Chapter 10
Ten
Livvie Fox had paint under her fingernails and pancakes on her plate and nowhere in the world she’d rather be.
A week. She’d been here a whole week, and somewhere along the way, she’d stopped counting the days.
She sat at the pine table in Aunt Lila’s kitchen, rain tapping softly against the windows, and let the morning settle around her.
The coral-pink cabinets glowed warm against the turquoise walls.
The yellow countertops caught the light from the drum pendant lamps overhead.
Steam rose from her coffee mug, curling toward the honey-colored ceiling beams, and through the window over the sink, the birch trees swayed, their straw-colored leaves not yet fully transformed.
“More pancakes?”
Aunt Lila stood at the vintage stove, spatula raised, silver hair escaping from its messy bun.
She wore her painting smock over pajamas—the one covered in years of accumulated color, blues and greens and a streak of cadmium orange across the pocket.
Through the doorway, in the studio, her easels were positioned to catch the lake light, illustration boards propped at angles, brushes soaking in mason jars.
“I shouldn’t.” Livvie eyed the stack on the platter. “But yes. Absolutely yes.”
“That’s my girl.” Lila slid two more onto her plate, golden and perfect, then settled into the mismatched wooden chair across from her with her own mug of tea. “No canoeing today.”
“Not unless you want to drown.”
“I’ve survived worse.” Lila’s eyes crinkled. “What’s on your agenda? More painting at the library?”
Her private project, something she’d told Lila and no one else. She’d sneaked away to the library every morning for the past four days, early, before she headed to Nate’s place.
Livvie nodded, pouring maple syrup—real maple syrup, from the Henderson farm, nothing like the stuff in plastic bottles back home. “I want to start painting the dragon today. I finished sketching it yesterday. Hazel wants the grand opening to be during the Flannel Festival.”
Lila watched her over the rim of her mug, her eyebrow raised.
“What?” Livvie asked.
“Nothing. Just…” Lila set down her tea. “You’re different here. Lighter. Like you’re finally breathing.”
“It’s the fresh air.”
“It’s not the fresh air.” Lila nodded toward the window, toward the green Craftsman visible through the trees—Nate’s place, just down the shore. “It’s not just him either. Though I notice you spend a lot of time over there.”
“I’m working.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I am.” Livvie focused on cutting her pancakes. “He wrote three thousand words yesterday. Something’s changed. He’s inspired.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What?”
“I think the inspiration is sitting across from me.”
She laughed. “Hardly. I just used a few hacks to get his brain working.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Please.” She got up and brought her plate to the sink. “I’m just the housekeeper and resident dog walker. And I leave in nine days.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Livvie rolled her eyes. But the truth was, she didn’t have words for what she felt.
The mornings with her aunt, rain or shine.
The early hours at the library, watching Emma’s vision take shape under her brush.
The afternoons at Nate’s, coaxing words onto the page.
The way Mandie at the coffee shop knew her order now.
The way Edie or Remi waved from the bakery window.
The way people said her name—her real name, spelled right, remembered.
She’d built a life here. A small one—temporary, but real.
Nine days suddenly became a noose.
“I should go,” she said, heading to her room. “The paint won’t apply itself.”
“Livvie.”
She paused.
“Whatever happens with the book, with the job”—Lila reached across and squeezed her hand—“you’re allowed to want this. You know that, right? You’re allowed to want a life that fits.”
Livvie’s throat tightened. She squeezed back. “I’ll see you for dinner,” she said, and grabbed her rain jacket from the hook by the door.
The Storybook Corner was coming alive.
Livvie stood back from the wall, brush in hand, and let herself look. Really look.
The forest spread across two walls now—trees with leaves in every shade of green, dappled light filtering through branches, hidden creatures tucked into corners for children to discover.
A fox peered out from behind a toadstool.
An owl dozed in a hollow. And in the roots of the largest oak, an egg waited: pale blue with gold flecks, patient.
But today, the dragon.
She’d sketched him yesterday—a friendly creature, more wise than fierce, curled protectively around the corner where the two walls met. Emma’s notes had been specific: Not scary. Welcoming. The kind of dragon who’d invite you in for tea and tell you stories.
Livvie dipped her brush into the deep violet and began.
“Oh my.”
Hazel stood in the doorway, cardigan buttoned wrong, reading glasses perched on her head. Her hand pressed to her chest.
“It’s just the outline,” Livvie said. “I still need to do the scales, and the wings, and—”
“Livvie.” Hazel’s voice was soft. “It’s beautiful.”
