Page 4 of Winter Beginnings
Shaking off that bittersweet thought, I climbed out of the truck into the biting cold. The workshop’s roof was pitched to let snow slide off; a curl of smoke rose from the woodstove chimney, promising warmth. I ducked inside, flipping on the overhead lights. The scent of sawdust, pine, and old varnish made me exhale. Home base.
I shrugged out of my coat and hat and hung them on a peg near the door. Time to draft the official renovation estimate for Rory. The place needed everything—structural reinforcements, new wiring, a partial roof rebuild, porch repairs, plumbing, you name it. And yet, I couldn’t help smiling when I imagined how her eyes might brighten if we restored the mansion’s original woodwork or the carved banisters on that grand staircase.
“Easy, man,” I muttered to myself, booting up my laptop on a scuffed oak desk. “She’s a client. Don’t get carried away.”
But my fingers felt oddly light as I typed out bullet points:
PORCH:Replace rotted boards, shore up substructure.
ROOF/TURRET:Patch missing shingles, check for leaks.
HEATING/PLUMBING:Replace the old furnace—suddenly I remembered a rumor about a generator on the property and wondered if I could get it to work. If so, it could offer some backup electricity for Rory—especially if she insisted on staying in the house.
ELECTRICAL:Upgrade wiring to code.
COSMETIC REPAIRS:Wallpaper, painting, refinishing floors, etc.
As I typed, I realized I’d never asked if she intended to flip the property—a common motive for out-of-town buyers. Thenagain, something in her eyes hinted she wanted to belong there. Could be my imagination, but it felt personal for her.
Half an hour later, I had a rough draft. I’d email it to her once I tidied it up. For now, I needed coffee and maybe a sandwich. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I’d skipped breakfast while trudging through that icebox of a house.
Before heading out, I let my gaze wander the workshop. Rows of lumber lined one wall—oak, cedar, pine—waiting for custom projects. A half-finished dining table sat in the center, clamps holding the pieces in place. My father built tables for nearly every family in Wintervale at some point, passing on that craft to me. The community valued real craftsmanship, which made me wonder: how would they feel if they discovered I was Cyrus Barrington’s long-lost son? Possibly the rightful heir to the biggest estate in the county?
The thought churned my gut. I’d chosen silence after seeing Edna Twinkleberry and Theodore Snowcroft duke it out in court. The last thing I wanted was to upset that shaky peace. Especially now that the property was in Rory’s hands. Maybe it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. My job was to fix her house, not to reclaim a father who never knew me. I grabbed my coat, inhaling the tang of fresh pine, and headed back into the chilly day.
Downtown Wintervale was busier now. Even though the holiday season had passed, a few tourists lingered, drawn by the scenic mountains and the ski resort just outside town. I parked in front of Mistletoe & Mochas, the café run by my friend Piper. A gust of wind followed me in, replaced by the welcoming warmth and scents of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and sugar.
“Cass!” Piper called from the register, pushing her messy strawberry-blonde ponytail behind one ear. “You’re on a roll—second time you’ve shown up this week. What’s going on?”
“Busy times,” I replied, stuffing my gloves into my coat pocket. “Got a massive new job at Barrington Manor, so I’ll need all the caffeine I can get.”
Her eyes lit with curiosity. “Ahh, yes, the new owner. I hear she’s from Florida?”
I gave a shrug. “Miami, apparently.” I couldn’t help the flicker of amusement at how fast news traveled here. “Let me get a turkey melt, plus your strongest mocha. Extra whipped cream.”
She handed me a number for my table. The café bustled with midmorning customers—locals reading the paper, a family with two kids sipping hot cocoa, an older couple quietly sharing a croissant. I chose a small table by the window. Pale sunlight streamed across the polished floors, reflecting off leftover tinsel still draped along the ceiling.
I tapped my foot absently while waiting, mind drifting again to Rory. She had to be freezing in that mansion. Even with a rumored generator, the place lacked stable heat. A pang of concern tugged at me. Would she try to live in the house right away? Most new owners waited until the property was somewhat functional. But she seemed determined, maybe enough to risk comfort.
Piper approached with my coffee and a grin. “Order’s in the works. So, that new owner… did you meet her yet?”
“Yeah,” I said, sipping the mocha, wincing slightly at the sweet peppermint rush. “Her name’s Rory Lancaster. She’s…interesting.”
Piper’s eyebrows lifted. “Interesting, huh?”
I shot her a look. “Let’s say she’s gutsy, for sure. Florida chick, definitely out of her element up here in the mountains, but she didn’t back down when she saw the property first-hand.”
Piper giggled, leaning one elbow on the table. “So you like her, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “You always jump to conclusions. She’s a customer, that’s all.”
She smirked. “Sure, Cass. Anyway, your sandwich will be out soon.”
She dashed off, leaving me to nurse my mocha and wonder if I was giving away more than I intended. If Piper caught a whiff of personal interest, maybe I wasn’t as subtle as I thought.
After lunch, I swung by Mrs. Jenkins’s house to fix a leaky faucet. She lived alone, ever since her husband passed a few years back, in a neat little cottage with cheerful flower boxes and crocheted doilies over every piece of furniture. The job was simple—just a worn washer and some rust in the threads. I replaced it, all the while making small talk about the weather.
“Thank you, dear,” she said as I packed up my wrench. “That drip was driving me insane. Do I owe you anything extra?”