Chapter 3
Alec
I’d forgotten how beautiful Alaska is. I drive the last five hours with the window down, breathing in spruce and the sharp, clean air I can’t get in the city.
The mountains press close, green valleys and turquoise lakes stretching for miles.
Eagles fly overhead, and more than once I spot caribou blurring past my truck windows.
Finally, I pull onto Main Street. Misthaven is louder than I remember, nestled in a valley, surrounded on all sides by the Euspuko Range.
The town only has one street—maybe two if I’m being generous—but that one street is crowded, bikes and strollers weaving between café tables, laughter carrying too far.
A kid runs past with a balloon tied to his wrist, holding a half-eaten donut the size of his head.
Outside Daisy’s Diner, an old man in suspenders argues with a teenager about kayak rentals.
Finn loved this place. Blueberry donuts from Yessi’s. Jerky from Brown Bear Bags. Waving at strangers until they waved back. He treated towns like collectibles, like each one had to be pocketed and kept.
I keep my hands on the wheel. Heads turn as I roll through in my truck, each one cataloging the outsider.
The houses and cabins branch off from town like ribs from a spine. The five thousand people here all know each other by name or by car.
Ten minutes later, the noise thins, replaced by the fog curling off the lake and the crunch of dirt under my tires.
The white-pine lodge finally comes into view after three days of driving from San Francisco.
I ease the truck down the dirt road, and a moose standing near the edge of the clearing snorts, raising its head before lumbering off into the trees.
What the hell were we thinking?
The place is massive. Fifteen bedrooms spread out over two stories.
The logs are thick and weathered, stretching the width of a football field.
It’s bigger than I remember, but it’s not in terrible shape.
The slated roof still holds, though the edges slump in a few spots.
The windows could use a wash, and the burgundy trim needs to be retouched.
Fresh mulch darkens the flower beds out front, likely Margaret’s handiwork.
Fireweed blooms tall in the ditch, purple against green.
It’s almost welcoming, which somehow feels worse.
Behind the lodge is Misthaven Lake. I can almost hear Finn’s laughter as he’d plunge into the icy water after our runs. Will he ever be able to do that again? At the thought, I bite the inside of my cheek until the tinge of iron fills my mouth.
I sit in the truck longer than I should.
There’s no way Finn will need all this space.
We’ve always lived out of tents, or backpacks, or any temporary walls we could find.
Part of me wants to pitch a tent by the water for the next month while I wait for him to get here and pretend this is just another base camp.
Pretend Finn’s still climbing behind me.
Lucky for me, I don’t have time to waste. The less free time I have, the less time I’ll spend reliving the past…or contemplating the future.
I pull out my notebook and start a list.
Replace roof
Repaint exterior
Add a wheelchair ramp
I walk around the back of Finn’s Lodge, and in a matter of minutes, the list has quadrupled. I may have underestimated how much work it will take to make this place livable. Not that it matters. I’m not sleeping anyway. Not with the nightmares keeping me company throughout the night.
When I reach the front of the property, a bush by the front-porch steps rustles—whatever it is, it’s too big to be a rabbit. I freeze, pulse kicking. I left my damn bear spray in the back of my truck. Day one, and I’m already unprepared.
I slowly back away, not wanting to spook the beast, when a twig snaps under my foot. Immediately, orange hair pops up from the shrubs. Not fur. Hair.
A woman straightens, knees scuffed in overalls, one hand still gripping the handle of a tipped-over soil bag.
She drops her trowel, grabs the full-length shovel like a sword, and swings it toward me.
Stray copper wisps the color of a blood-orange sunset catch the light, wild against the knot of her bun.
“You’re not a bear,” I blurt.
“And you still couldn’t take me if I was!
” Her large, expressive blue eyes stare at me, unblinking.
Even when dirt crumbles off her blade, those eyes—a color only found on top of glaciers—never leave me.
They’re too large, too sharp, too expressive.
They stream over me, measuring my height, weight, and intent.
