Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Archer
Willa wants to talk to me about something.
How do I know this? Because ever since she strolled out of the office ten minutes ago and announced she was done working for the day, Willa’s been wandering around my apartment not talking.
I’m almost positive I know exactly what she wants to talk about. But for now, I’m pretending to be immersed in my laptop screen while secretly watching her. This could easily become my favorite pastime. It’s definitely the best distraction from the fact that I have to leave in three days for my father’s trial.
And Willa isn’t the only one with something she wants to talk about. I can’t shake the idea of asking Willa to come with me. Every time I consider it, my stomach clenches with nerves and my palms sweat, but the idea of being in the courtroom without her makes me feel worse.
She’d come if I asked. I know she would. But I haven’t been able to work up the nerve to mention it. Yet.
Willa’s humming now, circling my kitchen island with her fingertips skimming the surface. Every so often she pauses, pressing her palms flat against the marble, like she’s testing its strength. Or … measuring? With her fingers spread wide, she stops humming and stares down at her hands, lips moving as she counts.
“Need a ruler?” I ask. “Measuring tape?”
“I’m good.”
And then she’s on the move again. I drop my gaze to my laptop, where a spreadsheet swims in front of me. I’ve had it open for at least an hour, but it’s just lines and numbers at this point. Don’t know, don’t care.
The past few days since Bellamy returned, my interest in business has waned, eclipsed by my newly found interest in train sets. Actually, it would be more precise to say that my interest in my business has evaporated, burned up under the heat of a brighter sun.
Look at me—emulating a bad poet instead of a good businessman.
But Willa has become like my sun. Lighting up corners in my life I didn’t know were shadowed. Reviving things I thought were long dead or didn’t know existed. Like: a true desire for a family of my own.
It only took standing next to Willa holding a baby who was gnawing on my hand to stir up paternal instincts I never knew I had. Having an upbringing like mine soured me on the idea of being a parent. I barely dated anyone long enough for the subject of kids to come up, and if it ever did, I shut the conversation down.
I’ve known Willa for very little time and hadn’t even kissed her when she was holding the baby. Yet … now I’m thinking about fatherhood. Considering it. Discovering there’s a part of me that longs to build a family. Not that I’d know the first thing about how to do so. Seeing Willa with her parents only cemented it, giving me hope that there are decent, healthy families out there. Maybe I could have one.
Of course, I’m not saying this out loud to Willa. I suspect she feels the same way, mostly because Willa’s face broadcasts the things she feels no matter how she tries to hide them.
Which is another reason I know she’s biding her time about something she’s nervous to say. I briefly consider putting her out of her misery and bringing it up but watching her work up the nerve to tell me is far too much fun.
Willa crosses the room, now singing softly. It’s a vaguely familiar tune, sweet and soft. A Christmas carol, I realize—the one with all the fa la la s. I find myself grinning.
Today Willa’s wearing a pink dress I’ve seen her in before—actually, it was on the day of the birthday party almost two weeks ago. The day we first kissed. I remember trying admirably not to stare at her legs. I don’t bother trying now.
I like that Willa wears things more than once. This is a great dress on her—it would be a shame if she didn’t wear it often. And it may seem simple, but to me, it’s refreshing. One of the women I dated casually bragged once about donating her outfits after wearing them once. “A tax write-off,” she’d said with a laugh.
It made me uncomfortable then but not nearly as uncomfortable as it makes me now . Getting out of New York has certainly given me perspective. On myself, on my life and its direction, on what a normal life looks like. Normal, as in not existing inside the elite bubble of extreme wealth and privilege.
Leaving has been the best decision I’ve ever made. For many reasons. And I’m not eager to return.
Also for many reasons, but mostly because of the one circling my apartment.
With my head still angled toward my laptop, I surreptitiously watch as Willa pauses in front of a floor lamp. It’s new—did Bellamy bring this in? Or was it Willa? There’s also now a little side table next to the lamp I don’t recognize, holding an artfully arranged stack of books and a gold picture frame.
