54. Chapter 54
Evie
Sunday arrives more normally than I want it to, and I throw myself into work because that’s what I do when things hurt.
Guest rooms get stripped, grout gets attacked with a toothbrush, and the linen closet is reorganized by color, then by size, then back to color again because the first way was wrong.
By the time my phone buzzes, I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen baseboards.
I ignore it.
It vibrates again. And again.
I grab it off the counter hard enough that it nearly slips through my fingers.
Daisy: can we talk?
Daisy: nvm, i know you’ll say no. im on my way to you
Daisy: already driving so don’t argue
I set the phone down and keep scrubbing.
She arrives five minutes later. I hear her shoes on the tile, the soft thud of her bag hitting the counter.
“Evie.”
I don’t glance up. “I’m working.”
“I can see that.” Her voice is careful. “Can you stop for a minute?”
“Not really.”
She crouches beside me, smelling faintly of the floral perfume Mom bought her for her birthday. “What happened last night after you left?”
My hand stills on the baseboard. “It’s complicated.”
“Not this again,” she groans.
“It’s all I have.”
“Mom and I thought you were going to fight for him. That he’d be back here by now.” She glances around. “But he’s not. And you’re in your weird deep cleaning mood.”
I sit back on my heels and look at her. “It wasn’t a breakup.”
“Then what was it?”
“It was more complicated than that. I tried to stop him from leaving, and it didn’t work. He’s gone.”
“Evie, I’m sorry.”
“I need time to process it.” I sound flatter than I mean to. “I promise I’ll tell you everything when I’m ready. Just not today.”
She doesn’t push. Instead, she stands, rolls up her sleeves, and starts pulling cleaning supplies from under the sink. “Where do you want me?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” She’s already filling a bucket with water. “So where should I start?”
I point toward the fridge, and she goes without another word.
We work in silence for the rest of the afternoon.
She folds the laundry wrong, creasing the fitted sheets into lumpy squares instead of proper rectangles.
She knocks over the bleach in the Honeysuckle Room, and I watch it spread across the hardwood before grabbing towels to soak it up.
Neither of us argues nor snaps. She helps me clean it, and when we’re done, she makes me tea that doesn’t have enough sugar and sits with me on the porch until the sun drops.
“Thank you,” I say as she’s leaving.
She hugs me. “Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”
On Monday, I burn three batches of cinnamon rolls, turning them into charcoal briquettes that set off the smoke detector and leave a smell in the kitchen that two open windows and a fan can’t chase out.
They were Milo’s favorites. I wasn’t trying to make them for him or think about the way he’d devour two before they’d cooled, licking icing off his fingers and asking if it was normal for humans to want to eat an entire pan by themselves.
Except I was thinking about exactly that.
I stare at the blackened tray, and my throat constricts. Marmalade appears in the doorway, surveys the disaster, and leaves.
I throw the whole thing in the trash and start over.
The fourth batch turns out fine. Perfect, even.
Golden brown, icing glossy and thick. They taste like nothing.
I eat one anyway, standing at the counter, forcing myself to chew and swallow.
I seal up the leftovers and store them in the pantry, out of my sight.
The rest of the day passes in a series of minor tasks.
I change lightbulbs, reorganize the cleaning supplies, answer emails from potential guests, and update the website booking calendar, moving from one task to another without really thinking about any of them.
Every so often, an empty doorway or familiar corner makes me expect Milo to be there. But he isn’t.
Tuesday morning Caroline appears on my porch holding an envelope.
“Before you say anything—”
“I’m not accepting money,” I cut her off.
“How do you know that’s what it is? I haven’t even offered yet or made my speech.”
“You’re holding an envelope and looking at me like I’m a wounded bird. This isn’t the first time you’ve tried this.”
She sighs. “Well, Martin mentioned your plumbing situation situation to Rebecca.”
Of course he did. In Brindlewood, telling Rebecca something is the same as taking out an ad in the local paper. Actually, it’s faster.
“She told half the town by lunch,” Caroline continues. “So we took up a collection.”
“No.”
“Evie.”
“I appreciate it. I really do. But I can handle my own repairs.” I cross my arms. “I don’t need charity.”
“It’s not charity. It’s a town taking care of one of its own. You’ve shown up for every bake sale, fundraiser, and crisis that’s hit this place. You really think we’re going to let you drown over a repair bill?”
