Chapter Four
Lydia
“Okay, so I just met God’s gift to women,” Melanie announced, hands flying to her hips. “He even has a couple of tattoos.”
“Oh no. Your weakness.”
She laughed. “Well, maybe this weekend just got more interesting.”
I chuckled and tossed a towel at her. “Hey, I thought I was entertaining enough.”
“Well, my suitcase nearly impaled me, and the hero of Reckless River stepped in to save me. I say don’t tempt fate. You’re a good friend and all, but he’s…” She wiggled her brows.
I grinned and shook my head, eyeing her suitcase. “You packed more than I did, and I’m the one moving here.”
She smirked. “I can’t help it. I’m always prepared.”
The truth was, I didn’t have much to bring. I’d been renting a bedroom for the last five years, and what did I need? Most of my life fit into two suitcases and a tote bag. The rest, my mom’s belongings, sat boxed away in a small storage unit just outside of Seattle. I'd go through them when I was ready.
Which wasn’t anytime soon.
“Hey,” Melanie’s voice softened, cutting into my thoughts, “you okay?”
“Yeah. Totally.” I nodded, though my throat tightened a little. “Just thinking about my mom.”
She didn’t push. She just looked around the studio apartment with me, as if she knew the moment was sacred.
It wasn’t much, but it could be something. My something. Maybe even my first project.
The apartment’s charm above the bakery screamed, “Hasn’t been touched since 1982.” The hardwood floors were warm in tone but worn bare in a dozen spots where old rugs had lived too long. A rust-colored loveseat sat under the front window, its cushions sunken and a little threadbare but soft enough to curl into after a long day.
A good thing to save for would be a nice sofa.
The kitchenette tucked into the corner was vintage, but it could also be read as outdated, with its pale yellow cabinets and laminate countertops edged in dull chrome. The fridge hummed like it had opinions. A small table with mismatched chairs sat under a crooked light fixture, and a dusty bookshelf leaned under the weight of old paperbacks, mostly romances and westerns with cracked spines from what I could see.
The bed wasn’t separated by anything but the illusion of space. A full-size platform mattress with a faded quilt and two saggy pillows sat off to the side, pretending it was its own room.
But it was the window that made it.
Tall and slightly streaked with age, it looked out over Main Street. From here, you could see everything from brick facades, the bakery’s awning below, and the twinkle lights strung above the café patio across the street. Reckless River moved at its own rhythm…slow, steady, content.
Cozy, yes. Livable, absolutely. But it needed love.
And a little paint. Or maybe a lot.
“I call the bed,” I said, tossing one of my suitcases onto the mattress and giving it a satisfying bounce.
Melanie raised an eyebrow from where she stood in front of the rust-colored loveseat, hands on her hips like she was assessing a crime scene.
“You mean this is where I’m sleeping?”
“It has excellent lumbar support,” I said, nodding like I believed it. “And a scenic view of Main Street and that weird guy across the road who keeps trimming the same hedge.”
She squinted out the window. “Oh. Yeah. That guy’s either pruning or plotting. No in-between.”
“Welcome to Reckless River,” I said, grinning as I tossed her a faded throw blanket I’d found in the closet. “We have hedges, mystery, and vintage heating.”
Melanie flopped onto the couch and spread out with a dramatic sigh. “I feel like I’m staying in a charmingly haunted Airbnb.”
“I like to think of it as cozy with character.”
“It has character all right. At least three ghosts and one squirrel family’s worth.”
I chuckled. “You’ve heard the scratching up above, too?”
She nodded, and I rolled my eyes and handed her a pillow. “It will look better soon. You'll beg me for a visit once I get the floors shined up and new paint and furniture.”
“If you say so.” She smoothed the pillow under her head and gave me a side-eye. “Just make sure you remember this when I put in my formal complaint about the springs in my spleen.”
“Duly noted.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a minute, both of us scanning the room with fresh eyes. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine for now.
Melanie finally sat up and clapped her hands. “All right. We’ve moved in, you’ve given me a historic tour of the wallpaper, and I’ve assigned names to every creak in the floorboards. I say we celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” I asked, eyebrow raised.
She pointed out the window with a sly grin. “With drinks. At the local watering hole.”
I hesitated. “You mean… the bar?”
“Yes, Lydia. The bar. The only one in town. The one with the very attractive man who saved me from death by leopard-print suitcase.”
“You’re already writing your vows, aren’t you?”
“I’ve narrowed it down to either a handwritten sonnet or just showing up in a white dress and letting fate do its thing.”
I snorted. “You don’t even know his name.”
She grabbed her purse and headed toward the door. “Exactly. Which means tonight is our origin story.”
I followed her, grabbing my coat off the back of the chair. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m resourceful. And thirsty.”
I laughed as we made our way down the stairs, the cool air brushing against my cheeks as we stepped into the evening.
“This is either going to be a great night,” I said, “or a disaster.”
Melanie grinned, already walking ahead. “That’s how all the best stories start.” She glanced over her shoulder at me. “You know, it was fate that he was there to save me from my suitcase.”
I chuckled. “You always had a flair for the dramatics.”
“Honestly, I hope I run into that guy again tonight.”
My brow lifted, and I laughed. “And what? Come back to my apartment and bang it out on the couch while I’m in bed? I don’t think so.”
She snickered as we walked through an alley leading to the sidewalk on the main road.