With a photo of …
I squint, then snort. It’s a photograph of Archibald the dog.
“Seems like you’ve done a little shopping this week,” I say.
Willa clicks the lamp off and on a few times, finally leaving it on and straightening the books, which are already straight. “Bellamy and I agreed your apartment needed a little more … life.”
“And you thought you’d bring in more life with a framed picture of a dog who attempted to maul me?”
“He was trying to maul the possum . Not you. Archibald likes you .” She turns, hands folded behind her back like she’s holding a secret there, mouth upturned in a smirk. “ Really likes you.”
Growling, I snap my laptop closed so quickly that it makes Willa jump a little. But she knows me well enough now to see through my facade of anger. Though I wouldn’t say I’m thrilled about the declaration of doggy love Archibald gave my thigh a few days ago in the lobby.
“Too soon to tease you about it?” she asks.
“It’ll always be too soon.”
“Sara promised to get him fixed this month. Or next.”
“We can only hope. What else did you add to my apartment?” I ask.
Willa laughs. “You really didn’t notice? Bellamy said you wouldn’t, but I didn’t believe him. I think I’ll let you discover things on your own. Like a little treasure hunt.”
“I’m not sure if I like you and Bellamy in collusion.”
“Better get used to it,” Willa says, wandering over to the windows. “He also gave me your credit card. He said that would be okay too.”
“It is. You made the apartment look better. New curtains?”
“Yes. Your windows were too naked.” Willa turns, her face a little hesitant. “You don’t mind?”
“The curtains? No, you’re right about my nude windows.”
“The curtains or me using your credit card. I’m not trying to use you for your money,” she adds quickly.
“Trust me, I’m well aware of what being used for my money looks like, and I know that’s not what you’re doing. You probably only bought things that were on sale.” I can tell by her surprised expression that I guessed correctly. I pat the cushion next to me. “Now, come. Sit. Talk to me about what you’ve been trying to work up the courage to say.”
Willa smiles, but it’s wobbly. “That obvious, huh?”
“Little bit. Come on.”
Willa cautiously moves to sit down, keeping half a cushion between us with her knees together and feet flat on the floor. Much too prim and proper. I hook an arm around her waist and tug her over until she’s practically in my lap.
“Much better. Now, go ahead and ask. If it helps, please know that the answer is yes—I’ll change my mind.”
Willa tenses, practically turning to stone. She doesn’t look at me. “Change your mind about what?” she whispers.
Does she think I could possibly mean about her?
Maybe I was wrong about what she planned to say. I pull her closer and press a gentle kiss on her temple. “There’s a possibility I guessed incorrectly. I thought you were going to talk to me about the letter I sent to residents.”
“The one with the rent increases and the no-pet edict?”
“I’d hardly call it an edict, but yes.”
My father would tell me I’m being sentimental, but I’m starting to see that as not such a bad thing.
“I’ve already drafted another letter announcing that I won’t be raising rent or kicking out puppies or parrots or anything else. Life at The Serendipity will continue as normal.”
Willa spins to face me, her blue eyes gleaming brightly. “Really?”
“Don’t look so surprised. I’m not a monster . Even if my first instinct is to prioritize the bottom line over the human element. In this case, I had a change of heart about the building. I don’t need the money I’d make from selling luxury condos. And it would make people happy.”
Willa especially, but I’ve started to feel oddly attached to The Serendipity. Or maybe it’s the people who live here. I’ve heard so many stories while fielding the complaints and rebukes.
Like the Hathaways. The other day, the older couple stopped me on their way up to the rooftop garden. They told me how they met and fell in love here years ago. After their children were grown, they decided to return to The Serendipity to live out the rest of their days.
Then there’s Matteo, the chef whose grandparents used to live here. They were famous for throwing dinners in the courtyard for anyone who wanted to come, which inspired his love of cooking. He even invited me to eat at Aria, his restaurant, on the house.
After telling me I really should reconsider my plans, of course.
Nori Sinclair, who looks to be about Willa’s age, has lived here since she was four and told me she wanted to stay here forever—but the rent increase might force her to leave.
