8. Cal
CAL
I t’s early when I head out again.
The sky’s still streaked with silver and soft gold, and the morning air bites just enough to wake me up. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket and walk toward town, Waffles trotting after me a few steps before losing interest and circling back.
Everfield is quiet this time of day, as I’ve noticed for the one week since I’ve been here. A few joggers pass with polite nods, and someone’s already hanging up a Closed for Fall Fest Prep sign on their shop window.
I spot the coffee shop I passed before—quaint, with warm light spilling onto the sidewalk—and duck inside.
The bell over the door jingles.
There’s barely anyone in yet. Just an older woman reading a newspaper and a barista wiping down the counter.
“Morning,” the barista says as I approach. He looks like he can’t be older than twenty. Thin, bleached tips, sleepy eyes.
I scan the chalkboard menu. “Black coffee. Large.”
He nods and rings it up. “You visiting?”
I pause. “Something like that.”
His eyes narrow a little, flickering up to my face again. His brow twitches, like something just clicked. “You know, you look a lot like?—”
“—an actor in this one popular movie I can’t remember. I hated him because my ex swore he was hot,” I cut in smoothly, flashing the faintest smile. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
He blinks, laughs. “If your ex swore he was hot and said you look like him, it would be a compliment.”
“Not when she’s fantasizing about him while with me. And I’m not even half as hot as him, let’s be honest. That stuff messes with you, you know?”
I’m surprised at how easy the lies come. But I’ll do anything to maintain this peace and anonymity.
He laughs again and hands over the cup. “Yeah, right? Anyway. Welcome to Everfield.”
“Thanks.” I take the coffee and head for the door.
That was close. Closer than I like.
I push the door open and step back into the chill, hoping it’s the last time someone tries to place my face. But with every polite smile from a stranger, every extra second someone stares, the tension under my skin tightens.
I need to be careful.
I walk back toward the inn, sipping from my coffee as I go. The hills are still misty, the town quiet, but the warmth of the cup in my hand and the crunch of gravel underfoot give me something to focus on.
By the time I reach the porch, the inn is already alive with morning sounds—floorboards creaking, distant voices, the scent of something buttery and warm drifting from the kitchen.
I step inside, and that’s when I see him.
A man stands at the front desk, visibly frazzled.
He’s wearing massive rimmed glasses that are slightly crooked on his nose, and his hair looks like he ran both hands through it a hundred times this morning.
He mutters something under his breath as he presses the little bell on the desk, but no one shows up.
I’m about to head toward the stairs, minding my own business—but I stop.
He’s clearly frustrated, and something in me pauses before my foot even hits the next step.
“You good?” I ask.
The guy jumps a little, startled. “Oh—uh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He pushes his glasses up. “I’m Glen. Room ten. My bathroom’s making this weird noise every time I flush the toilet. Like a mechanical death rattle or something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. I rang the bell, but no one’s here.” He frowns. “I really need to use the bathroom, but it sounds like the walls might implode.”
I could just nod and keep walking. But I don’t. Margot isn’t here, and she’d hate for the guest to worry about something like this if she were.
“I can check it,” I say instead.
He eyes me. “You? No offense, but you don’t exactly scream ‘maintenance guy.’”
I give a half-smile. “None taken. I’m just a guest. But I’m decent with DIY. Grew up fixing stuff around the house. Kind of became a hobby.”
He tilts his head, studying me. Then shrugs. “Well, I guess it’s better than waiting around. Come with me.”
He leads me down the hall, still muttering. I follow, already rolling my sleeves up. Let’s see if I still remember how to quiet a noisy pipe.
Glen leads me into Room Ten. The second we step into the bathroom, he gestures dramatically toward the toilet, like it just personally insulted him.
“Listen to this.”
He flushes.
There it is—an awful, grating whine that builds to a high-pitched rattle before settling into a gurgling hiss. It sounds like the whole plumbing system is gasping its last breath.
I wince. “Yeah, I know exactly what that is.”
