CHAPTER 6 #2
“Are you…” I tried again. “Are you the owner of the B&B?”
“Yep,” he replied simply after a long moment of hesitation. Since he was the owner, as I already suspected, I would think he’d try to be a little bit nicer to his guests, then.
“Jonathan…Wolfe, right?” I asked, eyeing a muscle that jumped in his tanned forearm. “I saw the note in the welcome basket.”
His lips pressed, his hand smoothing across the scruff lining his jaw. “That was May.”
“I’m Blanche,” I supplied. “I’m just here for the week. My friend thinks I need a vacation. I live in Graymore, but I used to—”
“Look,” he cut in, voice firm. I saw the corner of his lip twist as he said, “I’m just your chauffeur.” That last word dripped with sarcasm. “Not interested in anyone’s life story…or even sharing mine. So, how about we enjoy the ride…quietly.”
I froze again. Those words had a similar effect as Erik’s often did. They made me feel small, unimportant, brushed aside like a mere annoyance. I snapped my jaw shut, turning my body so that I was angled toward the window.
He was rude. Through and through. But as the silence cut through the truck and we neared Everwick, turning off the main highway to lumber down Sandshore Drive, which led right toward the town square, I felt anger begin to burn.
What had happened at the upper cabin had been an accident, one I’d apologized for already. If he didn’t understand that, then he was being unreasonable.
See how far you get in the hospitality industry, Mr. Wolfe, I couldn’t help but think.
“Will you answer me one thing? Have we ever met before?” I asked quietly, my spine stiff. When I saw the town square come into view, I was grateful for the little flame of anger because it helped dull the ache I felt at the familiarity.
He seemed to stiffen. “No.”
“Then what have I ever done to you? You seem to really not like me even though we’ve supposedly never met before.”
I wanted to know what his problem was. Or maybe he was just one of those people who enjoyed being an asshole…or he didn’t care to be liked.
In the end, he ignored my question entirely. Or maybe he just didn’t care to answer.
“An hour enough time?” he chuffed impatiently as he pulled up to the curb of the town square. He peered out the windshield, tracking people as they milled by. “I’ll be back then. If you’re not here, I’ll assume you found that taxi of yours.”
Unbelievable, I thought, seething, already fumbling for the door handle. The sooner I got away from him the better.
After I climbed out, I stooped down low to meet his icy eyes. “You know what? Don’t bother. I’ll find my own way back. Thanks for the ride.”
Asshole, I added silently as I slammed the truck door, harder than necessary, and stalked away. If I never saw Jonathan Wolfe again, that would suit me just fine.
Unknowingly, my feet pulled me toward a familiar place as I grappled with the encounter with the grumpy owner, trying to forget it. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting to me. The quicker I put him out of my mind, the better.
The circle of Acacia Whisperthorn trees greeted me when I finally realized where I’d ended up…and I felt my stomach tighten with both longing and grief, all thoughts of Jonathan Wolfe evaporating like the morning mist that rolled in from the coast.
The bark on the trees was smooth as glass, and I trailed my gaze up the nearest one, spying hunter-green leaves overhead with thorny tips.
Its buds were closed right now. They only blossomed at night, revealing beautiful white-and-lavender flowers, fragrant like jasmine.
These trees had been here longer than anyone knew.
Below the ring of trees was an old stone fountain, still bubbling. Beds of tended, colorful flowers and wobbling wood benches surrounded it. The cobblestone beneath my feet felt as familiar as the brininess from the sea in the air.
This was the heart of Everwick-by-the-Sea, standing proudly in the middle of the busy and bustling town square, which hosted the annual Moonshade Berry Festival and weekly farmers’ market.
Just off the square stood the Everwick Library, a whitewashed building with stained-glass windows and an iron weathervane shaped like a quill.
I knew that its shelves were deep and winding, its air perfumed with parchment and something floral from the tiny botanical garden behind it, which was tended to by volunteers and always in bloom, no matter the season.
A few steps down the lane sat the local post office, no bigger than a cottage, with its green shuttered windows and flower boxes.
The buildings were old here but well loved, crooked in places, charming in ways that couldn’t be replicated.