Sara tearfully begged me not to make pets leave while Archibald assaulted me with his tongue. Again.
And on it goes. I think I’ve met almost every resident now—mostly against my will and in uncomfortable confrontations—but the conversations have unexpectedly softened me.
Willa gasps. “You were going to turn The Serendipity into condos? Archer!” She pokes me in the chest. “Actually, I could totally see that working. But please don’t. I like where I live, and none of the other options are anywhere close to the price or character.”
I grab her wrist and bring her hand to my mouth, kissing her fingertips. “You were looking at other places to live?”
“Yes,” she admits. “Sophie and I were trying to find a two-bedroom place together.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to make the decision just because you felt sorry for me.”
I kiss her wrist now, hovering there as I try to feel her pulse against my lips. “The last thing I feel for you is sorry, Willa.”
She draws in a deep breath. “But I am struggling. Financially.”
“I picked up on that.”
“But you didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t want to overstep or assume you’d want my help, though I would freely offer anything you need. Actually”—I release Willa’s wrist and lean forward to grab my laptop—“I did do something for you. Look.”
Once I’ve navigated to the window I want, I balance the laptop on her knees, watching her expression as she frowns at the screen. When she realizes what it is, her jaw goes slack.
“A business plan for Serendipitous Sweets? When did you have time to do this?” she asks.
I don’t tell her that I was doing this instead of the things I should have been doing. My work week mostly consisted of telling Bellamy to handle decisions while I spent time creating a business plan—when I wasn’t scouring Subreddits about model trains.
“It was nothing,” I say simply. “You don’t have to use it, of course. But I think it will help. It’s clear that you love all the baking and hate all the business stuff. I’m also happy to help you with anything you need in that regard.”
“But you’re busy,” she says. “Running your billion-dollar company that does—what does it do again?”
“Mostly real estate. It’s boring. This was a lot more fun.”
“Archer, this is amazing ,” Willa says. “Thank you!”
I’m unprepared for her to throw her arms around my neck, practically knocking me sideways on the sofa. I chuckle, securing her against me with one hand while moving my laptop out of the way with the other. She kisses her way up my neck, punctuating each kiss with a thank you.
“Watch out,” I say, hearing the gravel in my voice as her lips graze my earlobe. “This kind of thanks is going to inspire a lot more pampering. Now, do you feel better after talking to me?”
Willa groans and drops her head to my shoulder. “Well—that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, so no. How did you know I had something to say? Am I that easy to read?”
“You’ve been pacing around the apartment not talking for twenty minutes. Kind of a dead giveaway.” I reposition her next to me on the couch and place my fingertips underneath her chin, gently lifting until her gaze meets mine. “You can tell me anything. It’s not going to scare me off.”
“Are you sure?” Her smile wobbles.
It only ramps up my urge to protect her. To assure her that nothing she could say would change how I feel. But that might mean admitting exactly how I feel—and I’m a little worried my big feelings might scare her off.
“Yes,” I say, infusing my voice with as much deep command as I can. “And then I have something to ask you.”
“You go first,” she says.
“Nope. You start.”
She sighs, glancing down and picking at the seam of her yoga pants. “It’s just … I told someone before, and it didn’t go well.”
Trey . She doesn’t say his name, and I’m not sure how I know, but I do.
“I’m not him,” I tell her. “You can trust me. Whatever it is, Willa, I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a long pause in which she stares so hard at the rug, I half expect it to go up in flames. “That’s the thing,” she says finally. Miserably. “Neither am I.”
I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I miss Bellamy’s question the first time he asks. And also the second.
I’ve been distracted all morning, the back of my mind replaying my conversation with Willa last night.
The front of my mind, meanwhile, is focused on a message I’m waiting on in regard to a rare train I tracked down for her father. It’s a vintage Lionel steam locomotive; one George had a poster of on the basement wall. He called it his White Whale. Apparently, his grandfather owned one, and when he died, his wife didn’t realize how much it was worth and donated it to Goodwill.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and when I found a collector selling one in the Boston area, I reached out.