Glen turns to me like I’ve just handed him a miracle. “You do?”
“Yep. Your fill valve’s old and probably loose. It’s vibrating when the water tries to refill. Needs tightening—or maybe replacing altogether.”
He stares at me. “Seriously?”
“I’ll need a few tools.”
“Be my guest,” he says, clearly stunned that this stranger in a Henley and joggers knows what a fill valve is.
I head downstairs, passing through the hallway with easy steps. Waffles barks once from somewhere near the kitchen, but I don’t stop.
In the parlor, I run straight into Aunt Edie. She’s holding a bowl of something warm and cinnamon-scented, her gray curls tucked neatly under a scarf.
“Well, good morning, Mr. Reid,” she says, eyes twinkling like she knows something again.
“Morning. Do you have a toolbox I can borrow?”
She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t blink. Just gestures toward the hallway closet.
“Bottom shelf. Careful—it’s heavy.”
I grab it with a nod. “Thanks. I’ll bring it back.”
“You better. And don’t forget to come down for breakfast. We’re making pancakes.”
I smile. “I’ll be there.”
I head back upstairs, toolbox in hand, already thinking through what parts might need tightening and whether Glen’s toilet is going to be a quick fix or a full-blown headache.
But weirdly… I don’t mind either way. I’m just happy to be useful here.
It ends up being a quick fix. Two screws tightened, one minor adjustment to the fill valve, and the racket disappears like magic.
Glen flushes the toilet again and stands back, eyes wide. “It’s… quiet.”
“Silent as it should be.”
He laughs, actually laughs, and shakes his head. “You just saved me from losing my mind.”
I smile, wiping my hands on a towel he handed me earlier. “Glad to help.”
He stretches out a hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Cal.”
Recognition sparks in his eyes. “Ah. So you’re the one everyone’s been talking about. The mysterious new guest.”
I raise a brow and chuckle. “I know nothing about that.”
“I can imagine.” He grins, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m Glen Avery. I’m a travel writer. Novelist too, when I’m feeling brave enough to finish something.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He nods. “I came here hoping to get away. Wanted a safe, quiet place to write. So far, aside from the haunted-sounding toilet, it’s been perfect.”
I glance around the peaceful room—soft light, shelves stacked with books, a folded typewriter case near the armchair. It suits him.
“I’ve been here a week and have not seen you. You don’t come down for Kettle Hour?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “This is the most I’ve spoken to anyone in days. I time my exits so I don’t have to mingle. Not really a fan of crowds.”
“Understandable,” I say. “Though the tea’s decent. And the scones have magic, I swear it.”
He laughs again and offers another firm handshake. “Thanks again, Cal. Really.”
“No problem, Glen.”
I leave his room, toolbox in hand, and head back down the hall, a little lighter than before.
As I’m walking back toward the hallway closet with the toolbox in hand, I spot Sam and Aunt Edie out by the firepit.
They’re standing near the circle of Adirondack chairs, having an easy conversation, judging by their smiles.
Sam notices me first and lifts a hand in greeting.
I return the wave, then head to the closet to return the toolbox, wiping my palms on my jeans. When I step back outside, the morning light has settled soft and gold across the lawn.
I make my way toward them.
“What’d you use the toolbox for?” Sam calls out as I approach.
“Room ten,” I say. “Glen’s toilet was making a weird noise. Fill valve issue. Quick fix.”
“Oh, why don’t anyone call me? I could have fixed it.”
I shrug. “DIYs are kind of my thing.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That so? What’d you do to fix it?”
“Adjusted the float arm, tightened a couple of screws. It was overfilling the tank.”
Sam nods in approval. “Classic. You’ve got a good eye. Might be time I recruit you for the weekend chores.”
Before I can reply, Aunt Edie groans like we’ve personally offended her. “All right, enough with the plumbing jargon! You two sound like a pair of grumpy mechanics in a garage.”
She lowers herself into a chair with a theatrical sigh and gestures at the other seats. “Sit, sit. Talk about something that doesn’t involve float arms and water pressure.”
