6. Cal
CAL
I wake up earlier than expected.
The room is quiet—too quiet for someone used to the constant hum of L.A. No traffic, no distant sirens. Just birdsong and the faint creak of the old building settling into the day.
It’s oddly peaceful.
I get up, shower, and pull on a hoodie over my T-shirt, deciding to take a walk. I could use some air. Maybe stretch my legs before breakfast. Maybe clear my head.
Downstairs, the front desk is manned by the lady from yesterday, Ana. She’s cheerful in a calm, steady sort of way. Not too much small talk, which I appreciate.
“Morning,” she says, glancing up from a clipboard.
“Morning.” I smile.
“Where are you off to so early?” She leans on the counter.
I gesture toward the door. “Just heading out for a quick walk.”
She smiles. “Enjoy it. It’s beautiful this time of day—especially if you take the trail by the winery. And breakfast starts at eight, just so you know.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
Then I glance around. I don’t ask out loud, but I look. Margot isn’t here.
Not that I was expecting her to be. But something about our interaction yesterday—firm but polite, professional but still… real—sticks with me. I can’t remember the last time someone spoke to me without pretense. Without caution or flattery or calculation.
I step outside.
The air is crisp, fresh. There’s a thin layer of dew on the grass, and the whole world smells like earth and woodsmoke. The inn’s porch creaks under my feet, and for a second, I just stand there, hands in my pockets, watching the town slowly wake up.
I don’t know what I’m doing here—not really. But I know I want more of whatever this is.
Quiet.
Real.
Uncomplicated.
I start walking.
I start down the gravel path, letting my feet decide where I go. The air’s cool against my skin, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not in a rush.
The inn looks different in the daylight.
Warmer. Like it’s alive. There’s a vine-covered trellis near the side garden, wind chimes dancing above a bench, and mismatched boots lined up neatly just outside the back door.
Handmade signs point to things like “Play Circle,” “Garden Reading Nook,” and “Trail to the Orchard.”
It’s… charming.
And not in the overly curated “we spent a million dollars to look rustic” kind of way. It’s real. You can tell someone cares about this place. Every detail is intentional, like it was placed with love, not for show.
I walk toward town.
The road dips gently, winding past a little wooden fence covered in morning glories.
A kid on a bike zooms past and waves like we’ve met before.
An older man loading pumpkins into the back of a truck nods at me like I belong.
A golden retriever—not Waffles—barks lazily from someone’s porch and then flops down in a pile of sun.
I head toward Main Street, and it unfolds before me like a postcard.
Red-brick storefronts. White-trimmed windows.
A couple laughing outside a coffee shop.
A florist opening her shop with a broom in hand and earbuds in.
The café window glows with warmth, and there’s a hand-lettered chalkboard on the sidewalk that says Pumpkin Maple Scones Today—Come In For A Hug, Or At Least A Latte .
I walk slowly, taking everything in.
People here walk without their heads buried in phones. Shopkeepers leave their doors propped open. There’s a pace—slower, steadier. Intentional.
I pass a bookstore. A wine bar. A little barber shop with a striped pole turning outside. Every corner smells like cinnamon, firewood, and the last stretch of summer giving way to fall.
And I feel something I haven’t felt in… years.
Happy.
Not ecstatic. Not fireworks and champagne.
Just… still. Good.
I don’t know yet if I’ll stay three weeks or three days. I don’t know what I’m looking for.
But for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to leave.
I don’t buy anything.
Not the coffee that smells like it could save lives. Not the handwoven scarves a woman hangs on a rack outside her boutique. Not even the hot, syrupy mini pies a kid offers me from a street cart with a crooked grin and a “First one’s free, mister.”
I just take it in.
The way everyone moves like they have time.
The way strangers nod at me with that small-town curiosity— they don’t know me, but they’re ready to care.
The way someone called out “Morning!” from across the street like we were old friends.
I’m not sure what I expected. Suspicion? Recognition? But nobody stares too long. Nobody points. They treat me like any other passerby, and that feels like a gift.
I check my watch: 7:30 a.m.
Time to head back.
When I get back to the inn, someone’s crouched on the porch, hammer in hand, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He’s working on a loose board, coaxing it back into place with the kind of care that tells me he’s done this a hundred times.
He looks up as I reach the steps.
“Morning,” he says, voice warm and steady. He gestures toward the step with the hammer. “Watch your foot there—it’s a little rebellious.”
I grin. “Thanks for the warning.”
