He studies me. “Should I have asked before—about the name?”
“No.” My voice comes out too fast, too sure. “It’s perfect. It feels right.”
His face softens. “Good. It suits the place. And the owner.”
Me. Winslow. Not a disguise or a nickname, but a name that feels like mine.
When we pullinto the driveway, it’s full. Walt’s truck is out front. Marge is on the porch, hanging curtains like she’s prepping for an HGTV close-up. Maggie Carver’s directing two guys from The Griddle, who are unloading enough plants to landscape a small park.
“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping out of the truck.
“Beautification committee,” Marge calls. “TV crew’s coming, and Maple Glen doesn’t half-do a reveal.”
“We would’ve asked,” Walt says, measuring the front steps, “but then we wouldn’t get to see the look on your face.”
“Priceless,” Maggie adds, snapping a photo. “For the historical society, of course.”
I turn to Owen. He looks remarkably unsurprised.
“You knew,” I say.
“I was told there’d be... assistance,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging. “Didn’t realize the scale.”
“Small towns,” Walt says. “No secrets.”
Inside, it’s even more chaotic. Mrs. Peterson’s arranging her pottery in the window seat like a museum curator. Doris fromThe Griddle is turning my kitchen into a catered buffet. Half the town is here, and I know maybe ten of them by name.
“The welcome wagon doesn’t wait for an invitation,” Marge says, handing me a glass of surprisingly good wine. “Might as well let it roll in.”
“It’s... a lot,” I say, watching as people I barely know finish the work we started. But it’s more than decoration. It’s ownership. It’s belonging.
“That’s how we do things here,” Marge replies. “Overwhelming, yes. But also exactly what you didn’t know you needed.”
The afternoon becomes a blur—hardware being installed, throw blankets appearing out of nowhere, Mrs. Peterson explaining the meaning behind her planters (apparently, each one represents part of the local ecosystem).
Owen moves through it all easily—answering questions, fixing hinges, offering quiet instructions. He’s different here. Comfortable. Known.
“He’s changed since you showed up,” Maggie says, appearing beside me. “Used to be all work, no life. Now he smiles.”
“Once,” I say. “Let’s not exaggerate.”
“You turned his plans upside down.”
“I call it strategic disruption,” I reply. “It tests durability.”
Maggie laughs, the sound remarkably like her brother’s rare chuckle. “Whatever you want to call it, it’s working. I haven’t seen him this invested in anything—or anyone—since before Dad’s stroke.”
Before I can respond, Walt taps a spoon against his wine glass, calling for attention with the confidence of someone who’s made plenty of impromptu speeches at community events.
“Now that our guest of honor has officially passed final inspection,” he begins, holding up a copy of the permit paperwork I don’t recall handing over, “I think it’s time we settle accounts.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the crowd.Owen steps beside me, his expression neutral, but there’s a flicker of knowing in his eyes.
“Accounts?” I ask quietly.
“The betting pool,” he murmurs. “Apparently there’s a winner.”
“As most of you know,” Walt continues, “we’ve had a little community wager going around our newest resident and her charming fixer-upper. At first, the pool was about how long she’d last before packing up and heading back to the city.”