When they land back on my face, she looks unimpressed.
I clear my throat, wishing for a moment that she was a bear. I don’t have the energy to deal with people, especially one so…peculiar. “I’m not here to take you. I just thought I heard one.”
“Uh-huh.” She scrunches up her nose, waving the shovel around like a wand. “That explains why you look like you’re about to wet yourself. Do you always greet women by confusing them with local wildlife, or am I just lucky?”
She looks absurd. And distractingly not absurd. A mix between a garden nymph and a scorned deity. Her face is round, with a soft chin and a button nose, but her limbs are angular and lean.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
She steps forward in her pink flats, the shovel inches from my face. “What are you doing here?”
“I asked first.”
“I’m looking after the plants. Obviously. This lodge used to belong to me, which means I’ve got every right to be here.”
There’s no way she’s Margaret Lennox. The age doesn’t add up. She looks nearly my sister Frankie’s age. Early twenties at most. But maybe I’m misremembering Bill’s wife. Or maybe grief does strange things to faces. Hell, I don’t know. Has to be her.
“You must be Margaret.”
The gasp she lets out scares the birds from the canopy above.
They flitter around us, and I wish I could take off with them.
She lowers the shovel, her gloved hand flying over her glossy lips, smearing dirt across the freckles that line her nose and cheeks.
“Excuse me? Did you just say I look eighty-seven?”
“What?”
“I know I may not be at my best right now, all right? I’m a bit out of my element.
But I’m twenty-four. Sure, in New York I’m washed up, retired, whatever you want to call it.
But here?” She fixes the thin tank top strap on her shoulders and stands an inch straighter.
Her posture is impeccable. “I’m a Misthaven ten. ”
So, she’s a city girl? I guess that explains why she’s wearing flats and makeup in the garden. I stare at her, too sleep-deprived to even wrap my head around what a Misthaven ten is.
“No, you’re not—” I start.
She actually staggers back, one hand to her chest. “That’s so rude! Do you make a habit of insulting women you’ve just met? Guessing ages and—and handing out scores?”
“I didn’t guess anything,” I growl. “You’re obviously—look, I just—” My jaw clicks. Heat creeps up my neck. “Forget it. I own this lodge, and you’re the one trespassing.”
At that, the shovel clunks to the ground, and her face splits into a smile. Her lips are glossed, her cupid’s bow prominent. She smiles like it’s her job, like she’s practiced this exact smile for cameras. And I don’t hate it.
“Oh! Wait, you’re Alec Hastings?” She says my name like it’s a headline. It’s my first time out of the hospital since Finn’s accident, and the fucking reporters have already found me.
“If you’re here sniffing around for a story, I’m not giving interviews about what happened on K2.
Said it a thousand times. Don’t care if you’re those fuckers from the Stone Times, the Post, or some blog with a goat in the logo.
Not happening.” I don’t budge from my spot. She’s the one who needs to leave.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re terrible at first impressions?”
“No,” I lie.
“Thought so.” She whips around, seemingly over this conversation. “Well, if you don’t mind, I just need to finish up here, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” She grabs the shovel off the ground and jams it into the soil bag. She’s not a reporter. Maybe that means she doesn’t know my family either.
But it still doesn’t explain why the hell she’s at Finn’s Lodge.
“Then who are you?”
“Oh, now you want to ask questions before making assumptions?” She looks back at me, quirking one of her brows. I don’t respond, don’t know how. Her entire body deflates in a sigh as she stands back up. “Clementine Lennox. Gran told me you may be moving in.”
Did her parents pick her name after seeing that impossibly orange hair, or does fate just have a twisted sense of humor?
She wipes her palms down her overalls, leaving streaks of dirt, and sticks one out. Her fingernails are pink and delicate. I stare at them awkwardly until she lets her hand drop back to her side. Her ears wiggle, just a bit, but recognition sparks within me.
Bill’s granddaughter. The tutu stories. The photo in his wallet. That little ballerina can’t possibly be this sharp-eyed fox with dirt on her face.
