Another pause. “At auction?”
“Yes.”
“Honey.” That word carries less affection and moreoh, sweetie no.“They’ve been trying to unload that property for years. The auction house just slaps on ‘renovation packages’ and markets it to out-of-towners. You’re not the first.”
My stomach drops. “So what’s it actually worth?”
“Land alone? Maybe thirty thousand. With that structure? Less, since you’d need to pay for demolition.”
I close my eyes. I already know how this math ends—with me on the losing side of a very expensive mistake.
“What about the renovation package?” I ask, desperate. “Carver & Sons is supposed to?—”
“Owen Carver’s good people,” Barbara cuts in. “Best craftsman in three counties. But…”
She trails off, and I sit up straighter. “But what?”
“Nothing. Just... the Carvers have a history with projects. Good luck, Ms. Winslow. Call me if you decide to list. But I’d wait until you’ve done some work. Right now you’d take a bath.”
She hangs up before I can askwhat she meant about the Carvers,leaving me staring at my phone like it might offer a second, better ending.
Doris returns, sliding a plate in front of me—pie so massive it borders on spiritual intervention.
“You alright, hon?” she asks, topping off my mug without waiting for an answer.
“Just peachy.” I stab the pie with more force than necessary. “Apparently I made a very expensive mistake.”
She follows my gaze to the laptop screen, where photos of the house I now own are dwarfed by a Zillow estimate that practically plays a sad trombone.
“Ah,” she says, recognizing the emotional carnage. “You’re the one who bought the old Hendricks place. The Sequin—” She stops herself. “The one up on Pinecrest.”
“That’s me,” I sigh. “Apparently I’m this year’s cautionary tale.”
Instead of laughing or giving me thebless your heartlook I expect, Doris’s expression softens.
“Don’t let the busybodies get to you. This town runs on gossip and maple syrup, and we’ve got an excess of both.” She pats the pie plate. “On the house. Welcome to Maple Glen.”
It’s such a small kindness—but after days of panic, whiplash decisions, and rain-soaked regret, it nearly undoes me. I blink fast, refusing to cry over free pie in public.
“Thank you,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
Doris gives my hand a gentle squeeze and moves on to the next table.
I sit back in the booth, pie in front of me, coffee refilled, and the murmur of diner chatter all around.
Maybe, just maybe, Maple Glen isn’t entirely hostileterritory.
“You must be Penny!I’m Marge Sullivan—we spoke on the phone?”
The woman who greets me at Marge’s Bed & Breakfast is exactly what you’d expect from someone who names a business after herself—confident, warm, and wearing an apron that saysBake the World a Better Placewithout a hint of irony. She’s in her mid-fifties, with silver-streaked dark hair swept into a loose bun, laugh lines around her eyes, and an air of calm, capable kindness that makes me trust her instantly.
“Yes, hi,” I say, suddenly aware that I smell like diner coffee and desperation. “Thanks for having room for me.”
“Of course! We don’t get many visitors this time of year.” She ushers me into a Victorian house that looks like it was decorated by someone whogenuinelyloves doilies, not someone performing “authentic vintage” for Instagram. “I’ve put you in the Cascades Room—it’s our coziest.”
I follow her up a creaking staircase, past walls lined with black-and-white photos of Maple Glen through the decades. The place smells like cinnamon and furniture polish, and somehow that combination tells my frayed nervous system:you’re safe here.
“I heard you bought the Hendricks place,” Marge says as we reach the landing. “Brave of you.”
