24. Elodie
TWENTY-FOUR
ELODIE
Something about the morning felt off before I even opened the cottage door.
It was the kind of stillness that didn’t belong to a farm in midsummer.
Too quiet, too weighted. Not the peaceful kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a soft blanket, but the kind that made you feel like the world was holding its breath—like something had already changed and was just waiting for you to notice.
I stepped outside anyway, because what else was I going to do? Sit inside and pretend that I wasn’t waking up in a place that still smelled faintly of smoke and soot? Pretend the barn wasn’t still a blackened memory visible from my front porch?
The mug in my hand was warm, but my fingers drummed lightly on the ceramic. I stared out at the field, across the hill where the barn used to stand. The wind tugged at my curls, but I didn’t lift a hand to fix them. I didn’t move at all until I heard the crunch of gravel beside me .
My smile widened as I sipped my morning coffee. “You’re lurking now?” I teased without turning.
“I brought coffee. Thought it might help keep you from murdering the next contractor that tells you to wait six months.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see Cal standing there, holding out a second mug of coffee. Not his usual scowl, but not soft, either, his expression was somewhere in between.
I glanced at the mug of crappy instant coffee in my hand before tossing the entire thing, mug and all, into the grass. “Perfect.”
Cal shook his head in disbelief before inching forward to pass me the ceramic mug.
“Thanks.” I smiled, wrapping my hands around the cup and letting the steam curl around my face.
Cal sat and leaned against the railing beside me. Our shoulders didn’t touch, but the space between us felt electric.
For long moments we both looked out onto the sprawling farmland in front of us. “You’re quiet,” he finally said.
I glanced sideways, smiling into my coffee. It was bitter and a little underwhelming, but it seemed like he tossed in some cream and sugar and hoped for the best.
It’s the thought that counts, I reminded myself. “Being quiet isn’t a bad thing.”
He grunted beside me. “For a woman like you it means trouble. It means you’re plotting, and that’s when you’re most dangerous.”
I snorted softly, but the sound felt hollow. The wind shifted again. And this time it carried more than just the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. It carried the sound of footsteps .
I smiled as Helen approached us, but I didn’t even need to see her face to know something was terribly wrong. Her stride was too slow, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Cal straightened beside me, reading the same thing I was.
“Good morning, Helen. Are you okay?” I asked, setting my mug down on the railing as I stood.
She stopped in front of us, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. “We just got a call. Stan passed away last night. In his sleep.”
I blinked, my uncaffeinated brain moving too slow to process the information. “Wait, what?”
“Stan,” she said softly. “He’s gone. He was supposed to meet with the orchard workers, but when he didn’t show, they got worried. One went into the house and found him. Police and the medical examiner are on the way. Officer Brody called for Cal, but I answered.”
My legs wobbled. Cal swore under his breath.
I sat down hard on the porch step, coffee forgotten, just as a line of police cars and an ambulance filed onto the farm property, bypassing us entirely and heading toward his home.
No, Stan .
I waited for the sobs, for the rush of grief to crash over me like a tidal wave. I felt it in a dull, hollow ache, like something had been scooped out of me without warning. My hands trembled as they covered my mouth.
Helen sat beside me, placing her arm around my shoulder and a hand over mine. “He went peacefully. There was no pain.”
I nodded, though I didn’t really hear her. My mind was already spinning. Sadness swirled with confusion and disbelief.
I looked up, eyes finding Cal’s. He was standing rigid, jaw clenched. Pain flashed in his eyes, but a stoic mask quickly replaced it.
“This changes a lot,” I said aloud to no one in particular. “The farm, the renovation.” A thousand thoughts flipped through my mind. “Did he have any other family?”
“No.” He shook his head, voice rough and thick when he sighed. “Stan was a pillar in this community. He was a good man.”
I didn’t know the extent of their relationship, but I knew Stan had a soft spot for Cal.
His shoulders were rigid and my fingers flexed, wanting to reach out and offer some sort of comfort.
Despite my nerves, I rested my hand on his forearm.
I sneaked a glance up, our eyes meeting.
When his brown eyes softened, I allowed myself to lean into him, resting my head on the side of his shoulder with a soft, sad smile.
