CHAPTER 1
Sample Chapters from Retreat Sisters
I NEVER THOUGHT I’d spend my summer trimming hedges, fixing fence posts, and scrubbing rust off old tools on a patch of land an hour outside Houston. Then again, I never thought my family would shatter like a cheap plate halfway through my sophomore year, either.
It didn’t happen all at once. Not exactly.
But there was this one week when everything started unraveling faster than I could process.
One bad investment, my dad said. Just a little risk that didn’t pan out.
But that “little risk” wiped out their savings account, and with it, the illusion that we were the kind of family who had it all figured out.
Suddenly, we weren’t.
My dad moved into a half-furnished apartment on the outer edge of Houston. The kind of place where you can hear your neighbors arguing through the vents. He’s trying to make it work, but there’s barely space for him, let alone me.
My mom, meanwhile, packed her things and drove three hours south to her mother’s house, the one she used to call a “tomb of regrets” when she didn’t think I was listening. Now she’s back in her old bedroom with the pink floral wallpaper and a broken ceiling fan, pretending like it’s temporary.
And me? I’m still in school. For now. Hanging on thanks to a generous cocktail of federal loans and na?ve optimism.
I just wrapped up my second year at a private university, a good school, if you can afford it. I couldn’t, not really. But I lived in the dorms, kept my head down, and figured I’d go home for the summer to regroup.
Only… “home” doesn’t exist anymore. Not the kind that smells like pancakes and coffee on Sunday mornings.
Not the kind that waits up for you with the porch light on.
What’s left is just two people I barely recognize, trying to untangle themselves from twenty years of marriage with as little collateral damage as possible.
And crashing with either of them?
It doesn’t feel like freedom.
It feels like going backward.
To make things worse, the dorms give you exactly one week after finals to pack your stuff and get out. No exceptions. No wiggle room. And absolutely no Plan B.
So I started looking. For anything.
Somewhere I could work. Somewhere that came with room and board. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere else.
That’s how I found Lakeside Retreat.
The job listing was buried in a student email thread, probably overlooked by everyone else already headed for internships or overseas programs. It was blunt and to the point: Seasonal help wanted.
Maintenance assistant. Groundskeeping. General repairs.
Must be handy with tools. Room, board, and paycheck included.
I clicked.
A few photos showed cabins tucked into pine trees, a lake that didn’t look real, and a barn that made me think of old Westerns. The place looked like a postcard. Peaceful. Remote. Clean air and silence. Everything I didn’t know I wanted until I saw it.
I figured, what the hell?
I’ve got two working hands, a decent work ethic, and enough experience holding a wrench to bluff my way through the rest.
So, here I am, driving down the highway in the old Honda my dad gave me when I started college, heading toward Lakeside Retreat.
I take the exit when I see the sign for Lake Pinecrest. The farther I go from the highway, the narrower the road gets, like the world is peeling itself away from the noise behind me.
Traffic thins until I’m the only car in sight.
Billboards fade into rusted fence posts.
Gas stations give way to bait shops, then to weather-stained fruit stands with hand-painted signs offering peaches and pecans and honey sold on the honor system.
The city haze is long gone now. What’s left is light, clear and golden.
And the air feels new, like it hasn’t been recycled a hundred times through somebody else’s lungs.
I crack the window. It smells like cedar and dust and something sun-warmed and alive.
A deep breath settles something in my chest.
On either side of the two-lane road, tall pine trees stretch upward, their tips swaying with the lazy confidence of giants.
The ditches are wild with color, clusters of black-eyed Susans and bursts of purple thistle spilling over like they’re too full of joy to stay contained.
I pass a rusted-out tractor parked in a field and a mailbox shaped like a trout.
Nothing here is trying to impress anyone.
The directions say I’m close.
I ease off the gas as the road curves around the edge of a lake, Lake Pinecrest. The water shimmers under the sunlight, the surface winking like broken glass. Ducks paddle lazily near the reeds, and somewhere off to the right, I hear the faint splash of something slipping beneath the surface.
Then I see it. A wooden sign, nailed between two posts, its paint softened by years of weather.
