Page 7 of Winter Beginnings
Slipping into thick socks and an oversized sweater, I padded across the worn rug to open the drapes. Snowy pines beyond the window glittered with early sunlight, promising another day of subzero temperatures. Yet I couldn’t help smiling. Yesterday, I’d uncovered a trove of old furniture in the second-floor rooms—dressers, bedframes, even an ornate trunk—and discovered that not all of it was junk. Some might still shine with the right polish and care.
Thinking about it spurred me forward. Even though the tasks ahead were daunting—electrical overhauls, roof repairs, structural fixes—I found a hint of excitement in each new discovery. This battered Victorian house was more than I’d bargained for, but it was also my chance at a new beginning. Julian and Miami were behind me. Evergreen Inn was my future.
I made my way down the wide, creaking staircase, and flicked on a lamp in the kitchen. It was a tall, airy space with a battered oak table set in the center. More mismatched chairs surrounded it, presumably also from Cyrus’s collection. On the table, my small coffee maker sat next to a plastic bin of supplies I’d hauled from Florida: a few mugs, sugar packets, random utensils. Grateful for enough electricity to power the coffee maker, I filled it with ground beans and water and hit the button, leaning against the counter as I waited. Soon, the aroma of the fresh brew lifted my spirits, and I drank it slowly, letting the warmth sink in.
As I sipped, I remembered how different my life had been only weeks ago—late closings, endless phone calls, and humid Miami evenings overshadowed by first shock followed by heartbreak at discovering Julian’s infidelity and plan to buy me out of our partnership and go into business for himself. Now, everything felt quieter, both outside and within me. I could sense the mansion breathing around me, every board groaning with memories. But instead of stifling me, it offered a strange solace.
Finishing my coffee, I decided to take advantage of the early start. Cass had mentioned dropping by around noon, so I had time to explore more of the second-floor wing. Thick blankets aside, there was plenty left to see: supposedly, a few more bedrooms had stayed furnished, and I wanted to note which pieces to keep and which to discard.
Armed with my phone’s flashlight and a notepad, I climbed back upstairs. The corridor I entered now was wide but dimly lit. Particles swirled in the light from a half-shaded window at the far end. The air smelled faintly musty, like old linen chests in an antique store. Two doors stood on the left, one on the right. I picked the first on the left—a knob shaped like a lion’s head.
Pushing the door open, I found a rather large room with tall windows draped in threadbare brocade curtains. A massive four-poster bed anchored the space, intricate spindles rising toward the ceiling. The bedding—quilts and comforters piled high—was reminiscent of the warm layers I’d slept under. A matching dresser with carved legs sat along one wall, a silver-backed mirror perched on top.
I ran my fingertips over the dresser’s smooth surface, brushing aside dust. The craftsmanship impressed me—deep floral carvings and swirl motifs. With a thorough cleaning andmaybe a new coat of varnish, it’d look spectacular in a future guest suite. One drawer stuck, forcing me to tug it open. Inside, I saw a stack of old postcards featuring scenic views of Wintervale’s surrounding mountains. The handwriting on the back was faint, referencing holidays or short notes from travelers. Cyrus might have collected them. Or perhaps earlier Barrington relatives, long gone.
Standing there, I could almost imagine a guest stepping into this room after a day of skiing, marveling at the antique bed and plush blankets. Yes, I thought, scribbling a quick note in my notepad,Keep bed & dresser. Potential star suite. Then I shut the drawer carefully and slipped back into the hallway.
Across from it lay a smaller bedroom with simpler décor: a sturdy oak bedframe, a rocking chair near the window, and a small vanity. The bed wore just one thick quilt, but that was enough in a pinch. I tested the rocking chair, wincing at the loud squeak. It might be salvageable if I replaced the seat cushion and tightened a few joints.
Turning, I spotted an armoire, also oak, with tarnished handles. A few leftover clothes—tattered shirts, a threadbare coat—hung inside, reeking of stale air. I grimaced but felt compelled to rummage through. My search revealed a side compartment containing old winter gloves. The brand was unrecognizable, probably from decades ago.
I jotted another line in my notes:Armoire (oak) – needs cleaning, new hardware. The sense of progress brightened my mood.
A draft snuck under the closed door at the end of the corridor, and I headed back to the kitchen, deciding I deserved a second cup of coffee.
By the time I’d finished my refill, the front door rattled. Noon already? I opened it to find Cass, clutching a paper bag.
“You’re early,” I teased.
He shrugged, stepping in and stamping snow off his boots. “Figured I’d get a jump on the turret roof estimate. Also brought lunch—wasn’t sure if you’d eaten yet. If not, I have a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.”
“That sounds perfect,” I replied, leading him to the kitchen. “Thank you. How’s the day treating you?”
He set the bag on the table, eyes sweeping the space. “Busy, but nothing new. You?”
“Just sorting more furniture,” I said, tugging on my sweater cuffs. “Found a massive bedframe that could be the highlight of a future guest suite, plus postcards in a dresser. Cyrus Barrington must’ve been something of a collector.”
“Yeah, he did leave quite a legacy,” Cass murmured, expression thoughtful. “At least you can use it to your advantage. A B&B with the house’s original pieces can be a good marketing angle.”
Grateful for the affirmation, I pulled out the wrapped sandwiches and soup cartons as my stomach rumbled.
We took seats across from each other and lifted the lids from our bowls of soup. The aroma of basil and simmered tomatoes filled the air and I smiled.
“So,” Cass ventured between spoonfuls, “I was thinking: we’ll handle the turret roof soon, but your main electrics might need scheduling first. The electrician said he can start partial rewiring next week if we clear out the basement area.”
My stomach flipped, anticipating the bill. But I held firm. “We’ll do what we must. The sooner we have reliable power, the sooner I can host guests—assuming I fix everything else, too.”
He lifted a brow, lips curving in a half-smile. “You don’t do things halfway, do you?”
A quiet heat spread in my chest. He sees me. “No. Not ever.”
His gaze flicked to my mouth for a fraction of a second. “Good. Me either.”
Lunch didn’t last long, and soon we were climbing the stairs to check the turret area. Snow glowed behind the windows, casting bright patches along the walls. Water stains ringed part of the ceiling where Cyrus’s old roof had leaked. Cass pointed out the problem spots, running a hand over the plaster.
“Once the snowpack melts, we risk more leaks,” he warned. “Best to do a temporary patch soon, then replace shingles come spring.”
I sighed but nodded. “All right. Add it to the list.” I paused, noticing a small settee shoved against the curved wall. Its cushions, once velvety, had worn to near threadbare. But the wooden frame looked solid. “That could be a decent reading nook piece if I reupholster it,” I mused.