“Or stupid,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
She laughs—genuine, not mocking. “Sometimes they’re the same thing. Here we are.”
She opens the door to a room that is the polar opposite of my sterile LA apartment. A patchwork quilt covers a four-poster bed. Watercolor paintings of mountain landscapes hang on walls painted a soft, calming blue. A window seat overlooks the garden, complete with mismatched cushions that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.
“This is...” I search for words that won’t sound condescending.In LA, I’d call this “rustic chic” or “authentically curated.” Here, I think it’s just... real. “Reallylovely.”
“The bathroom’s down the hall—you’ll share with the Rose Room, but it’s empty for now. Breakfast is seven to nine. Wi-Fi password’s on the desk, though it’s about as reliable as the weather forecast. Here’s your key.” She hands me an actual metal key attached to a wooden keychain. “I lock up around ten, but the side door has a keypad if you’re out late.”
“Thank you,” I say, setting my overnight bag on the bed. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. Still figuring out... everything.”
“I’ve got a monthly rate,” she says, watching me closely. “Significantly discounted. Might be worth considering while you sort out your place.”
It’s practical help, not pity. That small distinction nearly undoes me.
“That would be amazing,” I say. “I saw the house yesterday and it’s... it needs more work than I realized.”
“Owen Carver’s handling the renovation, I heard?” Marge straightens a doily on the bedside table that was already perfectly centered.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
Her lips twitch. “Honey,everyoneknows everyone in Maple Glen. I’ve known Owen since he was stealing cookies off my cooling rack. Good man. Bit rough around the edges—but aren’t we all?”
I think of Owen’s sharp gaze. The way he looked at the house like it had personally offended him. “He seemed... intense.”
“The Carvers areallintense. It’s part of their charm.” She moves to the door. “Oh—before I forget—Walt down at the hardware store asked me to tell you to stop by. Said he might have some salvage materials for your place.”
“Walt?”
“Henderson. Maple Hardware. Been there since dinosaurs roamed, if you ask him. He’s a character, but heknows his stuff.” She gives me a warm smile. “Come down when you’re ready. I’ll introduce you to proper tea. None of that teabag nonsense.”
After she leaves, I sink onto the bed, which is somehow both softer and more supportive than the designer mattress I left behind. The room feels lived-in. Intentional. Personal in a way my perfectly curated LA apartment never did.
Ishouldcall my dad. He’s left three increasingly concerned voicemails since I texted him about my “investment property.” As the more practical of my parents, he’s probably having a quiet coronary thinking about his daughter blowing her life savings on a whim.
With a sigh, I dial his number.
“Penelope.” He answers on the first ring, using my full name.Never a good sign.“Please tell me this house situation is some kind of elaborate joke.”
“Hi, Dad. Nice to hear from you, too.”
“I’m serious, Penny. You spent yourentire savingson a property you’d never seen? In a town you’d never been to? What were you thinking?”
It’s a fair question. One I’ve been asking myself daily. Hourly.
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “It was impulsive and stupid and I’ve regretted it approximately every thirty seconds since.”
A long sigh. “Well. At least you recognize that. What’s your exit strategy?”
“I talked to a real estate agent this morning. She said I’d lose most of what I paid if I sold now.”
“And the renovation?”
I close my eyes, hearing Owen’s voice in my head:Roof’s a total loss. Foundation’s shot.
“Significant,” I say. “But the auction included a renovation package with labor at cost, so that helps.”
“Is there a contract? Have you read it?”