My throat tightens while I fixate on the envelope like it might explode.
“Take the money, Evie. Let us help you.”
Every instinct I’ve spent years building screams at me to refuse, thank her politely, close the door, and handle it myself. Instead, I reach for the envelope.
Caroline’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
She laughs, pulling me into a hug, while I try very hard not to cry into her shoulder.
“Thank you,” I croak out.
“You’re welcome.” She squeezes once before pulling back. “And for what it’s worth, your mom told everyone to leave the Milo situation alone. So if no one’s been asking, that’s why. Not because we aren’t curious or don’t care.”
After she leaves, I settle on the porch steps and open the envelope. Inside is sixty-four hundred dollars in cash and checks, along with a note in Rebecca’s looping handwriting.
Yes, I’m nosy. But occasionally that means I know who to bother, how much to ask for, and which people are terrible at saying no. Consider this one of the rare occasions Brindlewood benefits from my complete lack of boundaries.
I sit there until Marmalade comes outside to witness my breakdown. Then I get up, go inside, and start baking.
By midnight, the kitchen counter is covered in chocolate chip cookies, lemon bars, cinnamon rolls, sourdough loaves, blueberry muffins, and banana bread.
Everyone who contributed gets something.
I’ll spend tomorrow delivering them, and it still won’t be enough to repay what they’ve given me, but it’s what I have.
The Foxglove has always been part of Brindlewood’s ecosystem.
Caroline sends customers my way when tourists ask about accommodations.
I buy produce from the farms she stocks.
Maddie recommends the inn to out-of-town bar patrons.
I bake for her events. The cycle runs quietly beneath everything, small businesses holding each other up because that’s how you survive.
I just never noticed how much of that care came back to me until recently.
On Wednesday, Maddie and Daisy finally succeed in dragging me to The Rusty Nail. I agreed to one drink as a compromise. That was four drinks ago, and I’ve lost track of what I’m even drinking anymore.
“So where did he actually go?” Maddie reclines in her chair, eyes sharp despite the beer in front of her.
“He went home.”
“And where’s that?”
I drain what’s left in my glass. My better judgment disappeared somewhere around drink two.
“Hell.”
Daisy chokes on her cocktail. “What?”
“Hell. With demons, eternal torment, and a bureaucratic nightmare that makes the DMV look efficient.” Alcohol and exhaustion have apparently loosened whatever filter should’ve stopped me from saying it so casually.
“Milo was a demon. Marmalade somehow summoned him with a novelty Ouija board guests had left as a gift. He got dragged back to Hell on Saturday night by what I can only assume was their version of HR enforcement.”
Maddie stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“Explain it again,” she says slowly. “Because I’m pretty sure I hallucinated that entire part.”
“I’m not explaining it again. You heard me the first time.”
“Is she having a breakdown?” She looks at Daisy, who shrugs with glazed-over eyes.
“I’m serious.” I slur the last word just enough to undermine my case.
“Sure you are. What’s next? Bigfoot’s real, and he’s been filing your taxes?”
“Maddie.”
“Evie, come on. Demons aren’t real.”
“They are.”
Daisy leans forward. Her eyes are bright with fascination instead of concern, which is so her it makes me smile. “What did his real form look like? Could he do magic? Did he have horns? A tail? Could he turn into smoke?”
“Daisy, focus.” Maddie snaps her fingers. “Your sister just said she was dating a demon.”
“I know! Isn’t that romantic?”
“Romantic? They’re evil. That’s literally their entire purpose.”
“Milo wasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I lived with him for a month.” My voice cracks despite every effort to keep it steady.
“He was kind and curious, and he cared about things that didn’t benefit him at all.
He got excited about grocery shopping, asked permission before touching anything in my house, and looked at me as if I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever encountered.
Not once did he make me feel like I was too much or not enough.
He saw me and decided I was worth risking everything Hell could do to him. ”
For once, neither of them has a comeback. The jukebox feels too loud.
“And now he’s gone,” I finish. “I can’t get him back because there’s no customer service line for demonic retrieval.”
Maddie exhales. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
Daisy reaches across and grabs my hand. “Tell us everything.”
So I do.
