Chapter 1

1

Present Day

Exhaustion and grief sure make an interesting couple . Kinsley remembered the odd yet exact phrasing she'd used to explain it to her friends. She felt like she was on autopilot, going through the motions with no energy for anything more than what was necessary, yet being too wound up to rest. It made no sense, but Kinsley couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten over four hours of sleep—certainly not during the past few months. Since then, she’d been telling herself that everything happened for a reason; that sometimes fate played a hand in turning something bad into something good. That when one door closed, another door opened.

It was all a crock of shit.

While Kinsley was glad to say goodbye to her dead-end job, saying goodbye to her best friends was far from easy. She hadn’t wanted to let go of Brienne’s tight embrace, or bid farewell to a teary-eyed Cameron as they packed her car together. Although the pair had promised to visit in a month, even one day away from those two felt far too long.

The only hope Kinsley was still holding onto was that this move would be the do-over she desperately needed. Taking her friends’ advice, she was trying to see this as an opportunity, rather than a gauntlet. But being without the only two people she had left made Kinsley’s trip lonesome and sullen, not optimistic. A gust of wind blew into the car, jostling her hair and the food wrappers she had abandoned on the passenger seat.

She felt defeated, wrapping herself in a silent cocoon of loneliness for a moment. Suppressing her tears, she mustered the courage to open the car door and head to the side entrance of Granny’s home. No— my home, she corrected herself.

Kinsley took a deep breath as she examined the house’s light mauve paint; it reminded her of better days. Despite some needed repairs, it still looked as charming as the other homes on the block, besides the one boarded up; Kinsley hadn’t noticed that one during her previous visit. As she looked at the faded porch, she could almost picture Granny opening the door to greet her. But it won’t happen this time. A flock of seagulls flew overhead instead as she approached, no doubt heading toward the ocean a few short miles away.

The old Victorian home held lifetimes of memories, including some of her own. The dusty windows inside the old tower called out to her. As the rays of sunshine caressed the old wood, with its chipped paint, a faint smile dared to tug at Kinsley’s cheeks. It was a moment to be proud of—to be inheriting her family home from the 1860s. Yet it left her feeling hollow.

Each step seemed harder to take than the last. Nevertheless, Kinsley made it to the door. Her hands trembled like they had when she was a kid, nervously reading the morning announcements at school. She fumbled for the house key among the others, feeling the cold metal against her skin, and inserted it into the lock. For a moment, she froze, hesitating to accept her new reality. Can I really do this?

She inhaled deeply. The warm summer air, laced with the scent of approaching rain, calmed her nerves. After an easy turn of the knob, the door opened with a slight creak. A lifetime of memories came rushing back to her like a stampede of elephants—mesmerizing to watch, but nothing you want to be caught up in.

This was it. The start of something new, built on the ruins of everything she’d lost.

Stepping inside the foyer, Kinsley was greeted with the scent of pine cascading over her. She was at once ten years old again, coming to spend two weeks at Granny’s house. She’d run in and slip on the recently waxed wood flooring. Granny would come to the rescue with a hug and a kiss, a bag of ice already in hand.

A car horn from somewhere down the block brought Kinsley back to reality. Closing the door behind her, she looked around. The ache in her chest was familiar, a constant companion these past few months, but stepping inside made it too real. The wood creaked beneath her feet, a familiar sound throughout this home. It was nothing compared to a certain floorboard in the upstairs hallway, which Kinsley had learned to avoid years ago when sneaking downstairs for a midnight snack.

A small, bittersweet smile stretched her cheeks. The house looked no different than it had during Kinsley’s last visit a few months ago, unchanged as it had been through every visit throughout her life. Even the well-cared-for antique furniture still looked immaculate. The intricate designs on the rugs were as crisp as ever. The little knickknacks her grandmother had loved to decorate with were in their same spots, not an inch out of place.

An eagerness drew Kinsley deeper into the old parlor room. As she walked toward it, her fingers trailed along the banister, its wood smooth and worn from years of hands brushing against it. She closed her eyes. Kinsley could almost hear the gentle hum of the television in the next room. Granny would have it on her favorite television programs—game shows and soap operas, with a little reality television thrown in for good measure.

Her heart grew heavy. But to have a heavy heart, Kinsley supposed it would have to be a full heart. Emptiness weighed nothing. A full heart meant love. But it also meant eventual heartache. You couldn’t have one without the other; Kinsley had both in spades.

Kinsley wrapped her arms around herself, letting out a long breath. Being back in the house was like stepping into a memory, one that filled her with warmth, as well as an aching sense of loss. She had wanted so badly to make a new life for herself, to breathe a new purpose into this house by transforming it into a quaint bed-and-breakfast. But now, standing in this room rich with family history, surrounded by memories at every turn, she paused.