Bellamy clears his throat so loudly, a few birds startle out of the hedges surrounding the pool area.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, putting a hand over my eyes to shade the sun. “Could you repeat the question?”
We’re having a meeting before he heads back to New York and, at his insistence, this meeting is taking place by the courtyard pool. Honestly, not a terrible idea. Both of us have our jackets off and shirtsleeves rolled up. It’s bright and warm with a light breeze—like the weather decided to perfectly cooperate on the first day of spring. It’s actually really lovely out here. If I hadn’t already canceled my meeting with the architect to discuss plans to close in this space to add on to the building, I’d probably do so now.
The only downside is that being out here leaves me exposed to the residents, most of whom would still like to throw me into the pool. A few might actually try. I saw Frank and his bird glaring with equal vehemence through one of the windows a few minutes ago.
I really need to draft a new letter walking back my proposed changes before they band together and mutiny.
“I asked what your plan is.” Bellamy holds up three fingers. “Three times.”
Guess I missed his question more than twice.
“My plan,” I repeat, speaking just as slowly as he did. “Hm. A cookie might help me think.”
Bellamy snatches the box from the table between our lounge chairs and moves it to his other side, out of my reach.
“I thought you were happy to see me eating cookies,” I complain.
“No—I was happy to see you break out of the rigidity that made you think cookies were evil. I am less happy to share my cookies with you. You’re the one dating the baker. Get your own.”
I do have my own stash upstairs. Though Willa has had an uptick of orders recently, she’s still found the time to keep Bellamy and now me in a steady supply. Even if she’s started returning a portion of the outrageous tips we’ve been leaving.
It became something of a game when I realized Bellamy was tipping Willa almost forty percent for every box. Not to be outdone, I placed an order and tipped forty-five. He went fifty. I don’t want to admit the current amount, but suffice to say, we both tipped so far above what the cookies actually cost that Willa yelled at us both. She said she couldn’t possibly keep our money and threatened to stop making cookies for us altogether.
I might continue over-tipping like this, if for no other reason than to see her angry. I love seeing Willa ruffled, and it’s far too easy to do. Her blue eyes blaze, and her hair gets wilder, like her anger sparks static electricity that infuses every strand. And true to her word, Willa hasn’t been keeping the money. Or, at least, not all of it. I’ve been finding cash stuffed in strange places throughout the apartment. In my silverware drawer. Underneath the bathroom cabinet. In my pillowcase.
I intend to sneak it all back into her possession. Like the bills I stuffed into her glove compartment when I tagged along with her on a trip to Spring Foods the other day. An envelope filled with twenties is now waiting to be discovered underneath the butter in the commercial kitchen.
“Your plan?” Bellamy reminds me, making a show of savoring his cookie.
The truth is—I don’t have a long-term plan with Willa. At least, nothing that’s solidified. The future is a hazy, soft-edged, lazy sort of dream where Willa and I build a life together.
But where? My life has always been in New York. I never thought I’d leave the city aside from college. I’ve started to acclimate here, maybe even enjoy the change, but I’m not sure if that’s the location or simply being around Willa.
Would I want to stay in Serendipity Springs forever? Or even long-term?
It’s a question I must consider—especially now that I know Willa can’t leave.
I had never heard of agoraphobia specific to a city or larger geographic area. But anxiety is something I’m familiar with. And last night I shared with Willa about my own struggles with social anxiety. The only other people who know are Bellamy, who was instrumental in getting me the help I needed years ago, and my father, who dismissed the idea as a form of weakness. I appreciate that, to some degree, Willa and I can understand each other.
But where my anxiety is manageable, it’s clear Willa’s still greatly impacts her life in ways she wishes it didn’t.
“It’s like I’m in that sci-fi show about the town with the invisible dome over it.” I wasn’t familiar, but she continued anyway. “I hadn’t given serious thought to moving anywhere else after college, but now that I can’t leave, I just keep thinking of all the places I can’t go. I’ve got a whole Pinterest board dedicated to travel. If,” she said, and I could see her fighting back tears, “I can ever leave again.”
