Chapter 2
Home is a buttery yellow Victorian with a covered porch stretching across the front, forest green shutters, and a second story bay window. And I’m breathless by the time I reach it.
The thick rubber soles of my boots trigger a resounding thud as I take heavy steps across the wood of the porch. Reaching the door, I pause to brush my bangs from my eyes and take a series of steadying breaths before I head inside.
I’m already mortified by the events of the last few minutes, I don’t need my roommate to sense anything amiss—if she catches a scent, I’ll be forced to fill her in, to relive the embarrassment.
And the terror.
I still feel a little shaky from it all. Like the rush of panic is hanging from my limbs, weighing them down.
But the moment I cross into the entryway, a part of me lightens. My home has always come with a serene comfort—from the pale mint walls of the modest foyer and living room to our cozy, eclectic décor—it’s like a warm hug each time I return.
I withdraw my Walkman from my bag and power it down, taking off my headphones and winding their cord around the device. Leaving it on the creamy white console table, I drop my bag in the basket on the far side of the entryway and cross the glossy, warm wood floors.
“Claire?” I call out for my roommate as I weave around the cream and red-striped sofa.
“Lucy, you have perfect timing,” she replies from the kitchen. “I grabbed us carryout tonight.”
Passing through the narrow archway between the living room and kitchen, I tilt my head at the familiar brown bag on the counter. “You got Dina’s? What’s the occasion?”
Claire looks up from unpacking the containers of food as I step onto one of my favorite details of the house—the kitchen’s white and taupe checkerboard floor tile.
Her auburn hair is spilling out from a claw clip and the sleeves of her gray Ski Ellicottville sweatshirt are pushed up in chunky rolls of oversized material.
“I just needed a little taste of our small town today.” She smiles and points at the container furthest from her. “Got your favorite tuscan pasta.”
I swipe the Styrofoam package up, already salivating when I catch a whiff of the decadent dinner. “I love you, and I love our small town.”
“Well, enjoy it while it lasts.”
With her own container in one hand and two forks in the other, she follows me to the square, diner-style table in the breakfast nook and drops down on a yellow wooden chair. The fading daylight streams in through the windows, highlighting Claire’s forlorn expression.
I frown back at her, scooting my own chair closer and reaching forward to accept the fork she’s holding out. “What do you mean by that?”
She shakes her head as I spear a plump noodle and pop it in my mouth in one bite. “You should be savoring that, now that the big flashy chains of New York City have caught wind of us.”
“Our town is in New York state, and we have a ski resort. I don’t think we have ever been a secret.”
“We were a secret from the Carpenter Collection people.” She jabs her own fork into an asparagus rather violently. “But not anymore.”
“Carpenter Collection, like those fancy destination hotels?”
“Exactly.”
My eyes widen. “Are they buying the ski resort?”
“No way, Holiday Valley is safe. They want the vacant brewery just two blocks away.”
I hesitate, thinking of my walk by that very brewery less than an hour ago.
Of warm brown eyes pinched in concern on my behalf and strong arms wrapped around me, my face pressed against his solid chest. I’ve never seen my savior around town before, but it doesn’t stop me from picturing his perfect five o’clock shadow. It’s securely committed to my memory.
Luckily, Claire doesn’t seem to notice the way my attention wanders. She’s too distraught, I suppose. “All of their hotels are so flashy and commercialized. And I’ve never heard of one being less than ten floors. Can you imagine that right in the heart of our little village?”
I freeze for the second time tonight; my fork is suspended above my dinner. “Our buildings are no taller than two stories. I mean the resort is five stories but that isn’t actually in village limits.”
“Exactly,” she repeats solemnly. “Just picture it.”
Mulling over the news and another bite of pasta, I wonder aloud, “But are we sure about this? How did you hear it was happening?”
“The most reliable source in town.”
“Alice,” we say in unison. Claire’s grandmother has managed to have a pulse on everything Ellicottville before it happens for years. She’s become something of a legend.
My chest constricts as I realize what this means. It must really be true.
“My heart hurts. I say this calls for depressed baking and then watching something with Tom Hanks in it tonight,” she suggests. “Unless you need to hit the studio?”
Her question hangs between us like a cruel taunt. She doesn’t mean it that way; it’s not Claire’s fault I’m an artist that can no longer bring herself to paint.
“No, let’s bake and fawn over Tom Hanks tonight,” I say softly. The tightness in my chest doubles down and I quickly shove aside my self-doubt.
“Are you sure? Last week you told me to force you to spend time in there.”
“Actually, I told you to lock me in there and throw away the key. Which I still think might be necessary in the near future.”
We laugh at the same time, and it feels comforting.
The way sharing a joke with your best friend of seventeen years to cover the pain can be.
But as I laugh, my thoughts drift upstairs to the blank canvases awaiting me.
And I can’t help but feel like the weather isn’t the only thing shifting this autumn.
I just wish I could figure out why.