33. Elodie
THIRTY-THREE
ELODIE
I was emotionally wrung the fuck out.
After my total meltdown, Cal had carried me in his arms back to the cottage. He was gentle and soothing as he tucked me into bed and kissed me good night. Despite the heaviness and uncertainty between us, I was still utterly, deeply in love with him.
I only hoped it would be enough for him to forgive me for not admitting defeat already.
A few days later, the lawyer’s office smelled like coffee that had been reheated too many times and something vaguely citrus, like someone had tried to mask the scent of despair with a cheap lemon-scented candle.
I sat in the stiff chair across from his desk, fingers twisting the silver ring I wore on my middle finger.
It had been my grandmother’s. She was one of the boldest women I’d ever met and, right then, I needed some of her tenacity.
When Mr. Richardson stepped into his office, he got right to the point.
“Mr. Stafford left the farm in the care of the Keepers,” he repeated gently, like I hadn’t already been told those exact words in the letter the day the will was read.
“With a preservation easement, meaning the land itself can’t be developed.
It is reasonable to believe that they will sell the property. ”
“Right,” I said. “I understand.” My voice sounded like it was coming from the other side of a wind tunnel. “And the proceeds from that sale go to the town.”
He nodded, clasping his hands together like he was sorry but also very used to delivering this kind of news.
“I think he understood the likelihood that, after his passing, the farm would be sold, but Mr. Stafford wanted to ensure the property was in trusted hands. Historic hands that shared his values.”
I nodded and looked down at my lap. “And the only thing I can do is purchase it myself?”
His pause was small but mighty. “It appears that way, miss.”
I blinked, knowing my only option was so far-fetched it was laughable. I could size up any situation in a matter of seconds and make a plan, but I still hadn’t figured out how to make money fall from the sky. “For how much?”
“Well ...” He clicked through his computer screen. “Back in 1992, the land was purchased for about thirty-five thousand, but with the orchard added, and the easement in place, it’s ... a lot more now. Millions.”
I laughed. I actually laughed. It burst out of me unbidden, like a sharp, humorless thing.
I pressed a hand over my mouth like that would keep everything else from spilling out—my hope, my grief, the ragged little dreams I had nursed so close to my heart they’d fused with my ribs.
Millions.
Mr. Richardson didn’t laugh. He only offered me a strained smile, the kind people wore at funerals and divorce proceedings. “I understand this is a shock.”
There wasn’t a more perfect word for it.
I left his office feeling like I’d been hollowed out, like someone had scraped my insides clean with an ice-cream scoop and forgotten to put them back.
Outside, the world had the audacity to keep turning. Traffic moved. A woman pushed a stroller past the aging office building. A couple laughed and hugged across the street.
And me? I stood on the sidewalk with a file folder tucked under my arm and no idea what to do next.
When I made my way back, the cottage sat quiet, wrapped in the sleepy stillness of a Wednesday afternoon. Before long, someone would purchase the land—the cottage along with it—and I would start over.
I sat on the porch steps, folder unopened beside me, and stared out at the blossoming pumpkin patch. By now it was overflowing with vines, early-stage pumpkins growing larger every day.
This was where it all started. Where Stan leaped with blind faith and believed I could make something of this place.
On our meandering walks, I had listened while Stan talked.
I had learned the rhythm of bees and seasons.
I had imagined a fall festival and cider tastings and starry movie nights with kids curled up in lawn chairs and parents holding paper cups of mulled wine.
This was supposed to be ours. Mine .
I hated the idea of someone else profiting off our dreams. I’d poured my heart and soul into the Star Harbor Farm social media pages and worked to create an online community that was unique and exciting.
Sharing every step of my journey had been cathartic, and I never imagined that someone could take those dreams for themselves.
I wiped at my cheek before the tear had a chance to fall.
Back inside, I paced. I made tea but couldn’t drink it. I needed something to take my mind off the inevitable, aching loss of Star Harbor Farm.
I needed a distraction from the utter ache of hopelessness.
From my dresser drawer, I dragged out the letter I had found tucked inside the old trunk. The faded ink and broken promises were folded neatly between the yellowing pages of her letter.
Meet me at the lighthouse before it’s too late.
He is watching.
The words were cryptic, romantic. Slightly terrifying.
I wasn’t sure which part I believed more.
That night I had spent the evening combing through the trunk again, desperate for more clues.