It all pours out: the summoning, the bargain I refused to make, the way he stayed to help when he didn’t have to, how he learned to fold laundry and cook and live like a human because he wanted to, not because he had to. Then the festival, Krell, and the soulmate revelation.
Daisy’s eyes are bright, soaking in every word, while Maddie keeps throwing questions at me.
“But he was here for your soul, right? That’s what demons do?”
“Yes.”
“And he lived with you.”
“He couldn’t go back to Hell without a bargain. I summoned him, so he was stuck.”
“And you let him stay?”
“It was a moment of poor judgment. But it felt right.” I glance down at my empty glass.
Maddie leans back. “So you’re telling me you fell in love with a demon that was sent to take your soul.”
“He didn’t take it. He never even tried.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is! He could’ve, but he didn’t, because he cared about me more than he cared about himself.”
She studies me, then reaches for her beer and takes a drink. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I don’t know if I believe all of it. But I believe that you believe it.” She sets the bottle down.
We stay until Rick kicks us out. By the time we leave, I’ve cried twice and laughed once, and talking about Milo has made missing him worse instead of better.
On Friday afternoon my email pings while I’m updating the booking calendar.
Subject: Feature Opportunity–The Hidden Getaway Magazine
I stare at the subject line before opening it.
Dear Ms. Feywin,
We are thrilled to extend an invitation to The Foxglove Inn for our upcoming winter issue of The Hidden Getaway. Your property has been selected as one of New England’s most charming independent stays, and we would love to schedule a photographer and interview at your earliest convenience.
Please let us know your availability within the next few weeks.
I read it three times before checking the sender and confirming the email domain is legitimate. That only makes it more confusing, because Krell’s version of the feature disappeared with him. As far as everyone else was concerned, it had never happened.
So why am I getting this email now?
I grab my phone and call the magazine’s main office. A receptionist answers on the third ring.
“Hi, I just received an email about a feature opportunity? For the Foxglove Inn?”
“Oh, yes! We’re so excited to work with you. Let me transfer you to our editorial team.”
I’m put on hold while smooth jazz plays through the speaker.
A woman picks up. “Ms. Feywin? This is Miranda from editorial. We’ve been trying to reach you for a few weeks now.”
“You have?”
“Yes, we sent an initial inquiry in August but never heard back. We assumed you weren’t interested, but your property kept coming up in our research, so we thought we’d try one more time.”
“Can I ask who submitted the nomination?”
“Let me check.” Papers rustle. “Looks like it came through our standard submission process. Properties are nominated by readers and travel bloggers, and then our editorial team selects which ones to feature.”
“And you’re sure this is real?”
She laughs. “Very sure. We’ve already blocked out space in the issue. We just need to schedule the shoot and interview.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course. Take your time. Be sure to let us know within the next week or so.”
I hang up and stare at the email.
A month ago, this would’ve been everything: validation, recognition, proof that the Foxglove mattered beyond Brindlewood. But now I’m not sure I care.
I leave the email unanswered and go back to work.
That night Caroline texts me.
Caroline: Party Sunday at the Foxglove. 4 pm. Town’s celebrating your award. Daisy said you agreed.
Me: What award?
Caroline: County Independent Stay of the Year. I told Milo to give you the note. You were nominated, and you won!
I sit up straight on the couch and search my cottage from top to bottom. I’m about to give up when I spot something white under the bed. I crouch down and pull it out. It’s an envelope, lightly crumpled, with teeth marks in one corner. Marmalade’s work, obviously.
Inside are the award nomination, the town’s application, and a note in Milo’s handwriting.
You deserve good things. This is the proof.
—Milo
I turn the paper over, half expecting something else on the back, but there’s nothing. Disappointment sinks heavily through me, because some part of me had still been hoping he’d left more behind. I sit on the floor with the note in my lap until my hands stop shaking.
Then I tuck it carefully into the drawer of my nightstand, beside the grocery list he wrote three weeks ago in handwriting so terrible it took me ten minutes to decipher butter.
Next to it sits the small, smooth stone he found in the garden and set on the kitchen windowsill because he thought it looked like a heart.
I lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, wondering what he’s doing now.
If he’s miserable. If he misses me. If he can still sense me the way he said he could, that pull between soulmates that transcends distance and realms. I try so hard to feel him back, to find that connection and follow it to wherever he is.
But no matter how hard I reach, all I can feel is the ache of his absence.