“And your grandfather never remarried?”
“No.” I shake my head. “She was the love of his life. He couldn’t imagine finding someone who could remotely compare.”
“That’s so romantic,” she whispers, staring straight ahead. “I can’t imagine being loved like that.”
I can. I can imagine loving her like that.
We drive, both lost in our own thoughts for a couple of kilometres before I turn off onto a private road. Stopping at a closed gate, I roll down the window and quickly punch in the code that hasn’t changed in over a decade.
Beck raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” she asks as the gate slowly opens to let us pass. “Where are we?”
“The cottage.”
“And why is there a gate?” she asks in a slow, measured tone.
“I suppose this is a conversation we should have already had,” I mumble as we slowly travel down the long gravel lane.
Her eyes narrow, and her voice rises an octave. “What should you have told me, Ryan?” She pulls her hand from my lap and leans away from me.
“This is my grandfather’s cottage. He lives here full-time now, but while I was growing up, this was his summer home.”
“I know what a cottage is,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “What’s the big deal?”
“It’s not a typical cottage. Not like you would find around Emerley.”
“Okay…” She waits expectantly.
“My grandfather is a…” I stumble trying to find the correct words. “A very wealthy man.”
We turn the last corner, and I hear her gasp. “What the actual fuck?” Her eyes widen, jaw dropping.
Beyond the circular driveway, the house rises out of the trees in heavy timber and stone. Thick wooden beams frame the front, dark and solid, their scale impossible to miss. Tall windows stretch between the posts, reflecting the landscape back towards us. It looks less like it was built on the land and more like it grew from it. Mature oak trees and red maples surround it. Even with the leaves gone, they are impressive.
I glance at Beck as she takes it in. To me, it’s just the cottage. Home. But I can see how intimidating it must feel seeing it for the first time.
“This is not a cottage,” she says in disbelief. “Hannah’s cabin is a cottage. A couple of bedrooms and a bathroom. You can walk in from the beach with sand on your feet and just sweep it out at the end of the day. This is a mansion.”
“I know it’s a lot.”
She lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “A lot? That’s the understatement of the century. I’m pretty sure you could fit Emerley’s arena inside this place.”
“It’s not that big.”
“Are we seeing the same thing?”
“Are we going to sit in the truck and discuss square footage? Or go inside so you can meet my grandfather? He’s probably inside watching us, wondering why we’re still sitting here.”
She looks down at herself and groans. “I look homeless.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at me.” Her voice jumps an octave, words tumbling out as she waves her hand up and down her body. “I’m wearing a flannel shirt, ripped jeans, and Doc Martens, for fuck’s sake. I should have worn something nicer, and I don’t even have anything with me that would be better to change into. I packed for going to the cottage.”
“I’m wearing jeans and a flannel too,” I try to reason.
She tugs at the scarf in her hair. “I should have straightened it instead of tying it up like this.”
She flips down the visor and checks her reflection, scrubbing at her teeth with her thumb.
