When I made my way back, the cottage sat quiet, wrapped in the sleepy stillness of a Wednesday afternoon. Before long, someone would purchase the land—the cottage along with it—and I would start over.
I sat on the porch steps, folder unopened beside me, and stared out at the blossoming pumpkin patch. By now it was overflowing with vines, early-stage pumpkins growing larger every day.
This was where it all started. Where Stan leaped with blind faith and believed I could make something of this place. On our meandering walks, I had listened while Stan talked. I had learned the rhythm of bees and seasons. I had imagined a fall festival and cider tastings and starry movie nights with kids curled up in lawn chairs and parents holding paper cups of mulled wine.
This was supposed to be ours.Mine.
I hated the idea of someone else profiting off our dreams. I’d poured my heart and soul into the Star Harbor Farm social media pages and worked to create an online community that was unique and exciting. Sharing every step of my journey had been cathartic, and I neverimagined that someone could take those dreams for themselves.
I wiped at my cheek before the tear had a chance to fall.
Back inside, I paced. I made tea but couldn’t drink it. I needed something to take my mind off the inevitable, aching loss of Star Harbor Farm.
I needed a distraction from the utter ache of hopelessness.
From my dresser drawer, I dragged out the letter I had found tucked inside the old trunk. The faded ink and broken promises were folded neatly between the yellowing pages of her letter.
Meet me at the lighthouse before it’s too late.
He is watching.
The words were cryptic, romantic. Slightly terrifying.
I wasn’t sure which part I believed more.
That night I had spent the evening combing through the trunk again, desperate for more clues. The woman had clearly been planning to run, and I was more convinced than ever that she was the woman they’d found on the beach all those years ago—was she the nameless ghost whispered about in diner booths and porch swings? Was this the Lady of the Dunes?
But what if her story wasn’t the soft-edged tragedy the locals spun it into?
What if it really was something darker?
Something that whispered warnings across time?
I shivered and rubbed at my arms. The cottage felt colder than it should have.
I looked through the window toward the Drifted Spirit. As always, it was a quiet calm of soft lighting and welcoming windows. It was ethereal and dreamy. The thought of running a place like the Drifted Spirit, with itsstream of new faces and fresh stories, seemed like a dream come true. Every day would be spent daydreaming, curating the perfect Star Harbor experience for each new guest.
But Cal was proof that not everyone saw things in the same romantic, gold-filtered light. Sometimes that same dream was like wearing someone else’s too-small shoes.
Cal hadn’t been around all day, and I imagined he was giving me some space after my complete meltdown. We had texted a few short things, like boring updates and halfhearted questions about Levi.
I got the sticky feeling that Cal was somewhere inside himself—a place I didn’t have a map for. I wasn’t sure whether having space to think made everything easier or infinitely harder.
I missed him, and I hated that I missed him when I was supposed to be figuring out how to save the farm, how to save myself.
Because wasn’t that the whole point?
This was supposed to be the version of me who didn’t quit. Who didn’t run at the first sign of discomfort. Who didn’t shrug and float and tell herself the universe would figure it out eventually.
That girl wasn’t here.
Not yet.
But damn it if she wasn’t trying like hell to show up. If Cal—the man with the most to lose from my winning—didn’t think I should give up, then how could I? So much had changed between us. It was like we were standing on opposing sides of a canyon, tied to opposite ends of the same rope. Neither of us wanted to intentionally harm the other, but we couldn’t manage to drop the rope either.
I didn’t have all the answers, but if I could ensure thefarm was in safe hands, Cal and I could figure the rest out later, together.
How could I live with myself if I didn’t find a way to make this work?
