Chapter 3
are you elfing serious?
Ivar
With his head still reeling from the cardinal and the branch, Ivar dropped Al off at home, then headed to the Maple Mug Coffee House. He needed to be surrounded by people doing tangible, ordinary things. He needed grounding.
A maple scone wouldn’t hurt either.
As soon as he stepped inside, he knew he’d made the right call.
Warm air wrapped around him, carrying the scent of espresso, cinnamon, and maple syrup.
A jaunty French cafe tune with an accordion floated above the low hum of conversation.
A few locals waved. Emma Tremblay was behind the counter, humming along while steaming milk.
“You look like a man in need of sugar. Here,” she said, sliding a mug toward him. “I saw you coming from across the street.”
“You’re the best,” he said, taking a sip. “Caffeine first, then sugar. One maple scone, please.”
She smiled, plating the scone. “Sit anywhere—I know you and George both like that booth in the corner, and I’m afraid he got there first today.”
Sure enough, George Keating occupied the corner seat by the window, hunched over the daily crossword. His pencil hovered in mid-air. “Nine-letter word for stubborn,” he muttered as Ivar passed.
“Difficult,” Ivar offered.
George grunted, which in George’s language meant thank you.
Ivar carried his coffee and scone to a small table near the fire. Mim Daley was pinning new flyers to the community board—announcements layered over lost-and-found notes and photos from last year’s Christmas Carnival. One new note caught his eye:
MISSING: one blue fox pattern left mitten. Beside it, someone wrote and my dignity and had doodled a fox smiling beside it.
He smiled, took a bite of his scone, and texted his sister.
Ivar: Got some great photos. I’ll send them later.
Liv: [thumbs up emoji]
The scone was perfectly warm, buttery, and sweet enough to remind him there were still simple pleasures in the world.
He’d barely taken another bite when a voice interrupted him.
“Well, hey there, Mr. Park Ranger.”
He looked up. Gwen Brooks stood beside his table, coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, radiating the unmistakable energy of Winterwood’s number one real estate agent.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, already pulling out the chair.
“Go ahead,” he said, knowing resistance was futile.
“So how’ve you been?” she asked, settling in.
“Good. Busy.”
“Oh, me too—always! Closing a deal this afternoon. First-time buyers. Nervous wrecks, poor things. They’re buying the old MacKenzie place on Third.
Remember their son, Mac MacKenzie? I’ll never understand why his parents named him that.
Anyway, he’s in Maine now—fishing charters, three kids, can you believe it? ”
Ivar nodded politely. “I played hockey with him in high school.”
“Of course you did.” She took a sip of coffee, eyes sparkling with the thrill of gossip. “Now listen, this is just between us.”
He leaned in. “Okay.”
“You’ll never guess who contacted me. The Hale estate.”
He blinked. “Miss Hale’s place?”
“Exactly. Her grandniece, a professor in Seattle, inherited it, and she doesn’t want it. Wants to sell the whole property, and she’s hired me as the agent.”
Ivar’s stomach dropped. Five thousand acres. Untouched forest bordering state land and interlaced with trails that locals had used for generations.
“Are there any restrictions?” he asked carefully. “Because if a developer buys it—”
Gwen lifted a manicured hand. “Don’t know yet.
But let’s be realistic. No one buys that kind of property to leave it wild.
I’m not saying I support development,” she added quickly.
“My boys ride their bikes through those trails. I love it there too. But I have three teenage boys eating me out of house and home. College in a few years, too. At least for one or two of them. I’m not going to deny that this commission would help me. ”
He managed a thin smile. “Understandable. But the wrong kind of developer would be disastrous. Maybe the council can do something.”
“I’ll reach out.” She sighed, setting her coffee down. “It’s complicated, Ivar. I love the woods too. But the only constant is change, right?”
Before he could answer, she patted his arm, gathered her coat, and leaned close. “I’ll keep you posted.” Then she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive perfume and the echo of too many words.
Ivar sat back, watching the snow swirl beyond the window. Around him, the Maple Mug carried on as usual. George muttered over his crossword; Emma filled mugs; Mim straightened the flyers on the board.
So why was he certain his world was about to change?