A woman stands between two rows of trees, half-hidden behind a stack of empty picking crates. She’s about my age, maybe a few years younger, with honey-brown hair twisted into a knot under a faded baseball cap. Her cheeks are flushed, her T-shirt is damp at the collar, and she is holding a long-handled rake.
The vibes she throws off practically scream omega.
Her gaze drops to my silk-sheet dress and her brow puckers for a beat. But then, the tension on her face melts into a warm, welcoming smile. “How can I help?”
I smooth a hand down my dress. “I was hoping for a cabin.”
The silence after that is not encouraging.
“Ah,” she says after a beat.
Ah. The sound people make when the printer is broken at the Lakeview Public Library, or a novel’s last copy is checked out.
I shift my weight. “Ah?”
“I’m sorry.” She rests the rake against one shoulder. “It’s just... the owners aren’t really renting them right now.”
My fingers tighten around the strap of my purse.
“Really?” My voice comes out thin. I clear my throat and try again. “Are—are you sure?”
She winces. “They’re not up to safety standards. Legally, they can’t rent them until the repairs are done.”
I press the heel of my hand against one eye, careful of the mascara situation, then drop it. “But...” I start, and then I hear myself. “My mom used to come here.”
The woman stills.
Great, that’s one devastating argument, Luna.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, my cheeks red. “I mean, she told me about this place. She said she knew the owners. Margaret and Tom Miller?”
The rake lowers from her shoulder. Her expression drops.
“Oh,” she says, voice softening. “Margaret and Tom passed away a few years ago.”
Oh.
My chest twinges. I look down at the gravel, at a piece of quartz catching the sun. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know them personally.” She rubs her thumb over the rake handle. “But the current owners talk about them sometimes. They’re the children.”
“I see.” Smaller than I want it to. I take a long breath. “And is there—is there any way could I talk to one of them?”
Her brow puckers again for a second.
I steady the rattle in my ribs. “It’s just that I—I need a place to stay. For one night. Everything else around is booked or... out of my means.”
That is a nice, tidy word for financially obscene.
“Sure,” the woman simply says. “I can try.”
My whole body wants to sag. I do not let it. “Thank you.”
“I’m Jenna, by the way,” she says.
“Luna.”
“Okay, Luna.” She hooks the rake against the crate stack, then digs her phone out of her back pocket. “I can’t promise anything, though.”