He stands and wipes his hands on an old rag tucked into his back pocket. He’s solidly built, maybe in his early sixties, with sharp eyes and the kind of quiet calm I recognize from guys who are good with their hands and not big on wasting words.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you around,” he says.
“Just got in yesterday,” I reply, offering a handshake. “Cal.”
He takes it with a firm grip. “Sam. I’m the unofficial handyman around here. Margot calls me mostly to wrangle loose floorboards and grumpy plumbing.”
Small talk. I can’t remember the last time I did something like this. I laugh. “Honestly? Sounds like a good life.”
He chuckles. “Some days are better than others. You into woodworking?”
I nod. “A little. I used to mess around with scrap pieces in my dad’s garage when I was younger. Nothing fancy. Mostly just to impress him.”
Sam tilts his head like he gets it. “That’s the best kind, then.”
Sam doesn’t ask what I do. Where I’m from. He just talks. Like I’m any guy passing through. Like I belong here.
It’s… nice.
Eventually, he slaps the hammer against his palm and says, “Well, if the porch falls apart under your feet tomorrow, just pretend you never saw me.”
“Deal,” I say with a grin.
He nods once and bends back down to finish what he started.
I head inside.
Inside, the inn smells like maple and something warm. I head toward the front desk, where Ana is flipping through a clipboard.
She looks up and smiles. “Hey, you’re back.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Town’s beautiful.”
“It grows on you fast,” she says. “You ready for breakfast?”
“I was actually wondering…” I glance toward the stairs. “Can I have breakfast in my room?”
“Of course,” she says. “We usually serve in the dining area, but we can make an exception.”
“I appreciate it.”
“I’ll send something up in a few minutes,” she says, jotting something down. “Any allergies?”
“Nope. I’ll eat whatever the chef’s feeling good about.”
She laughs. “Got it. Go ahead and relax. I’ll make sure Waffles doesn’t eat your toast before it gets to you.”
As if summoned, Waffles trots out from behind the counter, tail wagging with joyful entitlement. He noses at my hand and gives a soft, insistent bark.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, crouching to ruffle his ears. “You again.”
He flops onto his back for a belly rub, completely unbothered by the world.
I’m still on the floor with Waffles when I hear a voice behind me.
“Well, well. Aren’t you a morning person?”
I look up to find a woman descending the stairs in a silky bathrobe and slippers. Amee. I remember the name from yesterday’s introductions.
She pauses at the base of the stairs and offers me a smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Reid. You here for breakfast?”
I stand slowly, brushing my palms on my jeans. “Actually, I’ll be having breakfast upstairs.”
She sighs. “Okay. See you at Kettle Hour, then?”
“Sure.”
She flashes me a wink and drifts toward the front parlor like she’s floating on air. I give Waffles one last pat and head upstairs, ready to attend to my work emails.
B y four o’clock, I decide to go to Kettle Hour.
Yesterday, when Ana invited me, I only showed up for a few minutes—out of courtesy more than anything.
I was tired from the trip, disoriented and jet-lagged from the change in pace, and barely had the energy to smile, let alone mingle.
I remember grabbing a teapot, nodding at someone, then disappearing before anyone could ask me a single question.
But today’s different.
Today, I feel good.
I woke up early, walked the town, met a man fixing the porch who didn’t treat me like I was on the cover of Forbes , and played with a dog who thinks he runs the place. It’s been… grounding.
So, at four-thirty, I head downstairs.
The moment I step into the front parlor, I’m hit by a wave of warmth—teacups clinking, low chatter, and that buttery scone smell that honestly deserves its own café franchise.
Quilts are draped over armchairs, and someone’s set a little jazz playlist on a vintage speaker in the corner. The whole thing feels like a scene from a movie I never knew I needed to be in.
The room is almost filled.
And to my surprise… people actually seem excited to see me.
“There he is,” says a woman I recognize from yesterday—Clara, I think.
I offer a polite smile, but she waves me over like I’m a nephew returning from war. “You left too early yesterday. We didn’t even get to ask you anything.”
A few others nod, shifting to make room for me on one of the couches. The energy is friendly, curious—not nosy in the big-city sense, but genuine. These are the kind of people who ask questions because they care about the answers.
“Well,” says a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard, setting down his tea, “Cal, right? What brings you to Everfield?”
I ease into a seat, Waffles appearing again and plopping himself loyally by my feet like a self-appointed bodyguard.