The woman had clearly been planning to run, and I was more convinced than ever that she was the woman they’d found on the beach all those years ago—was she the nameless ghost whispered about in diner booths and porch swings? Was this the Lady of the Dunes?
But what if her story wasn’t the soft-edged tragedy the locals spun it into?
What if it really was something darker?
Something that whispered warnings across time?
I shivered and rubbed at my arms. The cottage felt colder than it should have.
I looked through the window toward the Drifted Spirit.
As always, it was a quiet calm of soft lighting and welcoming windows.
It was ethereal and dreamy. The thought of running a place like the Drifted Spirit, with its stream of new faces and fresh stories, seemed like a dream come true.
Every day would be spent daydreaming, curating the perfect Star Harbor experience for each new guest.
But Cal was proof that not everyone saw things in the same romantic, gold-filtered light. Sometimes that same dream was like wearing someone else’s too-small shoes.
Cal hadn’t been around all day, and I imagined he was giving me some space after my complete meltdown. We had texted a few short things, like boring updates and halfhearted questions about Levi.
I got the sticky feeling that Cal was somewhere inside himself—a place I didn’t have a map for. I wasn’t sure whether having space to think made everything easier or infinitely harder.
I missed him, and I hated that I missed him when I was supposed to be figuring out how to save the farm, how to save myself.
Because wasn’t that the whole point?
This was supposed to be the version of me who didn’t quit. Who didn’t run at the first sign of discomfort. Who didn’t shrug and float and tell herself the universe would figure it out eventually.
That girl wasn’t here.
Not yet.
But damn it if she wasn’t trying like hell to show up.
If Cal—the man with the most to lose from my winning—didn’t think I should give up, then how could I?
So much had changed between us. It was like we were standing on opposing sides of a canyon, tied to opposite ends of the same rope.
Neither of us wanted to intentionally harm the other, but we couldn’t manage to drop the rope either.
I didn’t have all the answers, but if I could ensure the farm was in safe hands, Cal and I could figure the rest out later, together.
How could I live with myself if I didn’t find a way to make this work?
I tucked away the letter and focused my attention.
I made a messy, sprawling list of every person I could call.
Every contact I’d ever made who might have a line on funding, grants, investors, or fairy godmothers.
I emailed the state historical commission.
I left messages for a business start-up incubator.
I reached out to grant writers who might be interested in helping.
There had to be someone who could help me.
One by one, the doors closed.
“Too risky.”
“Wrong kind of nonprofit.”
“No ROI.”
Every rejection was a paper cut, small and mean and stinging more than it should. By the fifth one, I didn’t even bother to respond. Instead, I just dropped my phone on the kitchen table and went out back to cry in the empty barn.
It was the paint that got me really rolling. The stupid, brilliant blue was so bright that it felt like hope, like a glorious middle finger to the idea that this place wasn’t worth saving.
“Dang it, Stan,” I whispered, dragging my fingers along the interior wall. “Why couldn’t you have just given it to me?”
I laughed at my own ridiculous thoughts. Stan wasn’t the kind of man who believed in handouts. He valued hard work. Grit. Pulling yourself up by your bootstraps .
Feeling sorry for myself, I stepped out of the barn and stared at Lake Michigan, tracking the distant caw of a crow overhead, as I made my way back to the cottage.
By the time I got back inside, my crummy black coffee was cold, but I forced it down anyway.
I was utterly exhausted. Not just physically, but bone-deep tired. The kind that made your soul feel like wet sand, heavy and clinging to everything.
And yet, underneath the ache, under the grief and rejection and fear, something small and bright and furious was surviving, like a weed that refused to die no matter how many times you stepped on it.
I wasn’t ready to give up.
Not yet.
Even if I didn’t know how to win. Even if I didn’t have a plan or a partner or a dollar to my name, I wasn’t walking away.
Because I knew this dream was worth fighting for. That I was worth fighting for.
I stared at the stack of rejection emails, at the empty grant applications and loan documents spread across the table like battle plans, and I exhaled slow and steady.
I could do this. I would do this.
Even if it broke my heart. Even if I lost Cal in the process.
The truth I didn’t want to face was the fact that there might not be a way for both of us to get what we wanted. Cal was right—if someone else bought the farm, there was no telling what they would do to it. I just knew that if I somehow scraped together enough to buy it, it would solve everything.
I took a deep breath as the house settled back into its usual quiet, and I opened my eyes.
I started again. There has to be a way.