Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Friday arrived wearing fog thick as wool, the mountains invisible behind curtains of white that turned Laurel Valley into an island floating in clouds.
Dylan stood outside the Henderson building—what would become her restoration shop—watching Hank O’Hara measure doorways and tap walls with the focused intensity of a doctor examining a patient.
“And the bad news?” Aidan asked from where he leaned against the brick exterior, looking unfairly good for seven in the morning.
“Those gorgeous hardwood floors have to go in the work areas. You can’t put a two-post lift through hundred-year-old wood and expect it to hold. We’ll need to excavate, pour reinforced concrete, proper drainage for the work bays.”
Dylan tried not to let disappointment show.
She’d been doing restoration work in a cramped corner of The Pinnacle for five years, making do with the standard garage equipment.
When Aidan had shown her this space on Tuesday, she’d immediately envisioned keeping those floors, maintaining the building’s character while creating something entirely hers.
“But,” Hank continued, his expression softening at her obvious dismay, “we can save them in the front third of the building. Create zones—modern industrial in the back where you need it, historical preservation in front for your office, customer waiting area, display space. Best of both worlds.”
“Display space?” Dylan asked.
“For before-and-after photos. Maybe a few choice pieces. You’re not just fixing cars, you’re creating art. People should see that the moment they walk in.”
Aidan moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth in the cool morning. “What do you think?”
“I think it sounds expensive.”
“Most things worth doing are.” He turned to Hank. “Timeline?”
“If we start Monday, basic structural work will take three weeks. Electrical and plumbing, another two. You could be operational by Thanksgiving if we push, but I’d recommend waiting until after the holidays. Do it right rather than fast.”
“After the holidays,” Dylan agreed, though the wait chafed. She’d been ready for her own space for years; another two months felt like eternity.
“I’ll draw up the plans this weekend,” Hank said, tucking his tablet away. “Full restoration shop in back, elegant customer space in front. We’ll expose those brick walls properly, keep the tin ceiling. It’ll be the finest restoration shop in three states.”
After Hank left for another job site, Dylan and Aidan stood alone in the foggy morning, looking at the building that would transform from abandoned storefront to dream realized.
“Second thoughts?” Aidan asked.
“Third and fourth thoughts. This is a massive investment.”
“It’s the right investment. You’ve been making do with a corner of The Pinnacle for five years. The work you’ve done—the Barracuda, the Ferrari, all of it—that’s been with basic equipment and borrowed space. Imagine what you’ll create with a proper setup.”
“What if—”
“Stop.” He turned to face her fully, and the intensity in his green eyes made her words evaporate. “You’re talented, Dylan. Beyond talented. You see what cars could be, not just what they are. This town needs that. I need that.”
The last three words hung between them, weighted with meaning neither was ready to explore.
Since Tuesday’s dinner, since the signing of partnership papers and that walk through town, something had shifted.
They were business partners now, but the air between them crackled with the possibility of something more.
“The equipment’s already ordered,” Aidan said, breaking the moment. “It’ll go into storage until the renovation’s complete. No point in setting it up at The Pinnacle just to move it. I may have gotten enthusiastic with the catalog.”
“Aidan—”
“Partner’s prerogative. Besides, Judge Harrison called yesterday about his Packard. He wants to be your first official restoration customer. That commission alone will cover the equipment costs.”
Dylan felt overwhelmed by the speed of change, the weight of other people’s faith in her abilities. “This is happening fast.”
“Five years of groundwork isn’t fast. It’s overdue.”
They walked back toward The Pinnacle together, navigating the foggy streets with the ease of people who knew every cobblestone, every uneven patch, every place where October ice liked to form.
Downtown was beginning to wake—Rose arranging pastries in the bakery window, Bernie Watson setting up his newsstand, the town performing its morning ritual of transformation from sleeping beauty to bustling destination.
“Tomorrow,” Aidan said as they reached the garage. “The treasure hunt continues.”
Tomorrow. Saturday. The oak tree by the lake where Patrick had carved his initials with Margaret’s, where love had been literally grown into the bark.
“Eight o’clock?” Dylan asked.
“I’ll bring coffee and whatever my mother insists is necessary for treasure hunting.”
“She knows?”
“She knows everything. It’s actually a little creepy. She asked me yesterday if I’d found what I was looking for with this look that suggested she wasn’t talking about the ring.”
That evening, Sophie texted—Wine at Raven’s tonight. Just the O’Hara women. 7 p.m. No excuses.
Dylan arrived at Raven’s house—a stunning Victorian that Hank had restored with his typical attention to detail—to find the O’Hara women already gathered in the living room with enough wine bottles to stock a small vineyard.
“So,” Raven said, elegant even in jeans and cashmere. “A restoration shop of your own. That’s serious commitment to Laurel Valley.”
“It’s a business opportunity,” Dylan said, aware of the undercurrents in the room.
“Of course it is,” Sophie agreed with a smile that suggested she wasn’t buying it. “Just like your dinner with Aidan on Tuesday was strictly business.”
“We signed partnership papers.”
“In the honeymoon booth at The Lampstand,” Anne O’Hara added with maternal satisfaction. “Simone told me you two couldn’t stop staring at each other.”
Dylan felt heat climb her neck. “We were discussing terms.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Raven laughed. “In my day, we just called it chemistry.”
“Leave her alone,” Sophie said, but her eyes danced with mischief. “She’s only been here five years. Barely enough time to notice Aidan exists.”
