That made me laugh properly, the sound small but real. Ivy had a knack for making even the worst moments bearable.
But as she bustled about, lighting the front candles and humming along to the radio, I turned the letter over again. Thesignature at the bottom was neat and unfamiliar–Oliver Grant, Executor of the Carter Grant Estate.
It looked so calm, that name. So final.
I glanced around the bakery, the rows of pastries cooling on their racks, the garland of dried oranges hanging above the counter, the little tip jar labelledFor This Year's Xmas Party. Every inch of this place held a memory. My mum’s laughter. My grandmother’s recipe notes scribbled in the margins of old cookbooks. Late nights spent experimenting until the first light crept over the hills.
This bakery was my whole world.
Outside, the snow fell thicker, blurring the view of the square. A few villagers were setting up the first stalls for the Christmas market, their breath visible in the cold. From across the street came the faint chime of the church bell marking the half hour. It was all so peaceful, so heartbreakingly normal.
I pressed my palm to the counter and took a slow breath. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they’d sent it to the wrong tenant. I’d write to the solicitors, call the number, straighten it out.
Still, an ache in my chest whispered that it wasn’t a mistake.
“Tea?” Ivy asked gently, breaking into my thoughts.
“Yes, please.” My voice came out small.
As she turned to the kettle, I looked out at the falling snow, feeling a strange mix of fear and resolve. Whatever came next, I couldn’t let The Honeycomb Hearth disappear.
“I’m not giving up,” I whispered, my breath fogging the window. “Not without a fight.”
The kettle whistled softly behind me, the sound warm and familiar against the hush of the storm. But when I looked down again at the letter lying open on the counter, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my quiet life in Pine Hollow was about to change forever.
Chapter Two
By the time the plane jolted for the fourth time, I’d decided never to trust anyone who described the Scottish Highlands as “peaceful.”
The elderly woman beside me had fallen asleep against my shoulder somewhere over Newcastle, snoring softly into the collar of my coat. Every time the aircraft dipped, her head knocked against mine. The child behind me had made it his personal mission to test the durability of my seatback, and his mother seemed blissfully unaware.
I tried to focus on my laptop, attempting to review the estate contracts that had dragged me out of London in the first place, but every tremor of turbulence sent the cursor darting across the page. The man in the aisle seat was reading a magazine titledWilderness Living: The Joy of the Simple Life.I found it personally offensive.
When the seatbelt light flicked on again and the plane lurched sideways, I shut the laptop with a sigh. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
The elderly woman stirred, murmuring something incoherent before settling back into sleep, her head landingsquarely on my arm. I stared down at the crown of her white curls and decided that if the plane went down, I would haunt the airline.
The landing was rough, the applause at the end entirely unearned.
I was one of the last to disembark, juggling my briefcase and coat, blinking against the sting of cold air as I stepped outside. Inverness greeted me with grey skies and sleet. The wind cut straight through my wool trousers. My mobile buzzed to life with a message from Claire, my assistant:
Safe landing? A car should be waiting. Don’t forget your gloves this time. Two days, Oliver. In and out before the office party. You’ve got this.
I didn’t “have” this. What I had was a headache and a growing dislike of everyone who’d ever used the wordpicturesque.
The hire desk clerk handed me my keys with a grin that made me suspicious. “A bit of snow on the roads today, sir. Beautiful drive once you’re out of the city, though.”
He said it like it was a promise. It was, in fact, a curse.
My “beautiful drive” began with discovering that the compact hatchback I’d been given was roughly the size of my niece’s toy car and about as suitable for Highland terrain. “I requested a four-wheel drive,” I told the clerk.
He shrugged cheerfully. “Aye, they were all booked. You’ll be fine. Just take it slow.”
Slow turned out to meanpainfully, infuriatingly, teeth-grindinglyslow.
The snow began falling harder ten miles outside Inverness, blanketing the narrow roads in a sheen of white that lookeddeceptively soft until the tyres skidded. The GPS lost signal every few miles, and when it worked, it pronounced every Gaelic village name like a drunk guessing at Scrabble tiles.
“This was supposed to be simple,” I muttered, gripping the wheel. “Two days, sign the papers, sort the sales, and home.”