Immediately, I wanted to track down her Pinterest board—whatever that is—and start planning to take her to every one of those places. Which right now is impossible.
So is the idea of living in New York. Which means if I choose Willa, for now, at least, I’d be choosing a life here.
I check my phone again—still no update on the train parts.
“I’m not completely sure,” I finally admit to Bellamy. I don’t mention the agoraphobia, as it’s not my place to share. “It’s a conversation Willa and I need to have. Is it too soon, do you think?”
Bellamy smiles wide. “I was talking about your plans with the company, but this is far more interesting. Go on.”
I backpedal. “As for the company, I’d like to take a step back,” I say quickly. “A bigger step back. Which would allow me to stay here longer than I planned.”
“And how would you spend your time in Serendipity Springs now that Willa helped you find a new building manager?” Bellamy asks.
Yesterday, Willa and I interviewed Steve, a young Black man with a penchant for sweater vests and organization. He’s motivated and loves history. Apparently, he applied for the position not because he’s ever managed a building, but because he’s fascinated by The Serendipity. He seemed a little less fascinated when Willa mentioned the basement storage unit full of unorganized files Galentine apparently left behind but agreed he would take care of organizing and digitizing whatever needed it.
I hired him on the spot, and he’ll start working next week from the parlor downstairs, a room that’s seldom used. It has a great conference table, a strong Wi-Fi signal, and it overlooks the pool. It’s a salaried position but does not include living arrangements.
Meanwhile, Willa pitched me the idea of renting out the basement apartment. I can’t see anyone being thrilled about being the only resident paying to live in the basement next to a storage area. But Willa thinks that the outside entrance, leading up to the pocket park next to The Serendipity, makes the apartment unique. We’ll see.
“There will still be a lot for me to do, just from afar,” I say. “You’ve practically been running everything on your own for the last five years anyway. And doing a fine job of it.”
“A compliment,” Bellamy says, plucking another cookie from his box. “I like the effect Willa has on you.”
I do too.
“You don’t think things are moving too quickly?” I ask. My phone dings, and I’m thrilled to see a message from the train seller, who accepted my offer. “Excellent.”
“What’s excellent?”
I look up. “Oh—just a train thing for Willa’s father. Don’t worry about it.”
Bellamy leans back in his chair, crossing his legs and grinning up at the bright blue sky. “Oh, I’m far from worried. I feel certain that you’re on a path toward something greater, and I love it.”
My mind goes to the question I had recently about Bellamy. “Can I ask you something? It’s personal.”
Without turning his face away from the sun, Bellamy says, “Go right ahead.”
“Is there a particular reason you’re still single?”
He hums, crossing and recrossing his legs before he answers. “There was someone—a long time ago. I made poor choices and lived to regret it.”
I want to press him, but it’s clear he’s said all he wants to say. At least for now. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. I’ve had years to make my peace. And make peace I did. As it turns out, I’m more content alone than I would be if I married someone who wasn’t her .” Now, he turns to look at me, flipping his sunglasses up on top of his white hair. “So, I’d urge you to consider your own contentment and make choices you can live with for a long time.”
“Noted,” I say lightly, though his words have sunk in deep.
“How are you doing with the trial? It’s in three days, and you haven’t mentioned it,” Bellamy says, and now I’m the one turning my face up to the sun, eyes closed and heat warming my cheeks even as a deep chill moves through me.
“Fine,” I tell him, willing the word to be true.
The trial has been lurking in the back of my mind, a shadow looming larger as the date approaches. I don’t want to deal with the media circus again. Or with testifying—something I wouldn’t be doing had I not been subpoenaed.
But what I really don’t want is to see my father.
“Have you told Willa? Or asked her to come with you?”
I swallow, remembering Willa’s face as she told me how she’s unable to leave Serendipity Springs. “I wouldn’t subject her to the circus that my father’s trial will be.”
“She’d come to support you. Just ask her.”