They laughed, and Dylan found herself smiling despite her embarrassment. This was what she’d missed in her years of running—the gentle teasing of women who cared, the assumption that her story was their story, that her happiness mattered to the collective whole.
Saturday dawned crystal clear, the fog burned away to reveal a world painted in October’s finest palette.
Frost silvered every surface, making the valley look like it had been dusted with diamonds.
Dylan arrived at the lake turnout to find Aidan already there, leaning against his truck with two thermoses and a backpack that definitely contained more than necessary.
“Your mother?” she asked, gesturing at the pack.
“She heard we were hiking to the old oak. Apparently, that requires sandwiches, soup, first aid supplies, and emergency flares.”
“Emergency flares. For walking fifty yards to a tree we can see from here.”
“She worries. It’s her superpower.”
They walked toward the oak together, their breath clouding in the cold air, frost crunching under their boots. The tree stood magnificent against the morning sky, nearly bare now, its branches reaching toward heaven like prayers made solid.
“The initials should be…” Dylan circled the trunk, calculating growth patterns. “About twelve to fifteen feet up. Trees grow from the top, so what was eye level in 1962…”
“Is now completely unreachable.” Aidan was already studying the branches, plotting his route. “Good thing I’ve maintained my climbing skills.”
“When was the last time you climbed a tree?”
“Tuesday. Had to rescue Janice Plink’s cat.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It does if the cat weighs twenty pounds and has opinions about being rescued.”
He pulled himself up onto the lowest branch with surprising grace, muscles moving under his jacket in ways that made Dylan forget about treasure hunts entirely. She watched him climb, trying to focus on safety rather than the way he moved with such confident ease.
“Found them,” he called from twelve feet up. “PMO + MES in a heart. God, Dylan, they’re part of the tree now. The bark grew around them but preserved them perfectly.”
“Is there anything else up there?”
“Looking.” He checked the surrounding branches. “Nothing. But wait—Patrick was in his seventies when he hid these clues. He couldn’t have climbed this high.”
He climbed back down, and they both stood looking at the tree, thinking.
“The roots,” Dylan said suddenly. “Check around the base, where the roots create natural hollows. That’s where an older man could reach.”
They searched the ground around the massive trunk, pushing aside years of accumulated leaves and forest debris. Dylan found it first—a depression between two large roots where the earth seemed disturbed.
“Here,” she called.
Together they excavated the spot, finding a metal box wrapped in oilcloth and buried just deep enough to survive weather and time but shallow enough for an elderly man to manage.
Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was another clue in Patrick’s handwriting:
You found our hearts carved in the tree, / Now seek the place where we could see / The valley spread like promised land, / Where water mirrors sky so grand.
The chapel stone though walls have fell, / Where sacred vows were spoken well. / Find the altar where we knelt, / And know the love we truly felt.
Dylan read it twice, her mind working through the riddle. “A chapel with a view of the valley, near water.”
“The old chapel ruins,” Aidan said with sudden understanding. “By Mirror Lake, on the ridge. My great-great-grandfather built it in the 1880s for the family and ranch hands. Couples got married there for sixty years until it burned in 1945.”
“How far?”
“About two miles up the northern trail. It’s steep but beautiful. The foundation’s still there, and the altar stone. On clear days you can see the entire valley reflected in the lake.”
“Today?”
He looked at the sky, calculating. “It’s a tough hike. Steep in places. We could wait until next Saturday.”
It was the sensible choice. But standing there in the perfect morning with Aidan looking at her like she held answers to questions he hadn’t asked yet, Dylan didn’t want to be sensible.
“We have Anne’s emergency supplies,” she said. “Might as well use them.”
His smile was slow and warm. “You sure?”
“I’m sure I want to know what happens next.”
They set off up the trail, walking single file where the path narrowed, then side by side as it widened. The forest closed around them, intimate as confession, the kind of quiet that made truth easier.
“Can I ask you something?” Aidan said after they’d been hiking for twenty minutes. “Why didn’t you ever date anyone here?”
Dylan considered her answer. “I didn’t plan to stay. Dating someone would have meant pretending I might.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m opening a restoration shop and hunting for treasure with my business partner. Dating seems complicated.”
They climbed in companionable silence, the trail growing steeper, more challenging. Dylan’s legs burned, her breath came short, but she didn’t complain. There was something cleansing about the effort, the simple goal of moving forward together.
The chapel ruins, when they finally reached them, were heartbreaking in their beauty.
Stone walls stood open to the sky, Gothic arches framing views of the valley below and Mirror Lake spreading like liquid silver at the ridge’s base.
The altar stone remained intact, worn smooth by weather but still bearing the carved cross that had blessed generations of unions.
“This is where they started,” Aidan said quietly. “Twenty years old, newly married, probably terrified.”
Dylan walked through the ruins, her footsteps echoing on stone. Behind the altar, partially hidden by climbing ivy that had spent decades claiming the walls, she found a brass plaque green with age: Patrick and Margaret O’Hara, married here June 21, 1962.
“This is where they really began,” she said softly.
Together they cleared away the leaves and forest detritus, revealing that the stone had been hollowed out beneath. Inside was another box, another piece of Patrick’s elaborate puzzle.
But when Aidan opened it, there was no clue. Instead, there was a black-and-white photograph—Patrick and Margaret on their wedding day, radiant with certainty.
“Turn it over,” Dylan said.
On the back, in Patrick’s script: The treasure isn’t the ring. It’s the reaching for it together. Next: Look for us where we said goodbye.