No streetlights, just lanterns. No house numbers, just names.
No neon signs or big brands. Just local galleries, quiet coffee shops, and hidden bookstores tucked behind ivy-covered archways.
The sea was always within earshot—its rhythm woven into the way people walked and talked.
Wisteria climbed the sides of cottages with chimneys that leaned slightly to one side, framing garden gates that never quite closed all the way.
Shops still bore hand-painted signs, but some paths now led to exclusive bistros tucked into alleyways, where menus changed daily and wine was served by candlelight.
Rooftop tables overlooked the ocean. Dishes came garnished with edible flowers and local sea salt.
These places never advertised. You had to know they were there—or be lucky enough to discover them.
Everwick looked like it had been pulled directly from a fairytale with its patchwork of narrow lanes and sloping roofs, less like a town and more like a memory…one with salt in the air and stories of my childhood tucked into every corner.
Once it had been home.
Now it felt like an open wound.
Dragging in a deep breath, my eyes landed on the local grocery store on the next street off the square. It hadn’t changed since I’d been back in town for my grandmother’s funeral, and I headed there, a clear destination and purpose in mind, helping me focus.
The store was small but stocked, and as though working on auto-pilot, I gathered essentials for a week I wasn’t entirely certain I’d be seeing through: Milk, eggs, bread, cheese, fruit. Chocolate bars and ice cream were a necessity. A few frozen pizzas and a bagged salad.
Luckily, I didn’t recognize anyone in the store, though I kept my head ducked low.
Even the teenage girl at the checkout, a fae with lilac-colored skin and tucked wings, I’d never seen before.
My grandmother had known nearly everyone in Everwick, at least the old families.
When I’d been growing up, you couldn’t go shopping in town without being stopped by a handful of people.
But word might’ve been getting out, the little secret paradise along the coast attracting more and more people from the city.
The handle of my paper grocery bag cut into my palm as I darted out of the store. The summer sun was beating down on the town square, and my gaze cut toward the coast, which I could just see beyond the tops of trees in the distance.
Making the decision with a lurch in my belly, I turned north, heading toward the Aurealian Sea, my feet guiding me along a path I’d traveled hundreds of times, though cracks in the pavement had been repaired and new landscaping had been planted along the way.
The closer I got to the coast, the cooler it was, a breeze sweeping through my hair, wicking away the sweat on my skin. I took a slow, deep breath, the fresh air filling my lungs so easily it felt almost indulgent.
Beyond town, where the cliffs rose into a steep bluff, stood Moonbeam Point Lighthouse.
Perched on the next ridge and usually swallowed by sea fog, it was visible from nearly every part of town and had been there for over a century.
The rotating, steady light had once swept across the walls of my bedroom at my grandmother’s house, just as it did the waves below.
It had lulled me to sleep more nights than I could count.
I thought I’d be prepared to see my grandmother’s cottage when it finally came into view.
The sight of it stole my breath. The sloping roof, the bay window at the front, the fading white picket fence that enveloped her beloved front garden.
A trellis of wisteria was still arched over the front gate.
My brows furrowed, shock rooting me momentarily. The garden had been…maintained? I’d half expected to encounter an overgrown tangle of choked ivy and dying rose bushes, which was one of the reasons I’d been putting off this visit.
But…it looked just as it had when she’d been alive and seeing it brought a rush of tears swimming in my vision.
Unconsciously, my feet took me to the waist-high gate, and I reached over to unlatch it.
Wisteria blooms trailed over my head like a caress when I ducked beneath them to step into the garden.
I stood like a statue, my ice cream likely melting in my brown bag, staring at the empty house that I still didn’t have the courage to unlock.
Instead, I went to the stone bench, bracketed by thorny rose bushes that had been pruned recently. Blooms as big as my face greeted me, their fragrance like a memory.
Sitting in my grandmother’s garden, where I’d often watched her work, I felt my grief crash over me like a wooden beam over my head. My groceries were forgotten at my feet.
And with the scent of roses in my nostrils and the crisp sea breeze against my skin, I cried for the first time in over a year.