wheezes, eyes watering, “this is construction material.”
I throw a dish towel at his head. “You really don’t know how to lie to me.”
He grins through a mouthful of smoke-flavored crumb. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“It is. But a little delusion would be nice while I’m still learning.”
“Yeah, well. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Later, I sprawl in the garden-room daybed with cucumber slices on my eyelids, soaking up what little winter sun filters through the glass. Wells passes by with a tool belt, the hammer clanking at his hip.
“Need anything?” he asks, leaning on the doorframe.
“More cucumbers. A crown. Someone to fan me with palm leaves.”
He chuckles. “You’re getting crumbs on my upholstery.”
“It’s my upholstery, too.”
“Exactly.” He disappears down the hall.
I peek out from under the cucumbers. The miniature chandelier above the daybed sways faintly in the light, like it’s laughing.
I stick my tongue out at it. It flickers back, delighted.
Apparently, Blue Willow approves of idle afternoons. Who knew?
The next morning, Alma stops by with a paper sack of citrus and her usual brand of medical tyranny.
“Vitamin C for the crud going around,” she says, pressing an orange into my hand like a prescription. “And if you must bake, try shortbread. Lower risk.”
She casts a withering look at the burnt loaf on the counter, then pats my cheek with maternal finality.
I do my best to hide my sniffles. I won’t give her the satisfaction of putting me on bed rest. I don’t want to be sick. I want to be well—here—present.
SPRING
Snow loosens its grip on the ridge, sliding into muddy ruts along Main Street. Wells and I walk into town after lunch, our boots filthy with it. We stop at Juneberry for coffee.
Winnie tucks a tiny posy of violets into my scarf “for luck.”
Goldie tries to sell me her rock collection, then gives me the whole box for free when she learns I only have paper money.
“It doesn’t jingle,” she says, frowning. “And that’s not any fun at all.”
She hands it over anyway, magnanimous. “You can owe me cookies.”
In early May, Isla and I drink wine on the back steps of her cottage while Jack replaces the porch rail. She tells me orchard stories—about grafts that took and grafts that didn’t, about her great-great-grandfather and his stubborn obsession with plum varietals no one else wanted to grow.
We watch Jack measure twice and cut once. We both pretend we aren’t watching him at all. A man with calloused hands and a level in his tool belt is, unfortunately, very hard to ignore.
In the afternoons, a warm breath blows up the hill from town. I leave the kitchen window cracked. I write lists: rooms to repaint, linens to mend, recipes to try. I cross off exactly one thing each day, then stop. That’s the rule.
One thing, no more. The house hums its approval every time I set the pen down.
I start reading romance novels again. Honest ones that admit people are messy and still deserving. Sexy ones that take their time. I tear through three in a week.
On one particularly raunchy night, Wells finds me in the alcove, ankle hooked over the arm of the chair, eyes glazed with fictional longing.
“You’re insatiable,” he says. “And not just in bed, apparently.”
“Get out,” I mutter, fanning the pages at him. “The duke’s about to confess his secret.”
He backs away, hands raised, grinning all the way to the stairs.
On the first mild evening, we walk to the cemetery together. I swap all the dried witch hazel for hellebores—pale green, waxy-soft, like something carved from soap.
“Hi,” I tell Elspeth, not because it’s polite but because I want to. “I’m resting, like you would’ve told me to. Don’t haunt me about the shitty baked goods.”
A breeze flicks my hair. Wells mutters, “She’s not promising anything,” and tightens my scarf just the same.
We turn toward home as the streetlamps blink on, one by one.
SUMMER
The garden explodes. Every morning before breakfast, I deadhead roses until my fingers stain and my wrists smell like cut green. Wells shows me how to sand a banister and how not to, which involves twice as much dust and much more swearing.
Jack stops by twice a week to help with the heavy things. He and Wells bicker over wood species and the correct angle for a scarf joint. I sort linens on the porch and let the clean ones sun themselves sweet.
We make a game of small victories. A window that opens after years of being painted shut. A doorknob that turns without sticking. A strip of wallpaper that peels clean, revealing smooth plaster beneath.