“We’ll see,” I tell him, and I’m grateful when someone clearing their throat nearby interrupts us. Just thinking about the trial has me feeling a spike in my blood pressure.
The Hathaways stand near our deck chairs. Norman is wearing an old-fashioned bowler hat with a flower on the brim, the same light lilac as his wife’s hair. They’re both smiling widely.
I see them around the building a lot. Always together. Always with their arms linked as he leans on his cane.
“We don’t mean to disturb you,” Jane says, smiling.
“She says while disturbing him.” Norman chuckles and shakes his head. “We wanted to come by and introduce ourselves to your friend. And my wife thought the more we talked to you, the harder it would be to kick us out of the building.”
Well, that’s direct. Bellamy stifles a chuckle behind me. “This is Bellamy. And I don’t plan to kick anyone out of the building.”
“But that’s exactly what you’re doing by raising the rent.” Jane’s smile is soft and her voice sweet, but I get the very distinct impression she’s a shark underneath. At least, when she needs to be. “It’s just more passive than actually sending out eviction letters so you can feel better about yourself and sleep better at night.”
She’s not wrong. And neither was I in my assessment of her. The only inaccuracy in her statement is that I’m feeling better about myself or sleeping at night. Though some of it has to do with my father’s trial, I’ve also had several nightmares related to the building and its residents.
Norman leans over to kiss her cheek. “What Jane means to say is we hope you reconsider. We fell in love here.”
“Thanks to a little nudge,” Jane adds with a wink. “I’m not sure he would have noticed me if we hadn’t gotten stuck in the elevator. And believe me, I was trying to get him to notice.”
The story, which they also told me the other day, reminds me of Galentine and her whispered pleas to the universe … or the building.
This building definitely has a type. And I’m not sure what it says about me that I’ve started to settle in here.
Bellamy says, “We’d love to hear the story, if you have time.”
The short version of the story , I want to add since I’ve already heard it once.
I turn to Bellamy and ask, “Don’t you need to get back to the city?”
“I’ve got a little time,” Bellamy says.
“And we’ve got nothing but time.” Moving faster than it seems possible for someone with a cane, Norman drags over nearby chairs for his wife and himself for what I know will be anything but short.
Bellamy leaves, and with Willa working on an order, my apartment feels emptier than it did the night I moved in. Forget the new curtains and the tiny details Willa’s added—the space feels cavernous and bare.
Solitude used to be a comfort to me. Now, it feels … stifling.
I rub a hand over my chest, deciding that maybe a run will help dispel the tight clutch of emotion pinching my chest.
What did you want to tell me? Willa asked after she finished talking last night.
After she shared her struggle with agoraphobia, there was no way I could ask her to come to New York with me for my father’s trial.
I said it was nothing important and that we could talk about it later.
Thankfully, she didn’t press me on it. Today, she’s been busy and didn’t follow up. Which is just as well. The last thing I’d want is for Willa to feel pressured.
Willa’s struggle with agoraphobia must feel absolutely crippling—especially after how Trey responded and what he did. I’ve never wanted to resort to violence more than after she told me what he did. I can only hope I don’t see him again anytime soon.
But finding out Willa can’t leave Serendipity Springs right before I was going to ask her to come with me to New York feels somehow pointed. Intentionally specific. Darkly ironic.
And now, I’m dreading the trial even more than before.
I don’t usually run at night, but I’ve got restless energy I need to burn off. Heading to my room, I loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt, leaving my clothes scattered behind as I walk. I toe off my dress shoes one at a time, stepping out of them in the doorway, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the increasing tightness in my chest.
It doesn’t matter , I tell myself. Y ou never planned on having Willa with you in the courtroom. Nothing’s changed. Bellamy will be there. You’ll be fine.
It's been years since I’ve felt this build of pressure in my limbs, so I don’t realize at first that it’s more than simple anxiety or worry.
But as I slide open a drawer to pull out my running shorts, my vision blurs and my chest tightens until I collapse to my knees on the rug at the end of my bed, fighting for every breath in the clutches of a full-blown anxiety attack.