Lakeside Retreat, carved in looping cursive and painted white, the letters a little faded, like they’re smiling through time.
Below it, an arrow points down a gravel driveway framed by overgrown wildflowers and low-hanging branches.
I turn in. The tires crackle across the gravel, the sound oddly soothing. Everything else is quiet. The hum of cicadas rises and falls in the trees, and I can hear birdsong through the open window. Even the engine sounds like it’s whispering now.
The drive winds gently, curving past thick woods that slowly give way to open space. And then, all at once, the retreat comes into view.
Clusters of cabins stretch out across a gently sloped clearing, spaced just far enough apart to feel private but close enough to belong to the same story.
They’re built from timber and stone, with broad porches and tin roofs that catch the sun like old coins.
Some have hammocks strung between posts.
Others have rocking chairs, potted herbs, wind chimes.
To the left, just beyond a rise, Lake Pinecrest comes back into view, now fully revealed in the late morning light.
A wooden yoga deck juts out over the edge of the lake, where a group of people move in unison, stretching toward the sky with their arms lifted in slow arcs.
The instructor’s voice carries faintly on the wind, calm and low.
Farther up the drive, a lodge sits larger than the rest, with wide eaves and a front porch lined with wooden rocking chairs that all face the lake, like they’re waiting for sunset.
Off to the right, a fenced paddock hugs the edge of a shallow slope. A red-painted barn stands beside it, clean but weathered, its wide doors open. Horses graze lazily inside the enclosure, their tails flicking. One lifts its head as I pass, eyes calm and curious.
I park in front of a smaller cabin tucked between the trees.
A carved wooden sign near the steps reads Office.
I cut the engine and let my hands fall into my lap.
For a moment, I don’t move. The quiet wraps around me like a blanket that’s just the right weight.
There’s something about this place, the way it’s both open and hidden, that makes me want to stay still and breathe it in.
But I can’t sit here forever.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to smooth it down. My reflection in the rearview mirror shows a crease in my shirt, so I tug at the hem and brush at the collar like it’ll make a difference. Then I take a long breath, square my shoulders, and step out into the afternoon heat.
Okay, I tell myself. You can do this.
But the pep talk lands a little flat. I’m no handyman.
My mom never let me near her flowerbeds growing up.
She hired landscaping crews with monogrammed trucks and three-man crews who edged her lawn like they were carving sculptures.
The only yard work I ever did was at my grandma’s place, pulling weeds that always came back the next morning.
And tools? Sure, I’ve used them. Once. Maybe twice.
I fixed our front door back in high school, after I cracked it trying to force it open during a rainstorm.
That counts… right?
I glance around at the cabins. Everything looks meticulous. Freshly swept paths, flower boxes full of marigolds and lavender, not a single gutter out of place. The job description plays in my head like an ominous drumbeat: Groundskeeping. General repairs. Must be handy with tools.
Handy. Yeah.
I cringe as I recall more facts. The place is owned and run by two sisters, Marilyn and Carolyn Sage. The kind of women who are probably tough and efficient and can tell when a guy’s lying about his skill level just by the way he holds a rake. They’ll be the ones interviewing me. In person.
And they’re going to see straight through me.
Halfway to the office door, my feet slow.
Doubt creeps in like fog at the edges of my brain.
Maybe I should’ve taken that waiter job downtown.
More familiar. Better money. I could’ve crashed on a friend’s couch, found a cheap sublet, figured things out later.
That’s what most people my age are doing.
But I don’t turn back.
There’s something about this place. The way the trees move. The hush of the lake. The distance from everything I’m trying not to think about.
And the room and board doesn’t hurt, either.
I’m still weighing it all in my head when I hear a sound that cuts through the stillness.
Rhythmic. Fast. Getting closer.
Hoofbeats.
At first, I think I’m imagining it.
The air is so still, so quiet, it feels like the world is holding its breath. Nothing moves except the soft ripple of wind through the trees, the steady hum of cicadas, and somewhere in the distance, the faint clink of metal on metal, like a wind chime or maybe,
There it is again.
Hoofbeats.
Faster now. Closer.
I turn toward the tree line just as a blur of motion breaks from the trail.