We both laugh and settle in just as Ana appears from the side path carrying two trays, one for each of them.
She sets them down—golden pancakes, edges crisp and center soft, with a glossy square of butter melting slowly on top.
Crispy bacon sits beside scrambled eggs, and a ramekin of rich maple syrup waits nearby.
There’s a bowl of fresh fruit—strawberries, blueberries, melon—and a warm biscuit nestled on the side.
“I’ll get yours next, Mr. Reid,” she says to me before vanishing inside.
Moments later, she’s back with my breakfast and hands it over with a smile.
I look down—and stop.
“Wow,” I murmur, taking the tray. “Did someone tell the kitchen I haven’t eaten like this in years?”
Ana grins. “We don’t let anyone go hungry at Key & Kettle.”
She walks away, and I sit back in my chair, the plate warm against my hands.
Sam glances over and grins. “Don’t worry—it tastes even better than it looks.”
We eat in companionable silence for a while. The food is, no surprise, incredible, as always.
I didn’t realize how much I missed a real breakfast—one made by hands that care, not some personal chef back in L.A. who’s just following macros and a contract.
Sam leans back in his chair, coffee mug in hand. “Cal, how long are you staying in Everfield?”
“I booked a three-week stay. I needed a break,” I say, cutting into the pancakes. “Haven’t taken time off in years.”
He hums at that, a quiet, knowing sound. But he doesn’t pry. Just takes a sip of his coffee, then says, “Yeah. Most people who end up here are running from something or toward something. Or both.”
I glance at him. There’s no judgment in his voice, just a calm steadiness I didn’t realize I’d been craving.
“You live on the property?” I ask, steering the conversation off me.
“Mm-hmm. Orchard house, just past the back garden.” He points in the direction of his house. “I stay there with my wife, Jo.”
“I’ve met Jo once,” I answer. “She’s really bubbly and funny.”
“Yeah, Jo and I are both bubbly. Makes me wonder where Margot got her strictness from,” he jokes.
“Oh, she’s your daughter?” I gasp.
He laughs heartily. “Yes. Jo is Edie’s older sister.”
I glance down at my plate, suddenly aware that my heart’s thudding a little too loud in my chest.
Margot is his daughter.
I’ve seen Sam around here a few times, and we always stop for a chat, but never did it occur to me that Margot is his daughter.
I’m not sure Margot is avoiding me, but it does look like it.
After the night we had tea together, it’s been crickets.
Whenever we run into each other—which is not often—she’s all smiles and professionalism.
But there’s something brewing. I can feel it.
“Edie used to run the place, I’m sure you know that,” Sam said, stacking his empty plates. “My daughter, Margot, just took over. We all want Edie to rest as much as she can.”
Aunt Edie scoffs. “It’s always nice to know when to take a break. Most people wait until their bodies or lives give out first.”
“You say that like you’re actually taking a break,” Sam argues. “Let’s just say Edie’s idea of retirement is showing up every morning and pretending she’s not working. Margot is constantly upset about this.”
As if summoned by the mention of her name, the screen door creaks open. Margot walks out with a small tray and a clean kettle balanced carefully. The scent of cinnamon and cloves trails behind her.
She glances at the group and sets the tray on a side table.
“Hello, Mr. Reid,” she says. “Didn’t know you were out here.”
I believe her. Something tells me if she knew, she would have sent Ana to bring the tea instead of coming herself.
“Hi, Margot,” I smile. “You should sit. Have a cup with us.”
Margot doesn’t even pause. “I don’t have time.”
“You always say that,” Aunt Edie mutters, looking up at her.
Margot slides her a glare before hurrying back into the house, the screen door creaking shut behind her. I watch it swing for a second longer than I should.
Aunt Edie nudges Sam with her elbow. “I know that look.”
Sam frowns. “What look?” He glances between me and Aunt Edie.
“Don’t worry,” Aunt Edie smiles, staring into the distance. “The boy knows exactly what I’m talking about.”
Do I?