Except she isn’t little anymore. She’s tall, close to five-nine, with long, slender limbs. Her skin looks soft, though the dark circles under her eyes seem to match mine.
She’s nearly eight years younger than me, which is reason enough to stop looking at her. Let alone the fact that I have a list of shit that needed to get done as soon as yesterday.
“Well, you don’t need to stop by anymore,” I say. “Tell your grandmother the same. I’ll be looking after the place from now on.”
“If you think you’re going to tell my grandmother what to do, I’d pay to watch that crash and burn.” She snorts, actually snorts, and I hate that it makes something in my chest twitch.
“I don’t need anyone fussing over this place,” I snap.
“Clearly.” She waves at the peeling paint on the window frames. “Relax, Paul Bunyan. I didn’t come here for you.” She nods at the flowerpots lined up at the bottom of the steps. “Gran wants these filled with soil and cabbage seeds before breakfast. I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”
“Cabbage?”
“Ornamental cabbage,” she corrects, drawing out each syllable. “You know, pretty leaves? Porch décor? Or is that not the aesthetic you’re going for?”
I don’t answer fast enough. She jerks a bag of soil, and dirt sprays across the steps, my jeans, and my boots.
“Thanks for that,” I deadpan. “Now I look like I belong here.”
“You’re welcome.” Her smile is too bright to be kind. She’s almost eye level with me, and for some reason that feels more intimate than if she were taller or shorter.
“I told you,” I grind out, “I don’t need help.”
“And I told you,” she shoots back, “I’m not here to help you.”
She rips open the last bag of soil, muscles straining, and upends it into the flowerpot.
The dirt erupts across the porch, clouds puffing into the air, grit coating my boots.
She doesn’t even pause. With one hand, she’s already scattering seeds, tossing them in wild, uneven arcs that pepper the soil, the steps, and the boards.
Some bounce off my shirt. She moves fast, recklessly, like she’s in some speed-planting contest.
Then she dusts off her palms, grips the shovel, and strides right past me without looking back.
“There,” she declares. “Enjoy your cabbage.” And at the bottom of the steps, she tosses over her shoulder, “Just a warning. The other ladies in town won’t be this nice if you mistake them for bears or eighty-seven-year-old women.”
“You call this being nice?”
A sly smile paints her face, and she hikes up the path to the house on top of the ridge.
That should be the end of it. But I’m still standing here like an idiot, boots rooted to the porch, watching her stride up the hill. Five minutes. That’s all it took for a stranger to crawl under my skin.
I don’t wait for her to come back. I slam the door and bury myself in the lodge instead, letting the silence and dust envelop me.
The main living room opens wide, with vaulted ceilings with ash beams and a stone fireplace centered on the far wooden wall.
Everything is wood, top to bottom, like the Lincoln Logs I used to play with.
The kitchen sits off to the side, cabinets beyond saving and appliances outdated, but the tile floors are salvageable.
From the dining area, a window frames Misthaven Lake.
Finn’s long dining room table will fit there.
After an hour, I realize the bones are solid. No rot, good foundation, but the rest needs work. Floors are warped, and the pipes cough like old lungs. The lights work, though they buzz and flicker, one breath from going out.
The roof will have to be first. The ceiling over the front hall is bruised with water stains, leaks bleeding through. My pen digs jaggedly across the paper as I scrawl out the list.
Seal chimney
Clear attic
Repaint walls
Winterize plumbing
Email Jillian to hire a decorator
I’m not a carpenter. But I’m a Hastings. I can figure this out, and I need to start with supplies. There was a hardware store on my way in. I grab my keys, the quiet pressing at my back as I head for the truck.
Thirty days to make this place livable. To make it safe enough for Finn.
After that, I can disappear back into the only life I know, the one with no people, no flowerpots, and absolutely no copper-haired women who make me feel like I’m losing an argument I never agreed to have.
Which is exactly what I want.