The drive to Cavendish was a journey through a changing world. As Jessica's sleek, silver car hummed along the highway, the glass-and-steel canyons of Ottawa were replaced by the rolling tapestries of the Ontario countryside. The skyscrapers surrendered to silos, and the frantic neon of the city faded into the deep, unapologetic green of early summer.
Jessica gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles pale. Every mile felt like a layer of skin she was shedding—the expectations of her mother, the condescension of Marcus, and the relentless "connectivity" of her penthouse. She had purposely left her tablet in the trunk. She wanted silence. She wanted to prove that she could thrive in the quiet without a "signature dish" to her name.
But as she pulled onto the main drag of Cavendish, the silence started to feel... heavy.
The town was a portrait of a bygone era. Weathered brick buildings housed shops with hand-painted signs: Miller's Hardware, The Woolery, and her destination—Old Man Gower's General Store. There were no digital kiosks. There were no self-checkout lanes. The people on the sidewalks moved with a rhythmic, purposeful gait, nodding to one another with a familiarity that made Jessica feel like a neon sign in a library.
She parked her car, the engine's cooling fans whirring loudly in the stillness. Stepping out, the air hit her—thick with the scent of freshly cut hay, manure, and something sweet, like clover. It was "fresh," certainly, but it was also aggressive.
"Okay, Jess," she whispered to herself, adjusting her oversized designer sunglasses. "Step one: Provisions. Step two: The cottage. Step three: Peace."
The bell above the door of the General Store let out a sharp, brassy clang as she entered. The interior was a maze of wooden shelves reaching toward a tin ceiling. It smelled of coffee beans, cedar shavings, and old paper. Behind the counter stood a man who looked like he had been carved out of a hickory stump, wearing a flannel shirt buttoned to the chin despite the afternoon warmth.
Jessica approached the counter, her heels clicking sharply on the uneven floorboards. The man didn't look up immediately; he was meticulously marking prices on a box of canning jars with a pencil.
"Excuse me," Jessica said, her voice projecting a bit too loudly for the cramped space. "I'm looking for the 'Ready-to-Eat' section. Salads, pre-made wraps, maybe a cold-pressed juice?"
The man paused, his pencil hovering. He looked up, peering over the rim of his spectacles at Jessica's silk blouse and tailored trousers. "The what, now?"
"The prepared foods?" Jessica clarified, gesturing vaguely at the shelves. "You know, something I can just... heat up? Or eat on the go?"
The man let out a dry, raspy chuckle. "Miss, the 'prepared food' around here is a bag of flour and a dozen eggs. If you're looking for a salad, Mrs. Higgins has some lettuce in the bin over there, but you'll have to wash the dirt off it yourself."
Jessica blinked. "You don't have... sandwiches? A deli counter?"
"We have ham," the man said, pointing to a massive, salt-cured leg hanging from a hook near the back. "And we have bread. But the assembly is generally considered a private matter."
Jessica felt a flush of irritation rising in her chest. She turned toward the aisles, determined to find something that didn't require a culinary degree. She wandered past stacks of cast-iron skillets, rows of heavy-duty work boots, and jars of pickled everything. She finally spotted a small refrigerated unit in the corner.
Her heart sank. It contained milk in glass bottles, blocks of butter wrapped in wax paper, and a few containers of yogurt that looked suspiciously homemade. There wasn't a single plastic-wrapped, calorie-counted, microwave-safe meal in sight.
"Is there a grocery store? A... supermarket?" she asked, turning back to the man.
"Nearest one is forty miles out, over in the county seat," he replied, returning to his jars. "Most folks here find what they need right in their own gardens. Or they trade. You staying at the Miller cottage?"
"I am," Jessica said, her voice tight.
"Well, I hope you brought a can opener," he said, not unkindly. "The Millers left a few tins of beans in the pantry, but I'd suggest getting friendly with a stove if you plan on staying the week."
Jessica grabbed a loaf of bread that felt heavy enough to be a weapon and a jar of local honey. As she set them on the counter, the bell chimed again.
She didn't turn around, but she felt the atmosphere in the room shift. A shadow fell across the counter—tall, broad, and imposing. The scent of her expensive perfume was suddenly challenged by a sharp, clean aroma of sandalwood and crisp linen.
"Afternoon, Gower," a deep, resonant voice said. It was a voice that commanded attention without raising its volume—a voice of absolute, unshakable order.
"Afternoon, Mr. Lawson," the shopkeeper replied, his tone noticeably more respectful. "Found the place alright?"
Jessica stiffened. She knew that last name. She slowly turned her head, her sunglasses sliding down her nose.
Standing beside her was a man who looked like he had been plucked from a high-end luxury watch advertisement and dropped into a hayfield. His jawline was a masterpiece of geometry, his hair was perfectly groomed despite the humidity, and he wore a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that looked like they actually knew the meaning of "manual labor."
But it was his eyes that caught her. They were a cool, piercing blue, currently fixed on the loaf of bread she had placed on the counter.
Johnson Lawson looked at her purchase. He looked at the way she held her designer handbag like a shield. He looked at her perfectly manicured nails.
"The Miller cottage isn't equipped with a microwave, in case you were wondering," Johnson said, his voice directed at the shopkeeper but clearly intended for Jessica. "I walked past it on my way to the estate. The wiring is quite... traditional."
Jessica felt a spark of pure, unadulterated lightning go off in her brain.
She turned fully toward him, her chin tilting upward. "I'm sure I'll manage, Mr... Lawson, was it? I've found that 'traditional' is often just a fancy word for 'outdated.' I'm quite adaptable."
Johnson finally turned his gaze to her. For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—a flash of recognition, perhaps of the "disaster" Marcus had shown him on a screen—but it was quickly replaced by a mask of polite, icy disdain.
"Adaptability requires a certain level of... foundational skill," Johnson remarked, his eyes lingering on her silk sleeves. "Cavendish has a way of exposing the things people don't know how to do. I'd be careful with that honey. If you spill it, there isn't an app that will come and clean it for you."
He placed a heavy, professional-grade whetstone on the counter, along with a tin of high-quality boot wax.
"I'll take these, Gower," Johnson said, ignoring Jessica as if she had suddenly become part of the furniture. "And put a sack of flour and some yeast on my tab. I'll be baking tonight."
Jessica stood there, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had come here for peace, but she had just walked into a war zone of ideology. She looked at his whetstone, then at her honey, then back at his perfectly composed, infuriatingly handsome face.
"I hope your bread is as soft as your ego," Jessica snapped, grabbing her honey and bread.
She marched out of the store, the bell clanging violently behind her. As she climbed back into her car, she could see Johnson through the window, calmly settling his tab.
"Welcome to Cavendish, Jess," she muttered, shoving the key into the ignition. "Day one, and you've already met one annoying Lawson."
Across the street, Johnson watched the silver car peel away with a cloud of dust. He narrowed his eyes. She was exactly what he expected: loud, unprepared, and utterly chaotic. A disaster in a designer dress.
He picked up his whetstone. It was going to be a very interesting summer.