Reckless River looked even better in the golden hour.
Melanie and I walked side by side down Main Street, our steps slow and unhurried as the town glowed in the soft light of early evening. String lights twinkled above the café patio. The bookstore’s door was propped open, the scent of paper and vanilla drifting onto the sidewalk. A kid rode by on a banana-seat bike, barefoot and laughing. It felt like something out of a storybook.
“I’m still convinced this town might be fake,” Melanie said, slowly looking around. “Do we even know it’s on the map?”
I smiled, hands tucked into the pockets of my jacket. “I hope it’s not. I think that’s kind of the point.”
I glanced next to us and smiled at the brick building I’d purchased. I still wasn’t used to calling it mine . The brick had faded over the years, giving it that soft, weather-worn charm only time could create.
It wasn’t fancy. Not polished. But it had character. Five storefronts stretched along the bottom, my future project, and three apartments above, including the one I’d just moved into.
“I still can’t believe you bought the whole thing,” Melanie said, following my gaze.
“Me either.” I exhaled slowly, my breath catching a little in my chest. “Some days it feels brilliant. Other days… like I just set fire to a stack of money and walked away whistling.”
Melanie bumped her shoulder against mine. “You didn’t set anything on fire. You leaped. You believed in something. That’s more than most people do.”
I nodded, letting the words sink in as we walked along the edge of the building. I ran my fingers over the bricks, grounding myself in their feel.
This was mine now. I got to decide what it became.
The bookstore was already perfect—quirky, charming, and locally run. The bakery next door smelled like heaven and was operated by June. A coffee shop was owned by a gal named Riley and a laundromat…
And then… There was the bar.
The Rusty Stag.
The establishment had a weathered metal sign swinging from a chain above the door. The glass windows were tinted just enough to keep the mystery alive. It looked exactly like I’d imagined a dive bar with good fries and bad lighting would look. It was the kind of place that had never seen a single update since 1978, according to the pictures from the Ludlowes. I’d been in every space before I bought it except for the bar. They were worried that if the owner got wind of the sale, he’d make it complicated.
I paused at the edge of the building, staring at the door like it might spit out a fireball if I stepped too close.
Melanie stopped beside me. “This is it, huh?”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “This is the one I’m worried about.”
She tilted her head. “Why? It’s kind of charming in a murder-mystery-suspect kind of way.”
I barked a laugh. “It’s not the bar. It’s the guy who runs it.”
“Ohhh. That guy.” Her eyes sparkled. “The one you said wasn’t thrilled about the sale.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” I said. “The Ludlowes told me he’s been here for a decade. He pays on time and keeps to himself, but hates change. Just hearing the word ‘renovation’ made his eye twitch.”
“So you’re saying he’s the villain of your story?”
“I’m saying he might be the immovable object to my unstoppable force,” I muttered, glancing toward the door. “I don’t want to run anyone out, Mel. I’m not here to bulldoze the town. I just… want to improve things. Make them feel fresh. Welcoming. Modern without losing charm.”
“Well,” she said, looping her arm through mine, “maybe he just needs to be wooed.”
“Wooed?”
“You know. Bribed with good design, natural lighting, and locally sourced bar snacks.” She laughed. “And while you do that, I can date the server.”
“Or maybe we get lucky and he’s eighty-five years old and tired.”
We both stared at the building in silence.
“If he gives you trouble, we deal with it. You’ve handled worse.”
We were both thinking of my ex-boyfriend without saying it. He was a complete ass with a heart of stone and one of the reasons I was glad I left Seattle.
I took a breath.
Melannie was right. This was part of being an owner. I didn’t need his blessing. I just needed to communicate, reason, and be respectful.
Even if he glared a lot.
Even if he growled when he spoke.
Even if he—
“Okay,” Melanie said, tugging my sleeve, “I can see your anxiety from here. Let’s go in. One drink. Some food. It’s a bar, not a haunted house.”
“I don’t want to make it weird.”
“You’re not. You’re just a new face having a drink with your charming best friend who once saw a ghost and didn’t cry about it.”
I raised a brow. “That ghost turned out to be your towel rack falling off the wall.”
“Still counts.”
We walked the last few steps to the door. I paused again, hand on the doorknob.
“You’ve got this,” she said, giving me a little nod of encouragement.
I pulled the door open and stepped into The Rusty Stag.
The scents hit me first—pine, fryer oil, and something faintly citrusy that I guessed was cleaner doing its best to keep up. The lights were low, casting an amber hue over everything. There were booths along the walls, all comfortably worn, and the wood-paneled walls were covered in crooked photo frames and what looked like hand-drawn signs advertising past events. The jukebox in the corner was crooning out an old country ballad, and…
“Oh my God,” Melanie whispered. “Is that a talking fish ?”
I followed her gaze. Mounted on the wall above the dartboard was one of those mechanical singing bass things from those terrible infomercials. I grinned despite myself.
“I take it back,” she said. “I love it here.”
I laughed, a little tension finally leaving my shoulders as we made our way to a booth by the window. From here, I could see the whole place. Cozy. Lived in. A little cluttered. But not awful. Definitely in need of some TLC.
I could work with this.
I would work with this.
The bar wouldn’t be the thing that broke me.
Not even the man behind it.
Whoever it was.
But he didn’t know me yet.
And Reckless River hadn’t seen what I could do.
Not yet.