15. Margot #2
“Glen called,” I say softly, watching the way his fingers curve around the cup. “He was really grateful. Said you were helpful at the hospital. He’ll be back in the morning.”
Cal nods, brushing it off. “It’s nothing.”
I sip my tea, watching him over the rim of my cup. “Why did you take Glen to the hospital?”
Cal frowns slightly, like the question confuses him. “Why? What do you mean?”
I lower my cup and rest it on the table. “I mean… I was supposed to do that. You stepped in. Why?”
He chuckles, quiet and low, and lifts his cup again. “Nothing. I just wanted to. Maybe I needed the exercise.”
I shake my head, my voice softer now. “You always do that. Step in. It’s not just Glen. It’s everything else.”
He goes quiet. His fingers drum against the ceramic, then still. When he speaks, it’s almost a whisper.
“I just like to help you, Margot. Anything to relieve your stress.”
My breath catches. He looks at me then, really looks, and for a beat too long, neither of us moves.
Then he grins—playful, soft, familiar—and stands. “Come with me.”
I blink. “Where are we going?”
“Outside.” He picks up his teacup. “The sky’s beautiful tonight. I saw it from my window.”
I laugh under my breath but get up anyway, grabbing my tea. “You’re starting to sound like Aunt Edie.”
He leads me out the back, through the warm hush of the inn, into the open air. The night greets us like an old friend. He heads toward the herb garden, and I follow without question.
We sit on the bench, steam rising from our cups, shoulders barely brushing. The silence stretches wide and easy between us.
And for the first time all day, I feel myself begin to breathe again, which is ironic because this is where everything fell apart last night.
“You’re right,” I say softly, tilting my head back. “The sky’s actually beautiful.”
Cal points upward, dead serious. “That one’s Orion’s Elbow. And over there—that’s the Left Sock of Pegasus.”
I blink, trying to follow his finger. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you knew about skies and stars.”
He bursts out laughing. “I was messing with you. I don’t know anything. Those aren’t even real names.”
“Cal!” I slap his arm, playful and appalled. “I totally believed you!”
“But I get points for confidence, right?” he grins.
I shake my head, trying not to laugh, but I’m failing. His joy is so infectious, I feel it in my chest. Warm and steady.
“I’ve always loved astronomy,” he says after a pause. “I envy people who can just look up and know what they’re looking at. Like, they see stories in the sky. I think that’s… beautiful.”
“I think so, too.” I look up again at the vastness above, finishing the rest of my tea.
“And that’s one of the reasons I love it here so much,” he adds, setting his cup on the bench beside him.
“No pollution. You can actually see the stars. Be reminded there’s beauty around you.
” He glances at me briefly, then back up.
“In the city, you can’t. Too many lights.
Too many skyscrapers. The stars disappear. ”
He exhales slowly. “I’m supposed to return in three days, and I already dread it.”
He’s still looking at the sky, but I’m not. I’m staring at him, completely thrown.
Three days.
Three days?
It hits me hard—like the wind’s been knocked out of my chest. I suck in a breath and try not to react, but it’s too late. My mouth parts involuntarily, and I know—I know—it shows.
I’ve been so wrapped up in him, in his presence, his laughter, his steadiness, that I forgot.
I forgot he’s leaving.
Usually, I’m hyper-aware of a guest’s check-out date. I prepare. I plan. But with Cal… he’s slipped into my life so seamlessly, it felt like he belonged here.
It still feels like that.
And now I’m just sad. Deep-down, bone-deep sad.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently.
I glance over to find him watching me, and panic spikes in my chest. I hope it’s not written all over my face—that hollow ache sitting somewhere behind my ribs.
To cover up the mess of feelings bubbling under my skin, I reach for something lighter—something safer.
I smile and clear my throat. “Oh—I didn’t tell you. We got a donation.”
Cal looks over at me, interested. “A donation?”
“Yeah. It came in anonymously yesterday. A large sum. No name, just a message that said something about appreciating the work we’re doing at the inn. Said the Key & Kettle was lucky to have us.” I let out a soft laugh. “It felt… unreal. Like a fall miracle or something.”
His expression softens, and he says it so easily, like it costs him nothing, “You deserve miracles, Margot.”
The words land somewhere deep.
I blink.
For a second, neither of us speaks. The night feels impossibly quiet. The breeze shifts the leaves behind us. The stars stay exactly where they are.
And he’s looking directly at me.
“Thank you, Cal,” I say softly.
He tilts his head, eyes still on mine. “Aren’t you curious to know who sent the donation?”
I hesitate.
“I was. At first,” I admit. “I even tried to trace it, but… I didn’t get anywhere.”
The wind picks up slightly, rustling the rosemary near our bench. I exhale, watching the way the leaves tremble in the moonlight.
“But the more I thought about it,” I continue, “the more I felt like… maybe it’s for the best. It was such a huge sum. If I knew who sent it, I don’t think I’d be able to take the money from them.”
Cal blinks, surprised. “Why?”
“Because,” I shrug, “I’d feel like I owed them. Or like it wasn’t mine to use anymore.”
He nods slowly, turning his gaze back toward the sky. “That’s very… you.”
I smile a little, not sure what he means, but I don’t ask.
And for a moment, we just sit there. Quiet. The wind picks up again, a little stronger this time, and as I move to brush hair out of my face, I accidentally knock my empty teacup off the bench.
We both reach for it at the same time.
My fingers brush his.
I freeze.
So does he.
Our heads are close—too close—and for a breathless second, I can count his lashes, see the curve of his mouth, feel the warmth radiating off his skin. The air between us shifts, crackling with something unspoken, something we’ve both been skirting around.
Then, just as quickly, he breaks the moment. He picks up the cup and stands, stretching a little. “Let’s head back inside,” he says, voice a little too light.
I shake my head. “I think I’ll stay out a bit longer. Still want to look at the stars a little bit.”
He pauses, then nods. “Okay. Just don’t stay out too long. It gets chilly.”
“Goodnight, Cal.”
“Goodnight, Margot.”
I watch him walk back toward the inn, hands in his pockets, his silhouette soft under the garden lights.
And I wonder—for the first time in a real, aching way—what Key & Kettle will feel like when he’s no longer in it.