In July, I wear a clover crown Winnie and Goldie show me how to weave. I forget it’s there until a bee hovers near my ear and Wells says, “Careful, princess.”
I stick my tongue out at him. He bows low like I deserve it.
Children streak through Juneberry with jam-slick mouths. The summer market hums. Isla brings a basket of plums from the early tree and says, “Jam?” and I say, “Yes,” and the kitchen becomes a cathedral of bubbling fruit.
At night, we sit on the back steps with bare feet and the hush that only belongs to towns that roll up their sidewalks by nine. Fireflies scribble their quiet notes above the grass.
Blue Willow exhales.
I think, wildly, I might actually be happy without waiting for the fallout.
One August evening, I fall asleep on the parlor couch with Hemingway stretched across my stomach and a notebook of to-do lists curled beside me. I wake to a blanket tucked beneath my chin and the softest kiss pressed to my hairline.
“You see that?” Wells whispers to the house, unaware I’m awake. “Our girl’s got big plans for us.”
The chandelier gives one bright, smug chime.
AUTUMN
Come September, leaves drift into the eaves and whisper themselves to sleep. One morning, I climb to the attic alone and start opening boxes. I do it gently, like waking old animals.
Hatboxes with faded ribbons. A tin of keys labeled in Elspeth’s tidy hand—Rose, Thistle, Wisteria. A bundle of handbills from past Harvest Dances, their edges browned, dates scrawled in pencil. A stack of postcards bound with twine, corners softened from being read.
Recipe cards in that same looping script—one stained plum-purple for jam, one marked “shortbread” with a stern underline. Now that I’ve read (memorized) every letter, I’m no longer afraid to crack open the past.
I catalog. I read. I get rid of only a few merciless things. A nest-chewed runner. A cracked chamber pot. The moldy guestbook that can’t be saved.
I sit cross-legged on the attic floor and speak into the quiet. “I know,” I say. “I know you were scared, too.” A draft slips through the boards and kisses my ankle.
When I carry a bundle downstairs, the stairwell is brighter than it should be for the hour. I don’t question the gifts she gives me.
After supper, I show Wells what I’ve found—how Elspeth crossed out “two sticks of butter” on one recipe and, with great conviction, wrote “three.” It’s a small thing, but it feels like magic, too.
We drink cider by the hearth. The house creaks like an old friend settling its bones.
“You ready to think about reopening?” he asks.
“Slowly,” I say. “We’ll let the inn tell us when she’s ready.”
He smiles into his glass. “I can wait.”
On the last mild day of October, Jack fixes the storm window in the Thistle Room while Isla sits on the sill and tells him he’s doing it wrong. He’s not. He acts like he’s irritated, but we all know better.
I bring them cinnamon coffee and think, This is how you rebuild a life. You pass around cups. You pass around time. You study what’s broken until you figure out how to fix it.
A week later, someone leaves a bouquet of wild asters on our porch with a note:
For when you open. We’ve been waiting. The Motts.
I press it—and a flower—into Elspeth’s ledger. The petals keep their purple for a long, long time.
WINTER AGAIN
By the time January rolls down the ridge, the inn smells like lemon oil and thyme. The hallways glow with fresh paint. The attic is sorted into neat aisles of history. The guest rooms are shy with new linens and old light.
Word has a way of seeping through wood. People start asking in Juneberry, on the town green, in whispered, nosy, hopeful voices: When are you open? When can we book?
One night, Wells finds me in the parlor, staring at the hearth with a soft smile.
“What?” he says, suspicious of my face.
“I was just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Hopeful,” I correct.
He takes my hand, his thumb tracing along my knuckles. “Should we set a date, Els?”
“April third,” I say. Elspeth’s birthday. “A soft opening. Two rooms, maybe. First floor only.”
“The rest will follow.”
“Slow,” I remind him.
“Slow,” he agrees.
And when winter finally thaws and the first crocuses push their brave heads through the thaw, we stand in the doorway together, ready to welcome our new guests.