Chapter 2
T welve hours later, I pull my rain-soaked self, including hat, coat, scarf, and enormous suitcase, through the ton of mud that currently makes up the front of the Honeycrisp Orchard Inn.
Has this mud always been here, or did it just materialize tonight because the dumping, the firing, the long, smelly, delayed train ride, and the rain haven’t been enough for a bad day?
Mud is a nice touch, though. Truly. Chef’s kiss to the Universe.
All I need now is—
And there it is. First, I hear a telltale bleat, and then Miss Guinevere gallops directly into my hip. I fly into the mud pile, landing on my left side with a loud “oof.”
“Good to see you, Miss Guin,” I say to the goat, who is staring down at me, chewing something, and bleating.
The orchard is also a working farm, and schoolchildren come out here on field trips most of the year, so, in addition to the other animals, the Parkers decided to buy some goats.
Kids love goats, so I hear. Goats and weary travelers, however, are a different story.
I’ve also learned from Mom’s stories that goat owners are subject to all manner of indignities, including spitting, theft, and oh yes, the best one, being rammed into and toppled over.
It’s fun. Sort of like living with a mischievous linebacker who pops out of nowhere every so often with no warning.
Miss Guin is the most egregious of the lot when it comes to headbutting. Mom and Dad had to increase their insurance because of her.
Yep. Goat insurance. It’s a thing.
I struggle up to my knees and use my suitcase to pull myself out of the muck.
I look down at myself. Oh. Good. If I didn’t have enough mud on me before, now I do.
It’s all over my wool coat, my adorable suede shoes I clearly should not have worn here, and my retro seventies-style jeans that I just bought at a little boutique in the city south of Houston.
Miss Guinevere, who clearly doesn’t care about fashion, trots off. She is no doubt plotting her next tackle.
I lift my head and stare up at the inn. Despite the mud, the place looks like an autumn postcard.
It’s a huge white farmhouse with autumn wreaths filled with orange leaves and pine cones, glowing candles in the windows, pumpkins and gourds scattered along the balustrade, white wooden rocking chairs, and large planters filled to the brim with bright yellow and orange mums. It couldn’t be more bucolic.
It may be a tiny part of a tiny town, but I have to admit it’s a beautiful place. No doubt about it.
And it is my home.
Most people would probably think it odd to live in an inn, but I didn’t know any different.
Dad built us a two-bedroom apartment behind the front desk.
I had my own room and grew up helping at the inn.
Everything from maid service to room service is second nature to me.
The part I liked the best, though, was the event planning.
Whenever anyone wanted a wedding or a baby shower here, I begged Mom to let me help.
That was back when I actually thought I’d stay here and plan events solely for the inn.
Before I realized there was a whole big, wide world out there.
The lights are on inside the inn, and the soft, warm glow filters out into the soggy night.
A little pang of regret unfurls in my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.
Too long. The regret turns into a dull ache as I stare at the inn, an outsider looking in.
Everything is so homey and cozy. It’s flannels and hot tea and warm socks.
And I’ve missed it. I’ve missed this place.
The last several Thanksgivings, I’d gone to Steve and Barbara’s apartment in the city, then stayed in town to work.
The last four Christmases, I’d gone to Geoff’s family’s house in Connecticut.
He insisted that his mother would die without him on Christmas.
Plus, he never really showed much interest in spending time with Mom and Dad.
He met them when they came to the city and a couple of times after that, but he never visited here.
I made excuses for why Geoff never showed up.
I was too embarrassed to tell my parents the truth, that he wasn’t interested.
Visiting without Geoff, each time needing to explain his absence, had taken a toll on my desire to visit.
.. until I just stopped altogether. It really has been a long time since I’ve been back here.
I’ve seen my parents since then... well, once.
They came into the city to see The Phantom of the Opera before it ended.
Dad was a big fan of “The Music of the Night.” We had dinner before the show, and I took them to my favorite brunch place the next morning.
Mimosas were enjoyed by all. And that had been, what?
Uh. More than a year ago? Two? I scrunch up my nose and wince. Not great.
