But another voice, quieter but more insistent, whispers that this could be exactly what I need. Not just a place to stay but a place to hide.
To heal.
To finally write something honest instead of the packaged, crowd-pleasing narratives I’ve been producing.
My thumb brushes over the Book Now button, and a jolt of anticipation courses through me, almost as if the decision carries its own electricity. There’s something momentous about this decision, as if thecottage is a doorway to a time I can’t quite see from where I’m standing.
I tap the button before I can talk myself out of it. I still have a bus ticket for tomorrow if the place is a total dump. The form asks for my details—name, email, and payment information. I fill it all in, my fingers warming slightly with the activity. There’s a space for “Special Requests.” I hesitate before typing: “Arriving today. Sooner rather than later, if possible.”
After hitting submit, a confirmation screen appears almost immediately: “Welcome to Rosewood Cottage, Amelia. Your sanctuary awaits. Check-in after 2 p.m. Directions and key instructions are attached.”
It’s already 2:42 pm, according to my phone.
Okay.
I am a woman with a plan now. I’ll secure an Uber, navigate my way to that quaint little cottage, and soothe this bruised ego with a generous glass (or two) of Chardonnay.
I’ve been twiddlingmy thumbs for fifteen minutes as this stupid, misinformed Uber app leaves me hanging in uncertainty.
“Hang tight!” it chirpily informs me for the fourth time. “We’re finding your driver.”
A spry older man sporting snow-white hair and agrin so contagious he could be Dick Van Dyke’s Scottish cousin strolls by.
“All well there, lass?” he inquires.
“Absolutely,” I lie through gritted teeth, pasting on a smile. “Just waiting for my Uber.”
His laughter is hearty and genuine as he responds, “No Ubers in Inverness, lass.”
Of course not. Brady tricked me, a highland cow tried to eat me, and now even technology has betrayed me.
So, after Mr. Van Dyke directs me towards the shortest route to Rosewood Lane, I trudge along in my putrid yellow poncho, dragging my soggy bundle of clothes towards the last cottage on the cove.
My dress is plastered to my legs with a combination of rain and mud that’s going to be hell to peel off later. But for the first time since discovering Brady’s deception, I feel a flutter of something that might be excitement.
Or terror. They feel remarkably similar sometimes.
As I set off down the hill, my mind skips ahead to the cottage. Will it be as atmospheric in person as it appears in photos? Will the “few neighbors” promise hold, or will I discover that the owner lives uncomfortably close? Most importantly, will it have a roll-top bathtub where I can soak away the day’s disasters?
These practical questions shroud deeper ones thatI’m unprepared to delve into. What am I genuinely seeking in this secluded cottage? A getaway? Inspiration? A fresh start for my off-track life? And what happens if I don’t find it there?
One step at a time.
1. Find Rosewood Lane.
2. Get to that cottage without turning into Elsa.
Step Three is to figure out who on earth I am when not defined by my work or relationships, especially those that have crashed and burned. Between crafting tales about women discovering themselves and losing myself in Brady’s deceit, the genuine Amelia Sutherland has gone missing.
Maybe she’s tucked away in the corners of Rosewood Cottage, just waiting for me to find her. Or perhaps I’ll have to rebuild her from scratch, each muddy detail and battle scar a testament to my determination.
Either way, I’m all in. A shaky grin tugs at my lips as I mentally challenge the old cottage.
Alright, last cottage on the cove, let’s see what you’ve got.
Chapter Seven
Rosewood Cottage is even morebewitching than its pictures let on. It’s a charming stone sanctuary perched at the edge of the sparkling sea. Its windows wink at me in the fading afternoon light as if playfully saying, ‘Well, now. Took you long enough!’
