Page 1 of Winter Beginnings
Chapter One
Rory
I never would’ve discovered the Barrington estate if my best friend, Bailey Pace, hadn’t called me out of the blue two days after New Year’s, breathless with excitement and halfway through a peppermint latte. We met at age 8 while vacationing one summer in the Florida Keys, became best friends, and stayed close despite living on opposite sides of the country.
She’d just wrapped up her own whirlwind legal battle, and rekindled an old flame in the process, in Wintervale, Montana…The same small town I’d only ever heard about from her. Bailey had insisted I’d be the perfect new owner of a Victorian mansion that had quite suddenly hit the foreclosure market. At that point, I was still half-buried under piles of moving boxes in my Florida apartment, heart stinging from my ex-fiancé Julian’s betrayal.The sound of Bailey’s voice—eager, urgent—jarred me upright on my lumpy sofa.
“You want a fresh start, right?” she’d said in that no-nonsense tone of hers. “Well, here’s your chance. This place is old, a little bit spooky, but unbelievably charming. Buy it and make it yours. Jacob and I are planning to relocate permanently to Wintervale later this year, probably this summer. Wouldn’t it be fun to live in the same town for the first time in our lives? Tell me you’ll join me in Montana!”
At first, I thought she was joking. After another three hours on the phone, I finally believed that she was serious about moving to Montana and opening a law practice with Jacob. Then she forwarded the listing photos for the property known as the Barrington Manor. Even in low-resolution, the mansion looked like something out of a haunted fairytale. But something inside me stirred—maybe desperation, maybe longing. With a reckless mixture of trust in Bailey’s instincts and my own desire to leave Florida behind, I signed the paperwork. With a swipe of a pen, I’d bought a house I had never seen in person, in a town I barely knew, trusting only my best friend’s enthusiastic recommendation and the grainy images. New Year, new me…right?
Originally, the plan was to catch a flight to Billings and drive the rest of the way. But sometime between the adrenaline of my decision and the quiet dread of packing up my old life, I decided to make the trek by car. In a sense, it felt like a pilgrimage—a chance to process everything that had gone wrong in Florida and steel myself for the future I hoped to build in Montana.
So, here I was, coaxing my red SUV along a treacherous mountain road in early January. Snow-laden pines loomed on either side of the highway. The sky had turned a pale wintergray, tinged with a hint of sunrise gold. My breath frosted the air inside the car every time I muttered a curse when hitting another patch of black ice. If I’d been any less determined—or more sensible—I might’ve turned around and never come back. But Bailey’s words rang in my head:It’s all or nothing, Rory. You need this. And the truth was…I did.
By the time I saw the wooden sign for Wintervale—A Place to Call Home, the tension in my shoulders had grown almost unbearable. The sign itself was charming…handcrafted lettering, with leftover holiday tinsel still draped over its edges. A few scattered strings of white lights winked merrily in the early morning gloom, as though refusing to admit Christmas had ended. Despite my apprehension, a faint spark of excitement flickered in my chest. Maybe this place really could be the new beginning I needed.
As I rolled into town, the sun crested the far mountains, illuminating the small village in a wash of pinkish-gold. My first impression was that it resembled a living snow globe scene: pastel-painted shops lined the narrow main street, twinkle lights stretched from lamppost to lamppost, and the sidewalks were meticulously shoveled, with neat piles of snow banked on the curbs. Even the trash bins wore bright red bows. A giant pine tree anchored the town square, bedecked with silver ornaments that glinted in the faint sunlight.
Here and there, I spotted people hurrying by with puffy jackets and colorful scarves, their breath fogging in the air. A few paused to wave at me, as though I might be a friend they just hadn’t met yet. The friendliness startled me. After years living in flashy, competitive Miami, I wasn’t used to people welcoming strangers so openly. My chest twinged with something akin to homesickness for a place I’d never known.
I’d read about Wintervale’s attractions online while driving: a nearby ski resort, a sweet local café called Mistletoe & Mochas, and a small but vibrant downtown that came alive with tourists at several times a year for the town’s popular seasonal celebrations. Bailey’s glowing endorsements also rang in my mind: They have the best peppermint lattes, the friendliest shopkeepers, and it looks like a postcard year-round. She’d neglected to mention the biting cold, I thought as a wry smile crossed my face—although part of me relished the sensation of crisp, clean air—definitely a far cry from Miami’s smog, heat, and humidity.
A single traffic light blinked at me lazily, turning red as I approached. I braked, my SUV’s tires crunching on a light dusting of salt. Waiting there, I glimpsed the town’s largest building: Wintervale Town Hall, an elegant stone structure flanked by tall pines. Ribbons still looped around its pillars, and leftover holiday wreaths adorned the steps. Across the street, I caught sight of a hardware store. The sign read:Timberline Tools & Supply—We’ve Got You Covered. I made a mental note. If I was to restore a Victorian mansion, I’d be spending a lot of time—and money—at places like that.