Okay, no matter. I am here now, and it’s right on the cusp of the very best season for it.
The leaves have already begun to turn crisp with orange on the edges, and there’s a decided chill in the air.
I thump, bump, thump my suitcase up the wide front stairs.
Once I’m standing on the huge wraparound porch, out of the rain, I decide to take off my coat.
No need to slop mud all over. I kick off my boots too, right there next to the front door, and drop my hat beside them.
There is no help for my muddy jeans. They’ve got to come in with me.
I push open the big wooden front door with the apple-shape brass door knocker and step inside.
It’s like stepping back in time. The first thing I notice is the scent.
Cinnamon sticks are simmering on the stove.
They are always simmering on the stove this time of year.
I breathe them in. It makes me the slightest bit melancholy and a lot happy. A smile curves my lips.
The next thing I notice is Pumpkin snorting.
Pumpkin is a pug Mom rescued from the Harvest Hollow Humane Society when he was a puppy.
He is a little chonk, and like the rest of his breed, he has trouble breathing, which causes a constant wheezing sound wherever he goes.
Poor dog can’t sneak up on anyone. He is also eternally dressed in an orange jumpsuit.
It is a set of dog pajamas that Mom put on him one year for fun.
However, Mom could not have anticipated Pumpkin’s attachment to loungewear.
The first time she tried to take it off, Pumpkin emitted a ferocious growl and in general wasn’t having it.
Mom was forced to buy a second set of orange PJs, which are quickly put on Pumpkin the moment the first set is occasionally removed to be washed.
But even with the new set on, Pumpkin sits in front of the washer and dryer staring until the original set is ready.
How he knows those are the OG PJs is anyone’s guess. It’s really quite unsettling.
Pumpkin waddles over to me and stares up at me, his tongue hanging out, his perpetual pug smile on his little round face. “Good to see you, P-dog,” I say.
Pumpkin barks twice, and I squat down to rub his fat little neck because I know he loves that. And because he’ll keep barking if I don’t. His curly pig tail gets me every time. It sits on his back like he can’t be bothered to hold it up. It’s just cute. No two ways about it.
“Ellie! Is that you?” comes a bright voice from behind the front desk.
I look up to see Charlotte Parker standing there.
“Hi, Charlotte,” I call back, waving. “You look great.”
And she does. Her long dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her dark eyes framed by long black lashes are blinking at me brightly.
She’s always got a smile on her face, and tonight is no exception.
I usually say I never trust anyone who’s always happy, but right now, after the day I’ve had, Charlotte’s sunny demeanor makes me feel good.
Leaving Pumpkin and his PJs to waddle behind me, I straighten and make my way over to the front desk.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Your mom didn’t tell you I work here in the inn now, Ellie?” Charlotte asks, her smile somehow widening.
“Oh, she must have.” I flutter a hand in the air.
It’s no use trying to tell anyone in Harvest Hollow that my name is Eleanor now.
They won’t say it. They’re quirky like that.
Childhood nicknames are not changeable in these parts.
Or so Mrs. Lawrence at the drive-in movie theater told me once when I attempted to correct her years ago.
“Yep.” Charlotte splays her hands over the front desk. “I’m here most days. And Wednesday nights when your parents go to bingo.”
“How’s business?” I ask mostly to be polite.
A strange look passes briefly over her face. “It’s... good...”
“Oh yeah?” I bob my head back and forth. “Lots of bookings? Got twelve tonight?” The inn has twenty rooms. Sixty percent occupancy is a good night.
“Something like that.” Charlotte snaps her fingers. “Oh yeah, here’s the key to the apartment upstairs. Your mom asked me to make sure you get it.”
She slides a physical metal key toward me.
It has a big piece of leather attached to it by an orange ribbon.
The words The Penthouse are printed in white on the leather.
I shake my head. Mom insists on keeping actual keys around here.
I explained to her a dozen times why key cards make more sense, but she and Dad both refuse.
“People don’t come here for the technology, Ellie,” Mom says.
“They come here to step back in time. To keep things simple. Keys are simple.”
I wish I could really step back in time.