Standing side by side, we looked out onto the property as the scene in the distance unfolded like a movie. Helen sniffed and stood. “I just can’t watch. I’ll be at the inn if you need anything.” I wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to me or Cal, but I reached for her.
I stepped forward and wrapped her in my arms. “Thank you.” My heart squeezed for her and the loss of her old friend.
As Helen walked away, Cal and I stood in stunned silence, a tear slipping from my eye before I could angrily swipe it away. I couldn’t get a read on Cal as he stood, stone still, with his arms crossed over that broad chest of his.
Was he thinking about the land? My project? The plans he so vocally hated?
It hit me that the one person who had believed in both of us wasn’t here anymore.
Uncertainty rattled through me as I took a deep gulp of morning air. Don’t be selfish. This was never about you. It’s about Stan and his dream.
The edges of my vision blurred and narrowed with tears and the weight of what Stan’s passing meant. Star Harbor Farm would be in limbo now.
No one, least of all me, knew what came next.
Stan’s funeral was a sight to behold. So many people from the Star Harbor community came out to honor him. During the service, I couldn’t help but notice how good Cal looked. I had daydreamed about how he filled out a pair of jeans, but he was downright devastating in a black tailored suit and tie.
Stan was buried at the local cemetery, and during the service many stepped up to talk about the kind of man Stan had been.
He always lent a hand, gave back to the community, and cared about every person who’d ever worked for him.
The loss of Stan Stafford was a hefty blow to the residents of Star Harbor.
I was proud to have known him, even if it was only for a little while.
Word about the fate of his farm buzzed through his graveside services as gossip spread. Stan had a last will and testament, and if rumors were to be true, he had asked that the community gather to all hear his wishes at once.
My knee bounced as I sat in the community room of the Star Harbor Library. The Keepers were gathered in the circle of cozy chairs that usually held knitting needles and plans for upcoming town events.
Today, the air was different. Charged.
Helen stood at the front of the room alongside a formal- looking man in an ill-fitting suit. Eager ears had gathered, since the information regarding Stan Stafford’s will somehow directly affected the Keepers. Helen’s voice was steady, even though her hands weren’t as she welcomed the group.
The man took a step forward, wasting no time with chitchat or introductions.
“Thank you for joining us. It is my duty to discuss the assets outlined in Stan Stafford’s will.
It is important to note that when a business owner dies, the ownership and assets of the business become a part of their estate and are distributed according to their will.
Mr. Stafford has outlined portions of his assets to be divided among various causes, including the Remington County Humane Society, the Women’s Resource Center of Western Michigan, and other charitable organizations.
The majority of his assets, however, are tied to the property known as Star Harbor Farm.
Monetary allocations for general upkeep, maintenance, staff salaries, et cetera have been earmarked.
” He paused as the room buzzed with silent tension.
The man shifted in his loafers. “Mr. Stafford wishes the fate of Star Harbor Farm to lie in the hands of the Star Harbor Historical Society.” He nodded toward Helen.
“A preservation easement has been filed, ensuring the land will remain agricultural and community focused in perpetuity.”
Soft, confused gasps and low murmurs undulated through the room as I looked around, trying to understand and gauge the reactions of the group.
“What exactly does that mean?” Helen asked, a deep furrow settling between her brows.
“This means that the historical society is responsible for either running the farm themselves or selling it. If the property were to be sold,” he continued, “the proceeds are to be donated directly back to the town of Star Harbor, earmarked for public works and education, as dictated by the deceased.”
Helen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “So, as a group, it is up to us to decide the best path forward?”
The man nodded. “It is. Stan’s final notation reads: ‘This land belongs to all of us, but someone’s got to carry the torch, might as well be the smartest bunch of women I know.’”
I pressed my lips together, fighting a fresh wave of grief. That someone carrying the torch was supposed to be us , but of course, not everyone saw it that way.
“When must the decision be made?” one of the town council members asked from the back.
“Hopefully not before I might be able to throw my hat into the ring.” Cal’s voice had my head whipping behind me. His frame filled the doorway as a sea of eyes tracked him.
Still dressed in his suit, he walked down the center aisle toward the front of the room.