At last, the light turned green, and I continued up the main road. My phone buzzed in its cradle, a local number flashing across the screen. I tapped speaker.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice, deep and warm, came on the line. “Hi, this is Cass Whitlock. I’m the contractor you reached out to. Got your message about the Barrington place.”
Relief and anxiety warred within me. “Cass, great. Thanks for calling back. I’m just getting into Wintervale now. Any chance you can meet me at the property today?”
“Sure thing,” he said, a hint of a chuckle beneath his words. “Let me wrap up a quick project, and I can be over in about an hour. Sound good?”
“Yes, perfect.” I released a shaky exhale. “Thanks. I’ll see you there.”
I ended the call and tucked my phone away. Cass sounded…nice, if a single phone call could convey that much. Bailey had mentioned a local contractor named Cass Whitlock, praising his reputation for reliability and skill. She’d also hinted he was easy on the eyes, but I’d brushed that aside. Business only, I told myself. No more entanglements. Especially not after Julian…I shivered. The past months had been a lesson in heartbreak. I wanted—no, needed—something different. And if “different” took the form of a run-down estate in a snowy Montana town where I knew exactly no one, so be it.
Soon, my GPS directed me onto a narrower, winding road where the property was situated at the end. Bailey had clued me in on the estate’s history: it belonged to a reclusive Cyrus Barrington, who passed away without a will, sparking a local legal fiasco. Edna Twinkleberry, a quirky older lady who insisted she was related to Barrington, had once tried to claim the house for a cat sanctuary. Meanwhile, the mayor, Theodore Snowcroft, wanted to demolish it for commercial development. Ultimately, they both backed off, letting the property slip into foreclosure. I, in turn, scooped it up at a price point I’d certainly never have found in Florida.
A part of me worried something must be wrong with it—beyond the standard old-house issues. But it was too late now, I reminded myself. The narrow lane curved through stands of towering pines, heavily laden with snow that glistened in the sunlight. Icicles hung from low branches, catching rays of soft winter brightness. The SUV’s heater struggled to keep theinterior warm, so I wrapped my purple scarf tighter around my neck, wishing I’d also worn an extra sweater.
Finally, I glimpsed a break in the trees. An ornate iron gate, dusted with frost, stood off to the right, half-sunk in snow. A wooden sign read:Barrington Estate, circa 1889. The letters had faded, and it looked as though someone had draped tinsel across the top in a half-hearted attempt at festivity. My stomach lurched with excitement and dread all at once.
I turned onto the driveway, forcing my SUV past the rusted gate, which squealed in protest. The drive was a mix of gravel and ice, lined by skeleton-like shrubbery that probably once formed a grand garden. Beyond it, the house rose—a looming, three-story structure crowned with turrets and gables. The winter sun cast long shadows, revealing missing shingles on the roof, broken or boarded windows, and peeling paint that had weathered to a patchy gray. Even so, the house held a stubborn majesty, like a proud old aristocrat refusing to bow to time.
My breath caught. This is it. My new beginning.
I parked near a crooked stone walkway. The engine’s rumble subsided, leaving an almost eerie silence. Snow blanketed every surface, reflecting so much light it almost hurt my eyes. High overhead, a hawk circled lazily. Wrapping my coat tight, I stepped out, boots sinking into the soft layer of snow. Cold air bit my cheeks, and I inhaled deeply, letting the scent of the evergreens fill my lungs.
For a moment, I just stared, half in awe, half in terror. The front porch sagged like a tired sigh. The turret on the left soared upward, though a few shingles hung precariously. The entire structure seemed to watch me, as though asking,Are you sure you’re ready for this, Aurora Lancaster?
Though Cass wouldn’t arrive for another forty minutes, curiosity propelled me forward. I carefully made my way up the porch steps, testing each board. A few gave loud creaks under my weight. Mental note…Check porch for rot. The front door, crafted of oak with intricate carvings of vines, let out a groan when I turned the handle. Then it swung open, revealing darkness and a rush of stale, frigid air.
My phone’s flashlight illuminated a grand foyer—high ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and what seemed to be a battered chandelier overhead. Dust coated everything in a velvety gray film. The floor squeaked underfoot, and in the corners, I spotted the telltale black patches of mold creeping up old wallpaper. My heart fluttered. I was half-charmed, half-horrified.
I paused to examine an old mirror leaning against the wall, its gilded frame chipped and tarnished. Wiping away a swath of dust, I glimpsed my reflection: wide eyes beneath a purple knit beanie, brown curls escaping from either side, cheeks flushed pink. I hardly recognized the tearful Florida girl moping around in old sweats I’d been only days ago. Despite the adrenaline rattling in my veins, I felt oddly…excited and alive.