Chapter 1
Layla
The woman at the front desk of Eight Pines Lakeside Cabins smiles like she already knows I’m running from something. It isn’t intrusive. More like she’s quietly acknowledging that I need a reboot. And I do.
Her smile is warm and easy. It says,Welcome. Whatever brought you here, you can leave it in the car if you want.I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and return the smile.
“Layla Whitman,” I say. “I have a reservation for the week.”
Her fingers move over the keyboard. “Cabin six?”
“That’s me.”
“First time in Cady Springs?”
“Yes.” I tuck a loose strand of blond hair behind my ear. “First time anywhere in a while, actually.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
“Then you picked a good place.”
I hope so. I need a good place. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like dry-erase markers, construction paper, or the coffee I drink too late in the afternoon because twenty-three second graders can drain every last drop of energy from a person before three o’clock.
I need a place where no one looks at me and quietly wonders whether I’m lonely because I’m alone. Yeah, it’s just me. And honestly, sometimes I am.
The woman slides a map across the counter. “You’re right here.” She circles a tiny square near the lake. “Cabin six is one of our smaller rentals, but it has a private porch, a little kitchen, and direct trail access down to the water. Ice machine’s beside the office. Kayak rentals open at eight. Firewood’s stacked behind the shed, and there’s a community firepit near the dock if you feel like being social.”
“Social,” I repeat, like she’s used a foreign word.
Her smile widens. “Or not. Plenty of people come here to hide with a book.”
“I brought three.”
“Then you’ll fit right in.”
She hands me an actual key, not a plastic card. The wooden tag is small with the number six burned into it. It feels charming and cottage rustic.
“Wi-Fi password’s on the fridge,” she says. “Cell service gets spotty on the far side of the lake, so don’t panic if your phone drops a bar or three. Around here, we call that a feature.”
I glance at my phone without meaning to. No missed calls. No messages. Good… and not good. That’s the strange thing about divorce. Silence is what I wanted. Silence is also where all the echoes live.
“Anything else I should know?” I ask.
“Stay on marked trails unless you’re with someone local. The lake’s safe in the main swimming areas, but there are coves where the depth changes fast. And don’t go jumping off anything unless you know exactly what’s under you.”
I let out a soft laugh. “That won’t be a problem.”
“You’d be surprised what people decide about themselves after a day or two here. My name’s Kelsey. Let me know if you need anything. Enjoy your stay.”
I laugh again, but it doesn’t feel quite as real this time. Because thatisthe problem, isn’t it? I don’t know what I’ve decided about myself anymore.
Five minutes later, I pull up in front of cabin six and sit with both hands on the steering wheel. The lake glitters through the trees, bright and blue beneath the late-afternoon sun. Pine branches shift in a breeze that carries the scent of water, warm wood, and something sweet blooming nearby. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs. A bird calls from the top of a tree. The whole place feels alive in a way my apartment hasn’t in months.
“There,” I whisper. “You made it.”
It’s just me. Layla Whitman. Thirty-seven. Elementary school teacher. Divorced. Childless, though not by choice. Owner of three sundresses, two bathing suits, one divorce decree, and an unreasonable number of feelings I prefer not to examine in direct sunlight. I get out before I can change my mind and drive home.
Cabin six is prettier than the pictures. The porch is narrow but private, tucked behind tall pines and a cheerful mess of wildflowers that look like they volunteered without permission.Two wooden chairs angle toward the lake. A small table sits between them, just big enough for coffee, wine, or the stack of books currently riding in my tote.