The laughter and chatter that once filled these walls was now replaced by a heavy silence, each echo a reminder of what was lost. Light from a front window echoed off the dust floating around the room.

“I’m going to make you proud, Granny,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. She said the words even though she couldn’t bring herself to believe them. Perhaps this was what manifesting was. “This place will be something special. Just like you always said it was.”

The ticking of an old clock demanded her attention, like a child tugging on their mother’s dress. Just as the hands behind the antique glass kept moving with the reliable push of old gears, Kinsley knew she had to keep moving forward. Fingers nervously fiddling with the fabric of her shirt, she took a few steps toward the clock—her eyes catching something underneath.

It was a small figurine of a ballerina. Granny had bought it many years ago while traveling in Russia. Throughout her childhood, Kinsley had idolized that little ballerina statue, had even taken a few years of ballet because of it. Her fingers grazed the delicate figurine and came away with dust. To be fair, the whole place would need a good cleaning, though it could wait for another day.

Despite losing one family member after the next since she was a child, Granny’s passing was possibly the hardest one. A constant cycle of funerals and wakes had brought Kinsley to discover the perfect waterproof mascara; it had been recommended by Granny herself.

As she walked into the family room, her eyes locked onto the treadmill where Granny would walk as she yelled out answers to game shows. In their last phone call, just a week before her passing, Granny had shared stories of her recent skiing trip. She had always been active; it made it all the more difficult for Kinsley to grasp how a woman in such good health could be so quickly taken. Kinsley could never have imagined that a few days later, Granny would be found in her bed.

When she’d received that call, her hands had trembled, barely holding onto her glass of water. The world seemed to stop completely. The executor of the estate had tried to cheer her up by saying that Kinsley would inherit the beautiful house that had been in her family for over a century and a half, plus all of Granny’s money and belongings. Though she knew the executor had only good intentions, Kinsley couldn’t feel that same excitement or eagerness within her bones.

She tried. After all, it was hers now. It could be a chance to start over—a chance to escape her past and create a living tribute to her family. She could turn this house into a place where more families could create happy, lifelong memories, just like Kinsley had.

Though it had taken the last few months to get everything sorted out between the inheritance, her old apartment, and her dead-end job, being here now, in her “new” home, wasn’t going as she’d planned. What was I expecting? Kinsley didn’t know. But this emptiness wasn’t it.

She spent the next few hours unloading her car, tidying the house, cleaning the fridge, and other trivial tasks to keep her mind off of it. Kinsley sighed as she picked up the mail scattered on the floor in front of the mail slot. Seeing her grandmother’s name on each one sent shivers down her spine. She flipped through the heaping pile, tossing the junk mail, opening the few that seemed necessary to know. One was asking for donations to the animal shelter, another was a credit card pre-approval, and one looked to be a fairly detailed letter offering to buy the home at a newly increased price.

She stopped reading it after a line that specified they would love to discuss the value of her home one more time. Over my dead body.

Gripping it tightly in her palm, she tossed it in the trash can next to the rubbish from her drive in.

A low growl from her stomach brought her tidying to a halt. Slipping on her shoes, she decided it was time to venture out and find something to eat. Pulling up to Granny's favorite restaurant, a pang of nostalgia twisted into sorrow as Kinsley found the windows boarded up, the cheerful awning removed. The place that had once overflowed with laughter was silent, a relic of happier times. As she drove off, she saw that a few other buildings were similarly shuttered along the sparsely populated road. It was an unfortunate sight, especially for such a quaint New England town.

Kinsley made a turn down one of the main roads near the sea. As the traffic grew thicker, she spotted a diner called The Wet Crab by the shore. Though less than ten minutes from home, this wasn’t a place she had come with Granny. It didn’t surprise her, though; Granny hadn’t been big into seafood.

From the outside, The Wet Crab looked small: it had an outdoor patio in the front that extended to a large deck in the back near the water. The outdoor area must have been twice the size of the diner itself. Though it appeared the seagulls were out enjoying it this afternoon. Above the entrance was a wooden sign with the restaurant’s name. It swayed slightly in the breeze, its paint faded and chipped.

Stepping inside, the briny scent of the ocean mingled with frying batter, enveloping her senses. Lively chatter and clinking silverware filled the cozy space, a stark contrast to the silence that had been keeping her company.

