Chapter 2 #2
It looked exactly the way I remembered. Victorian houses lined the street, tall and narrow with peaked roofs and wide porches that wrapped around them like open arms. The paint had faded into soft coastal colors, fog gray, pale blue, sea-glass green, nothing shiny or new, everything gently worn and loved.
I caught flashes of wind chimes tapping somewhere, laundry moving on a line, white sheets snapping lazily in the breeze as we passed.
Nothing here felt rushed. Even the road refused to go straight, curving instead and bending toward the water I couldn’t see yet but somehow felt nearby—steady, patient, and waiting.
It was a picturesque town. Definitely inspiration quality.
Dust-guy slowed as we rolled into a gravel lot with a squat building that looked like it had been patched together over several decades. A faded sign read HUGH’S GARAGE, the letters sun-bleached and slightly crooked, like even they were tired.
He pulled in and cut the engine.
The second I opened the door, the smell hit me: oil, grease, metal, and something vaguely flammable. It was… aggressive. Also comforting, in a this-place-has-seen-things kind of way.
A guy emerged from the garage wiping his hands on a rag that had long ago given up on being clean.
He looked around forty, give or take a hard decade, with oil-stained overalls, permanently dirty hands, and a smile that revealed a few missing teeth.
Friendly, though. The kind of friendly that said he’d absolutely help you but also absolutely judge your car.
“Hugh,” said Dust-guy, already stepping forward. “Got a Jetta broken down. Overheated. Steam. Not drivable.”
Hugh nodded along, serious now. “Yeah? Those things’ll do that. Radiator probably shot.”
“Cool,” said Dust-guy. “She’s pulled over safe. Might need a tow.”
I cleared my throat loudly. “I can speak for myself.”
Both men stopped and turned to look at me. Surprise marred their features, like I’d suddenly spoken fluent squirrel.
“I know,” said Dust-guy carefully. “I was just…”
“Explaining my car,” I finished. “Which I own. And drove. And broke.”
Hugh glanced between us and then smiled, missing teeth and all. “You okay, miss?”
“I am great,” I said. “Other than being sweaty and dusty, I’m super duper.” I gave him a thumbs up.
Hugh chuckled. “You’re an odd one.”
Dust-guy’s mouth twitched, like he was trying very hard not to smile again. “She’s on Maple Drive,” he added anyway.
I shot him a look.
“Maple Drive,” Hugh repeated. “I’ll send a truck. What’s your number. I’ll call ya when it’s ready.”
“Thank you,” I said, giving him my phone number. Hugh wrote it down on a notepad stained yellow and brown with oil, his blunt fingers leaving faint smears as he went. Black crud was wedged under his nails, the kind that came from years of engines and never quite came out.
Hugh nodded at me this time. “You got it.”
I glanced at Dust-guy, expecting him to add something. “Anything else?”
“All yours.” He stepped back, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Good,” I said. “Because if you keep taking over, I’m going to start narrating out loud.”
That did it. Hugh laughed. Dust-guy did too.
Great. Now I was the town entertainment.
As I stood there, feeling slightly uncomfortable in my dust-covered-sweaty-smell self, my eyes rolled over Dust-guy. At how his jeans fit him so perfectly, hugging his thighs and his hips.
And then, slowly, my eyes drifted to his crotch. Why am I staring at his man berries and stick?
When I looked up, Dust-guy was staring right back at me, a knowing smile on his face.
Shit!
I slapped a hand over my eyes.
Ah! Why did I do that?
Now it looked like I’d absolutely done it on purpose.
Too late. Damage done. I was officially the crazy woman who stares at man-junk.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said quickly, my face hot and definitely broadcasting my shame. “I think I’ll walk to the inn from here.”
Dust-guy looked like he might argue. But instead, he just nodded once, calmly and annoyingly respectful.
“All right, New York,” he said. “It’s not far.”
Which told me nothing, but fine.
I hoisted my bag onto my shoulder with more confidence than I felt. The strap dug into my collarbone, the weight of it pulling me slightly sideways, but I powered through because pride is a terrible motivator, and I have a lot of it.
“I’ll just ask for directions,” I added, waving vaguely. “I know where it is. Ish.”
That was a lie. I had no idea where the hell I was going. I just knew the inn existed somewhere in this aggressively charming town.
I turned and walked away before he could offer to help or say something charming or look at me like that again. I doubled back to his SUV, yanked open the rear hatch, grabbed the envelope, and stuffed it in my bag before hauling my suitcase out from the back.
I snapped the handle up until the little wheels dropped into place with a clack of finality, then rolled it after me, the suitcase rattling along.
And yes, I was aware—deeply, vividly aware—that there was a very good chance Dust-guy was watching me walk away. Yup, totally staring at my ass.
I kept my pace steady, not a power strut but not a panic march. Just a woman walking through town with dignity. And sweat. So much sweat.
Ten minutes later, I was still walking.
The town unfolded around me in quiet, postcard-worthy pieces. Little shops had hand-painted signs out front. A bakery smelled like sugar and regret. A bookstore boasted a bell on the door, I absolutely planned to visit once I stopped smelling like a road accident.
People nodded and smiled as I passed, friendly but curious, like they were already clocking me as new. Of course they were.
I finally stopped near a small bench where an elderly man sat feeding something to the birds. He had a cap pulled low over his white hair and a face carved with years and amusement.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where the Hartwell Inn is?”
He looked up slowly, and then his mouth split into a grin. “Oh,” he said. “That one.”
I raised a brow. “Yes?”
He pointed down the road behind him. “Follow Main Road straight to the end. You can’t miss it.”
“Great,” I said, relieved. “Thank you.”
He chuckled—not a polite chuckle but a knowing one.
I frowned. “Why are you laughing?”
“Oh, you’ll see,” he said, still smiling. “Welcome to Maplewood Falls.”
Great. Nothing said, “You’ll be fine,” like a man chuckling at your future.
I continued walking, unease creeping up my spine with every step. The road narrowed, the houses thinning out as the air changed. I could hear the water now—waves, distant but constant.
A few minutes later, I reached the end of the street.
The land dropped away into a cliff, the ocean stretching out beyond it, wide and endless and breathtaking.
And there, perched right on the edge, was the inn.
It was big. Old. Proud.
And pink.
Not soft blush pink. Not tasteful rose.
Pink-pink.
I stopped dead, my bag slipping down my shoulder as I stared.
“What the fuck is this?”
The Hartwell Inn rose against the sky, all turrets and wraparound porches and unapologetic color, like it had decided decades ago that subtlety was for cowards.
The old man’s laughter echoed in my head. You can’t miss it.
No. No, you really couldn’t. Even with my eyes closed, that pink remained burned into my retinas.
My aunt had left me an inn on a cliff.
Hell was real.
And it was Pepto-Bismol pink.