Leave it to my dad to ask the one question I’ve been pointedly avoiding.
“Not... in detail.”
“Penny.” His tone slides from disappointed todeeply parental.“You need to understand exactly what you’ve committed to. These things have clauses. Penalties.”
“Iknow, Dad. I’ll read it tonight.” I pick at a loose thread on the quilt. “How’s Diane?”
He allows the subject change, updating me on my stepmother’s latest garden club win and my half-brother’s college apps. We slide into neutral ground—weather, my sister’s new job, the neighbor’s terrible dog—until, inevitably, we circle back.
“Just... be careful, Penny. I know you have a habit of jumping in and then?—”
“Moving on when it gets hard?” I finish for him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
But it is. And we both know it.
I’ve spent my life starting things I don’t finish. Places I don’t stay. Relationships I abandon the second they require more than I feel like giving. It’s the reason I was great at PR—I could become whatever the moment needed, then shed the version of me that no longer worked.
“I should go,” I say. “Need to stop by the hardware store before it closes.”
After we hang up, I dig through my bag for the folder from the auction. The renovation contract is there, thick with legal language I absolutely didnotread during the champagne haze of bidding night.
I make myself read it now.
The “labor at cost” part is legit—but materials are billed at market rate. There’s a six-month timeline. If Carver & Sons finishes early, they get a completion bonus. There’s also a clause about my obligations: I’m required to stay engaged, make timely decisions, and pay on schedule.
And if I abandon the project? I still owe for all completed work—plus acancellation fee.
In other words: I’m on the hook. Whether I see it through or not.
I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. Somehow, the woman who has built her entire adult life around avoiding commitment has just legally and financially committed herself to a decaying house in a town full of strangers.
My phone buzzes with a text from Abby.
How’s small-town life? Any eligible lumberjacks yet?
I type back:
Town has nicknamed my house “The Sequin Shack” and expects me to fail by fall. Contractor thinks I’m a joke. I’m financially trapped in renovation hell. But the pie’s good.
She replies within seconds:
So... a normal Tuesday for you? Seriously though—you’ve got this. If anyone can turn a disaster into an Instagram-worthy comeback, it’s you. Remember the charity gala you saved after the venue flooded?
I smile despite myself. That night had been chaos—three inches of water, ruined decor, a client mid-breakdown. But I’d pivoted. Branded it ablue carpetevent. Made it about water conservation. Got more press than we ever would have otherwise.
Maybe I can do the same here. Maybe this isn’t the end of something—it’s the start.
With a flicker of something like determination, I change into clean clothes and head downstairs.
If I’m stuck in Maple Glen for now, I might as well meet the locals.
Starting with Walt at the hardware store.
Maple Hardware lookslike it was plucked from a Norman Rockwell painting—faded red awning, bell that jingles when you open the door, and narrow aisles packed floor to ceiling with everything from hammers to fishing tackle. The place smells like metal, sawdust, and something vaguely chemical.
A man who can only be Walt stands behind the counter—white-haired and wiry, with glasses perched low on his nose and suspenders holding up pants that haven’t seen a tailor this century. He looks up as I enter, eyes narrowing with recognition.