At a table near the back, an older couple shared a platter of oysters, their laughter muffled, yet sincere. At a corner table sat a group of fishermen, raincoats draped over their chairs, talking over steaming bowls of chowder. A handwritten chalkboard at the hostess station boasted today's specials in wobbly letters: clam chowder, fried cod, and homemade apple pie. This was clearly a place where people knew each other’s names, where the food was familiar and the atmosphere stayed the same, no matter how many tourists passed it by.

The diner's warmth and chatter felt almost jarring after the hollow quiet of the old house. Kinsley felt out of place in her long sleeves; the other patrons were already in full summer wear. Seeing their raincoats and umbrellas as they prepared for the approaching rain showers, Kinsley realized she had forgotten to bring one of Granny’s umbrellas that sat by the door. Now I understand.

The young hostess noticed her across the room and approached with a smile. “Just one today?”

“Yes, please.” Kinsley adjusted the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, her fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge as she surveyed the unfamiliar faces. Being in a new place was a fresh, but stressful, experience. Going into a new town knowing almost nobody meant there were endless possibilities for both success and failure. Although she’d visited Granny often, they’d mainly stuck to her house and trips to the shore, with little happening in between.

“We’re a little short-staffed right now since it isn’t our peak hours. Would you mind if I sat you at the bar? You’ll likely get faster service there than at a table.” The petite blonde smiled as she grabbed a menu.

“That would be fine.” A drink could be nice, too.

Vintage fishing gear was fastened to the walls, a few lures dangling high above the bar in between pendant lights made from old buoys. There were a few framed newspaper articles, with the occasional autographed portrait. The hostess placed some silverware and a lunch menu on the bar and assured her someone would be with her shortly. Kinsley sat on the worn bar stool and grabbed the menu. Flipping over the limited lunch offerings, she looked for something, anything, to catch her eye. The strong scent of fish permeated the room, infusing the place with a salty charm.

“You must be new. That menu hasn’t changed in probably over ten years,” a gently musical voice spoke from her right. “I could probably quote it at this point.”

The friendliness of a stranger was a rare comfort—different from what she had been used to. A gentle calm easing her nerves, Kinsley lifted her head up to them. The woman beside her gave a warm smile. A sleek bun held back her dark hair. Her tailored blazer conveyed a serious attitude, but her kind eyes softened the impression.

“Is it that obvious that I’m new here?” Kinsley felt herself flush.

“I thought you didn’t look familiar. Not many people stop in here for lunch, so I usually know all the regulars.” The woman chuckled under her breath. “Are you new in town, or just new to the restaurant?”

“Both.”

“Well, I guess I should welcome you to Trueport. My name is Lourdes McEmmitt.” The friendly brunette extended her hand.

Kinsley shook it. “Kinsley Pruitt.” As she rested her hand back on the bar, she couldn’t help but cringe internally at the stickiness under her fingers.

“So what brings you here?” Lourdes asked as she fingered through cards in her clutch before selecting a credit card to set on her bill.

“I inherited my grandmother’s home.” Kinsley cleared her throat. “I figured I’d give it a go here.”

“Are you staying long term?”

“That’s the plan,” Kinsley said, hoping her determination would be enough to see the bed-and-breakfast through.

Lourdes lowered her voice. “Not to be too forward, but do you have a job lined up already? If not, I?—”

“Not yet, but it isn’t urgent.” Kinsley forced a smile, hoping Lourdes wouldn’t see through her lie. Although she had a fair bit of funds, Kinsley had doubted how much the renovations would cost until taking in the house today. She was walking a fine line between opening the bed-and-breakfast early before renovations were completed at a slower pace, or hiring a contractor to get things done quickly at a higher expense. Truthfully, she could use the money to hire a contractor and get started.

“Well, if you change your mind, stop by Westerhouse Investments Group. We’re one of the top groups in the country, specializing in real estate. I’m an office manager, and I’m looking for someone reliable to fill a receptionist position.”

Westerhouse Investments Group. The name tugged at something in her memory, though she couldn’t quite place it. Probably nothing; perhaps she’d driven by one of their ‘For Sale’ signs on her way through towns.

“I appreciate the offer, but I really don’t know if I’d be a good fit.” Kinsley admitted. Lourdes’ face looked kind and sincere, like someone who wouldn’t sucker her into a crappy job. But a receptionist position? The thought of sitting behind a desk and answering phones for hours a day wasn’t exactly a thrill.

“It might be worth a shot. It pays well for the position and it’s fairly straightforward. If you change your mind, stop on by once you’re settled in. We’re located on Ninth Avenue by the old cathedral. You can’t miss it. Tallest building in this town.” Lourdes chuckled. “We stick out like a sore thumb, actually.” She fiddled around in her clutch again, pulling out a business card for Kinsley to take.

