Page 10 of Winter Beginnings

His gaze remained warm, though disappointment flickered briefly. “That’s okay,” he murmured, stepping back. “No pressure.”

I forced a small, shaky smile. “Tomorrow,” I managed, echoing the promise of the day ahead.

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “See you in the morning.”

I walked him to the door, flipping the lock behind him once he vanished into the snowy darkness. A hush fell, and for a moment, I let myself wonder if I’d made a mistake, if maybe I should’ve allowed that brief, sweet chance. Then Bramble stirred, trotting up to rub against my ankles, reminding me that I wasn’t entirely alone.

Scooping him up, I cradled him in my arms, letting his soft fur ground me in the present. “We’ll figure out the rest soon enough,” I murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his fuzzy head. He let out a content sigh, nuzzling closer.

With Bramble’s warmth nestled against me, I climbed the old staircase, heart still racing from the almost-kiss that never quite happened. Yet anticipation glowed in my chest, aquiet thrill at the idea of tomorrow’s tasks—and whatever might unfold between me and Cass Whitlock.

Chapter Four

Cass

A pale winter sun hung low over Wintervale, spilling silvery light across the snowbanks as I eased my truck into the icy driveway of Barrington Manor—Rory’s soon-to-be Evergreen Inn. It still jarred me recalling how I’d discovered Cyrus was my father through a 23andMe test. I’d never expected to learn who my father was, as even the adoption agency that facilitated my adoption as a baby didn’t have that information.

Today, though, I shoved my private turmoil aside. I had a job to do: haul out junk furniture, help Rory lighten the load of Cyrus’s leftovers, and inch her closer to her dream of a functioning bed-and-breakfast. The day had barely started, and I was already on my third trip to the local dump and Goodwill drop-off.

The foyer looked like a staging ground for an estate sale gone wrong—stacked wardrobes, tattered chairs, mismatched lamps, piles of chipped dressers that Cyrus had apparently accumulated in his more eccentric days. Some items were clearly beyond saving, with rotted legs or broken frames, while others looked salvageable but didn’t suit Rory’s plans for the inn.

I hefted a cracked bureau onto a dolly, muscles protesting after hours of repetitive lifting. Rory stood by, tucking hair into a messy bun, and giving me a nod of encouragement. Bramble, already looking healthier after a couple of hearty meals and a good night’s rest, circled our ankles sniffing curiously.

“Looks like this one’s too far gone,” I said, nudging the damaged side with my boot. Mold had eaten away at the wood. “Better off at the dump.”

Rory wrinkled her nose. “Agreed. Sorry you have to lug that mess.”

I shrugged, forcing a grin. “It’s all part of the fun, right?” I carted the bureau outside, loading it onto my truck bed next to a battered vanity. A swirl of wind cut through me, but the physical labor kept my blood pumping. I couldn’t believe how much junk Cyrus hoarded. The man apparently hadn’t parted with a single piece of furniture, no matter how ruined.

On my next haul I wrestled an old steamer trunk, smelling of mothballs, into the back of the truck. Something clunked inside. Eager to ensure it wasn’t trashing any hidden heirlooms, I flipped the lid open. Sure enough, I found a photo album wedged under moth-eaten blankets.

Fancy black-and-white shots…My chest squeezed. The pictures showed a younger Cyrus Barrington, probably even younger than I was now, dressed in a tux, arm linked with a light-haired woman in a glittering gown. They stood beneathcrystal chandeliers, presumably at some high-society gala. Shock flooded me at how much I resembled the man—same nose, same strong jaw, though he appeared far happier in these photos than the stories of his reclusive later years suggested. What happened to reduce him to a bitter hermit, allowing this gorgeous estate to crumble?

I flipped another page. Cyrus and the same woman, both a little older now, exchanging smiles at a restaurant as waitstaff hovered behind them. The date scrawled in pen: “Summer, 1970.”

My mind churned with unanswered questions: Where did my mother fit in? I’d done enough research to know that the woman pictured in this album was likely Cyrus’s wife, Patricia, and that the marriage didn’t produce children before she passed away from cancer in her early 30’s. However, Cyrus continued to be a prominent figure in town—serving on various boards and philanthropies, hosting lavish parties, and employing full household of staff—landscapers, housekeepers, cooks—so how had he ended up alone? I tucked the album aside carefully. Dumping it felt wrong. This was my father’s past—my past, in a way—whether I wanted to embrace it or not.

I swallowed hard and grabbed another trunk, ignoring the pang in my chest. If Rory knew who I really was, would she feel betrayed that I hadn’t told her from day one?

After a round trip to discard the truly unsalvageable items, I returned to find Rory in the east hallway scraping wallpaper. The overhead lights flickered slightly—still running off partial wiring. She wore a paint-stained hoodie and jeans, stands ofchestnut hair coming loose from her bun, with streaks of old wallpaper dust on her cheeks. Even like that, she looked…radiant. Her optimism radiated through each push of the scraper.

“You survived the dump, I see,” she teased, wiping sweat from her brow.

I propped the dolly against the wall. “Barely. Found some interesting keepsakes, though. Might share them later if you’re curious.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Cyrus’s hoarding, I assume?”

“Yep.” I kept my tone light. “But hey, want a hand with this? My arms could use a different workout than hauling dressers.”

She handed me a spare scraper. “Be my guest.”

Minutes slid into an hour as we peeled away the faded floral patterns. It was oddly soothing, watching the walls reveal their original plaster. Beneath the stubborn layers, I saw a glimmer of what this house could become if we stripped back years of neglect. Rory’s grin brightened each time a particularly large sheet of wallpaper tore free.

“Look at that,” she exclaimed, flicking stray bits off her hoodie. “Once we patch these cracks, maybe fresh paint or new wallpaper with a modern twist.”

My chest loosened at her excitement. She’s unstoppable, I thought, noticing how Bramble dozed near the hall’s threshold, ears twitching every so often.

Eventually, we needed fresh air. Bramble stirred, wagging his tail at the door, so we took a break. Outside, the sky was crystalline, the snow glistening. Rory grabbed a small rubber ball—one of the cheap toys I’d picked up at the store. Bramblebounded after it on stubby legs, slipping a few times but never losing his newfound enthusiasm.