Back to when Geoff asked me out over our lunch hour one day.
“It’s just drinks, Eleanor,” he said. Then he’d gone on to be charming.
He asked me to dinner, and even though I had a strict policy about not mixing business with pleasure, I somehow ended up dating him and eventually moving in with him.
And he ended up stealing my brilliant ideas and dumping me.
Yes, a time machine would be welcome right about now. Where’s the TARDIS when you need it?
I shake my head. I have more important things than my crappy past to think about right now.
Like taking a long, hot bath in the claw-foot tub upstairs in the attic apartment.
And then tomorrow, I will think about how to explain to Mom why I have time on my hands.
And then I’ll think about stealthily conducting a job search from here and getting back to the city and exacting my revenge on both Geoff and Steve.
Okay, maybe not that last part. How long does it take after a bad breakup to stop fantasizing about revenge, though?
But there will be time to think about all that tomorrow. When I’m not freezing cold, bone tired, and caked in mud.
“Thanks,” I say to Charlotte as I grab the giant key.
“I’ll just... go up the back way?” I point toward my parents’ apartment behind the front desk.
The attic apartment has two entrances. One is accessible via a staircase inside my parents’ apartment.
The other is from an innocuous-looking door out back.
The key works in both locks, but I’m not about to go outside again in the rain, not with Miss Guin lurking around like a land shark.
“Sure!” Charlotte says, pulling open the swinging wood half door that leads behind the front desk.
I pull my suitcase behind me and enter Mom and Dad’s place. The smell of cinnamon is stronger in here because the sticks are simmering on Mom’s stove. She leaves the pot on low, completely unconcerned about the fire hazard no matter how many times Mr. Peyton the fire chief tells her to stop.
The memories the apartment conjures bring another little smile to my face. Me and Mom baking sugar cookies with apples on them. The cider donuts we used to make. The pumpkin carving and the mums planting. It’s pure Norman Rockwell up in here.
I make my way through the living room to the door that leads to the staircase up to the attic on the fourth floor.
I thump the suitcase nearly the entire way up.
It takes a hot minute. The suitcase is huge, and nearly all my clothes are stuffed inside of it.
The good stuff, at least. I couldn’t risk Geoff the Traitor burning them or giving them to his new girlfriend, who he probably already has moving in. Jerk.
By the time I get all the way to the top of the stairs, I’m winded and have definitely made a racket the entire inn heard, which I regret. I make a silent promise to be more quiet on the way out. I’ll get Donny to help. I’ll make sure it’s not bingo night when I go.
I balance the suitcase on the stair behind me and wrestle with the big metal key.
Once I get a good grip on it, I fumble it around where I think the lock should be.
It’s too dark to see, so I use my fingers to feel around until I figure it out.
Only, I don’t figure it out, and I clatter around for a length of time that is honestly embarrassing.
I double majored in marketing and business at Columbia, yet I somehow can’t get an old-timey key in an old-timey lock.
Wasn’t this the white chocolate chips sprinkled on the top of my crappy day?
“All right! All right!” comes a deep male voice from inside the apartment. “I’m coming.”
I have about two seconds to process this surprising turn of events before the wooden door swings open to reveal a half-naked man standing there with a white towel slung low over his hips.
My jaw drops. Because this isn’t just any half-naked man.
It’s a super-hot half-naked man . A man who has the body of Adonis.
A man with chiseled abs and a six-pack that should seriously be illegal.
Or come with a warning, at least. I slowly force myself to lift my gaze from his body to his face.
His dark, slightly curly hair has fallen over one brown eye, and he is frowning at me.
“Ellie?” he says. “What are you doing here?”
Ellie? He knows me?
I gulp. I’ve met Adonis before? You’d think I’d remember. Do I have dementia?
I study his face. In that moment, he swipes the wet hair to the side, and oh damn. I know. I know exactly who he is. And I have met him before. Only I haven’t seen him in a while , and he did not look anything like this. I am certain of it. Certain.
Mr. Hotness standing in front of me is none other than Aiden Parker. And oh holy Mary mother of God, has he changed.