Kinsley hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of it as she weighed her options. “I’ll consider it.” As she tucked the embossed card stock into her bag, a gust of wind rattled the windows. The first drops of rain splattered against the glass. A storm was coming, but Kinsley felt a spark of determination ignite within her. This town was full of stories, and hers was just beginning.

The sleek office at Westerhouse Investments Group exemplified a minimalistic approach to quiet luxury. The polished dark mahogany desk gleamed under the afternoon sun, the faint smell of leather and coffee hanging in the air. He turned in his chair, eyes darting to the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was the first time he’d been able to take in the view since settling into his office that morning. Gulls were circling lazily over the water, a stark contrast to the tension simmering in Daegan’s chest. His fingers brushed the edge of a portfolio marked with potential acquisitions. The office was cool, the gentle hum of the air conditioning broken only by the indistinct murmur of voices from outside his door.

Thomas had said he’d needed to speak to Daegan immediately, but still he was counting down the minutes until his next phone call. Daegan thrived on the bustle, but there was a restless energy today that he couldn’t quite shake.

A knock on the door drew Daegan’s gaze. Thomas stepped in, a careful expression on his face. Daegan raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to speak.

“Mr. Westerhouse, Rose Vaughn passed away,” Thomas said as he quickly approached Daegan’s desk.

Rose Vaughn. The woman that held the reins to that one stubborn property—the last piece of land that had been eluding him, the final deed he needed to complete his project.

“When?” Daegan's pen stilled between his fingers. A fleeting heaviness settled in his chest before his business mind took over. He knew he shouldn’t let himself get too hopeful; this project had taken as long as it had for good reason. Despite his reservations, his heart rate quickened. Maybe this time would be different.

“It was a few months ago,” Thomas replied. “I just got news of it this morning.”

Daegan twirled the weighty ballpoint pen between his fingers, watching the reflection in the shine of his desk. “I’m not going to say I’m happy about a death, because I’m not, but…” Maybe we can get somewhere now. “Is it up for sale?”

“Not quite. From what I can find, her granddaughter inherited it.”

Daegan nodded slowly, feeling that ounce of hope creep up into his system. The cool air conditioning calmed his nerves, reminding him to plan his moves deliberately. Dealing with her granddaughter could be easier. She might be more willing to take a lump sum of money than her nostalgic grandmother. In his experience, younger homeowners seemed to be more eager to sell if the price was right.

Thomas took the silence as a cue to continue. “I know our past letters to Rose didn’t go over well, but I can write a letter to the new homeowner to see if she would be interested in selling.”

“Maybe I should just stop over in a few weeks,” Daegan mused, leaning back in his black leather chair, pen still twirling between his fingers. He glanced out the window to take in the beautiful ocean view. “Everyone has a price. Maybe a fresh start will be more appealing to her than it was to her grandmother. With the right offer, she could move anywhere she wanted. If I flash a big enough offer in front of her eyes, it could very well make her reconsider keeping an old house out of sentimental value.” Daegan knew he could do it. He had charmed his way into more offers than he could count. If it took a little flirting, Daegan was prepared to do whatever it took to move his project forward.

“Good luck. If she’s anything like her grandmother, you’re in for a ride,” Thomas laughed. “But if you can pull it off, then that will be an accepted offer for every house on the block.”

“ Once I pull it off.” Confidence boomed in Daegan’s voice. “Then we can start the next part of the process. We’ll put through all the offers, demolish as soon as the permits clear, and get started on the new construction.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Daegan paused, tapping the ballpoint pen on his desk. The clicking noise sounded louder than it should. “Send the largest bouquet of flowers that you can find. Mark it from Westerhouse Investments Group with our sympathies to the new homeowner. Get it there as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Mr. Westerhouse.”

Daegan had been working on buying all those homes for far too long, but the last one he needed was finally coming into focus. It was so close that he could taste it like the coffee on his desk. To finally have an accepted offer for that house would mean his hometown revival plan could finally begin. It was more than just business—it was personal. Bringing a luxury resort to a town as special as Trueport would feel like inviting people into his home. Most importantly, it would create desperately needed jobs, and bring in more tourists willing to spend their money among the local small businesses. This was more than just another Westerhouse-owned resort—this was a lifeline for a community on the brink.

Daegan leaned back in his chair, giving it a gentle nudge to turn around. The expansive windows framed a turbulent sea. Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, echoing his own restless energy simmering within. Everyone has a price , he reassured himself. Still, there was something about this house that gnawed at him. Something that felt different. He brushed the thought aside. Sentiment had no place in the real estate business. All he needed to do was convince this granddaughter she was better off taking a large sum of money than hanging onto an old house.

If anyone can do it, it’s me.