She looked at the walls. At Emma’s dream, taking shape.
“She would have loved it,” Hazel said quietly. “She would have been so grateful.”
Something caught in Livvie’s chest. Pride. Grief. The strange, beautiful weight of finishing something someone else had started.
A small face appeared around Hazel’s hip. Addie Garrison, dark braids and serious eyes, clutching a picture book to her chest.
“Is that the dragon?” she whispered.
“That’s the dragon.”
“Does he have a name?”
Livvie considered. “Not yet. Maybe you could help me think of one.”
Addie’s eyes went wide. She looked up at Hazel, who nodded permission, and then she was across the room, standing as close to the wall as she could get without touching, studying the violet outline with the intensity of a museum curator.
“He looks kind,” Addie said finally.
Livvie’s throat tightened. “Yeah. He does.”
She set down her brush and checked the time. Nearly eleven. She’d been painting for two hours without noticing.
“I should get to Nate’s,” she said, gathering her things. “Bring him lunch. Make sure he’s actually writing.”
“How many words yesterday?”
“Three thousand.”
Hazel’s eyebrows rose. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s getting faster. He’s written as many as ten thousand in a day when Emma was…well, before. But it’s something.” Livvie smiled.
She pulled on her rain jacket, still damp from the walk over, and headed for the door. Addie waved solemnly. Hazel mouthed, Thank you.
Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle, the sky still gray but gentler now.
The Brew was warm and crowded, the windows fogged with condensation. Livvie pushed through the door and was greeted by Mandie Garcia’s wave from behind the counter.
“The usual?”
“Please.”
She waited while Mandie made her latte—oat milk, no sweetener, her name spelled correctly on the cup.
“How many words yesterday?” Mandie asked.
“Three thousand or so.”
Eight days until the deadline. The math was impossible, but standing here in this warm shop with her name on a cup and her routine settling into her bones, the math seemed doable.
She grabbed her coffee and the sandwich she’d ordered for Nate and pushed back out into the drizzle. Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she walked.
She ignored it.
Probably Priya, fishing for gossip about whether Nate was as handsome as his author photo. Nothing that couldn’t wait.
It buzzed again.
She kept walking, past the General Store with its “Flannel Festival – 6 Days” sign, past Edie waving from the bakery window, past the workers stringing more lights between the lampposts.
Another buzz.
Fine. She pulled out her phone.
Three texts from Richard Ames.
Richard
Status update. Where are we on the Rivers manuscript?
I need concrete numbers. NOW.
Call me. Immediately.
The warmth drained out of the morning.
She should ignore it. She should walk to Nate’s, bring him lunch, check on his progress, keep building the momentum they’d found. Richard could wait. Richard always wanted everything immediately, and nothing was ever good enough anyway, and—
But her thumb was already pressing his name.
He answered on the first ring.
“Finally.” His voice was ice. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.”
Had it been two days? She tried to remember the last time she’d checked her email. Sent a report. Thought about New York at all.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been focused on—”
“On what? Vacation? Playing house in the country?” A pause. “What’s the word count?”
“Total? Twelve thousand.”
Silence. “That’s…”
“Not enough to meet the deadline, I know. But we’re making real progress,” she said, hating how weak it sounded. “He wrote three thousand yesterday. That’s a new high. He’s finding his rhythm, and—”
“He has eighty thousand words, or more, to go,” he snapped. “And while you’ve been playing author-whisperer, I’ve been drowning. Where are those four manuscripts I asked you to read?”
“You said you didn’t want them. So I gave them to Roger’s assistant. I figured another agent could—”
“You what?” His voice went sharp. “How dare you go around me like that. Those were my decisions to make.”
“You said you didn’t want them.”
“Your job is to find the gems, Olivia. To convince me that they’re worth exploring.”
She swallowed. Well, there was that one…
“You’d better pull this off with Rivers, because if you don’t, there won’t be a job for you here. Not with me. Not with anyone. I’ll make sure of it.”
The line went dead.
Livvie stood on the sidewalk, phone in hand, rain dripping from her hood. The coffee had gone cold. The sandwich bag was damp.
There won’t be a job for you anywhere.
She took a breath. Squared her shoulders.
Fine. If she had to be a shark to survive, she’d be a shark.
She walked toward Nate’s house with her jaw set and her heart hammering.
The green Craftsman sat quiet in the rain.
Livvie climbed the porch steps, wind chimes silent in the still air—and paused at the mailbox. Force of habit. She’d started grabbing his mail three days ago, after realizing he’d let it pile up for a week.