Chapter 2
The bell above the door jingled, a sound so intrinsically tied to her childhood that it lodged in Elara's throat. She stood frozen in the entryway of The Inkwell, her leather portfolio bag feeling absurdly out of place. The silence inside was a living thing, thick with dust motes dancing in the weak grey light filtering through the window.
It was the smell that undid her first layer of professional resolve. Old paper and binding glue, yes, but underneath it, the faintest trace of Maggie's rosewater perfume and the beeswax polish she'd insisted on using. It was a scent that whispered of safe afternoons curled in the wingback chair, lost in stories while rain pattered against the glass. Elara's carefully constructed to-do list—Assess, Appraise, Liquidate, Return—flickered in her mind.
She forced herself to move, her heels clicking on the worn wooden floorboards. She trailed a finger along a shelf, leaving a track in the dust. This isn't a business, her architect's mind screamed, it's a museum of chaos. Her gaze swept over the teetering stacks, the shelves double-stuffed with paperbacks, the haphazard "Local History" section spilling onto a nearby table.
Her eyes landed on the small oak desk that served as the cash register station. A cup held an assortment of pens. Next to it lay a familiar, leather-bound notebook, its pages warped from use. Elara picked it up. Maggie's flowing script covered the page.
To-Do:
· – Order more Earl Grey (the good kind)
· – Talk to Bea about moving the poetry section? Too damp by the window?
· – Deadhead the roses out back.
· – Finish chapter 12 of Northanger Abbey for the book club. Mr. Tilney is a delight!
The mundane, unfinished list was a sucker punch to the chest. This wasn't the legacy of an asset; it was the interrupted life of her grandmother. A life of small, beautiful details that Elara's world of steel and deadlines had no room for. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the sudden, hot pressure behind them to recede.
The doorbell jangled violently, making her jump. A woman in a brilliant yellow raincoat bustled in, shaking a mist of water from her sleeves. She was somewhere in her seventies, with a cap of curly silver hair and eyes that missed nothing.
"Saw the rental car out front. Knew it had to be you," the woman announced, her voice warm and slightly breathless. She held up a brown paper bag spotted with grease. "Elara. Maggie's city granddaughter. I'm Bea. Brought you a cinnamon bun from The Salty Sage. You look like you could use fortifying."
Elara instinctively straightened her posture, slipping into her professional demeanor like armor. "Ms. Perkins. Thank you. My grandmother spoke very highly of you." She accepted the bag. The scent of sugar and cinnamon was overwhelmingly comforting.
"Oh, good lord, call me Bea. Everyone does. 'Ms. Perkins' was my mother-in-law, and she was a terror." Bea shucked off her raincoat, revealing a chunky knit sweater adorned with what looked like embroidered books. She hung the coat on a peg by the door as if she owned the place. "I've been keeping things from completely going to seed. Watering the plants, feeding Fitzgerald, running the dehumidifier once a week."
"Fitzgerald?" Elara asked, bewildered.
As if on cue, a massive, orange tabby cat uncurled itself from the depths of the wingback chair by the fireplace and stretched, fixing Elara with a look of profound disinterest before leaping down and weaving figure-eights around Bea's ankles.
"After the writer. Maggie thought he had a certain jazz-age disdain for authority," Bea explained, bending to scratch the cat behind the ears. "He's a good mouser, but his literary criticism is lacking." She straightened up and looked at Elara, her gaze softening. "I was so sorry to hear about Maggie. She was the best of us."
"Thank you," Elara said, the words feeling inadequate. "I… I intend to be as efficient as possible with the estate. I'm sure it's been a burden for you to look after the place."
Bea waved a hand dismissively. "No burden. It was a promise. Now, what's this 'efficient' business?"
"I'll be assessing the property and the business assets for sale. I need to get back to Boston as soon as possible." Elara heard the coldness in her own words and winced internally.
Bea's friendly face didn't fall, but it settled into something more neutral. "I see." She looked around the shop, her expression wistful. "Well. The 'assets,' as you call them, are mostly memories and stories. Hard to put a price on that." She moved behind the desk and opened a drawer. "Here's the spare set of keys. The one with the green ribbon is for the back door. The one with the frayed bit of leather is for the cottage. I'll leave you to your inventory."
She headed for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. "The roses out back are looking a bit wild. Maggie would have hated that." And with that, she was gone, the bell jingling cheerfully in her wake.
The silence felt heavier now, loaded with Bea's quiet disapproval. Elara set the cinnamon bun on the desk, her appetite gone. She needed air that didn't smell of memory.
She found the key with the frayed leather and unlocked the door that led to the small, walled garden at the back of the shop. It was a glorious mess. Overgrown lavender bushes spilled onto a flagstone path, and a climbing rose ran rampant over a trellis, its blooms battered by the rain but still releasing a sweet, desperate fragrance.
And that's when she saw him again.
The man from next door—Cassian—was in his own garden, separated from hers by a low, crumbling stone wall. He wasn't scowling from a distance this time. He was much closer, kneeling beside a raised flower bed, his hands plunged into the dark soil. He wore those same worn jeans and a dark t-shirt now, despite the chill, and the focused intensity on his face was entirely different from his earlier glare. He was utterly absorbed in his task, gently staking a tomato plant that had listing to the side.
For a moment, Elara just watched, surprised by the careful, capable way he moved. This was clearly his element.
Fitzgerald the cat chose that moment to streak past her legs, leap onto the stone wall with effortless grace, and promptly knock over a small, empty terracotta pot with a loud clatter.
Cassian's head snapped up. The moment of peaceful concentration shattered. His eyes, a startling shade of sea-grey, locked onto hers. His expression shut down instantly, the open concentration replaced by the familiar, guarded scowl.
"Your cat," he said. His voice was deeper than she'd expected, rough, like it wasn't used often.
"He's not my cat," Elara replied automatically, her own voice crisp. "He's the shop's cat."
Cassian raised a skeptical eyebrow as Fitzgerald rubbed against his arm, purring loudly. "He's a nuisance. He digs up my seedlings."
"I'll… ensure he's more considerate of your seedlings," Elara said, feeling foolish. She was an architect, not a cat diplomat.
He gave a short, dismissive grunt, wiping his earthy hands on his jeans. He stood up, and Elara was struck again by how tall he was. He looked at the overgrown garden behind her, then back at her, his gaze sweeping over her tailored trousers and silk blouse with clear skepticism.
"So. You're the one who's going to sell the place."
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
Before Elara could form a retort, he had already turned his back, disappearing into his cottage without another word, leaving her standing in the damp garden, feeling like an intruder in her own grandmother's yard