Page 17 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

As they drew closer to Maple Island, Sophie smiled to herself. It looked like someone had plucked it straight from the pages of a particularly lovely fairy tale, all smooth stones and driftwood scattered along its crescent shoreline like nature’s own decorating scheme. Dozens of maple trees covered the island in that impossibly fresh spring green, their new leaves so bright and tender they practically glowed.

Through the gaps, she glimpsed the tower attached to the inn: weathered gray stone rising from the heart of the island, perched among the maples on a gentle hill, all storm-colored walls and decades of ivy.

“I get it now,” she said quietly. “Why you were worried about changes to the lake. It’s not just about the buildings, is it?”

He peered over his shoulder at her. “No, it’s not. No excuse for the way I talked to you yesterday, though. I tend to get protective of things I care about, especially when people are trying to mess with them.”

“Like when your ex tried to change things?” Sophie asked before she could stop herself.

Luke went completely still, his knuckles whitening around the wheel. “That’s not your business,” he said, his voice low and brittle as lake ice. He turned away sharply, suddenly very interested in adjusting the boat’s speed.

Sophie mentally slapped herself. Way to go, Sophie. Five minutes of civil conversation and you’ve already poked the emotional bear trap.

Now she’d have to endure a morning on an island with a man whose family home she’d accidentally stolen and whose romantic wounds she’d just salted for good measure. The silence stretched between them like the widening wake behind the boat, and Sophie found herself staring at the approaching island, wondering if it was too late to claim she suddenly remembered an urgent appointment with literally anyone else.

Eight

Luke

The lake was quiet, the kind of stillness that only showed up when the sun was barely awake and most folks were still tangled in their sheets. Maple Island loomed ahead, mist clinging to its shoreline like it wasn’t quite ready to reveal itself. The shoreline was exactly as it had been since Luke was a kid: a rugged collar of stones worn smooth by decades of the lake’s patient touch, interrupted only by the small natural harbor. Maple trees stood along the spine of the landmass, their roots stretching down into the rocky soil like they were determined to keep the whole place from floating away.

In the fall, the place really came into its own. Those maples would catch the autumn sunlight, turning blazing red and gold and orange, until the island looked like it was burning from the inside out. On still mornings, you could see smoke curling up from the inn’s old stone chimney and threading through all that color.

No wonder folks traveled hundreds of miles just to sit on the inn’s wraparound porch and watch the leaves drift down onto the water like scattered coins. He could see glimpses of the inn now, a fifteen-minute walk through the trees if you knew the path. The old stone building had stood there for over a century like it had grown straight out of the island’s bones, lording over a small inlet that came in like a teardrop from the main lake. The stone tower attached to it had been there even longer. Old Abe’s father had built the inn around that tower with his own hands, hauling every stone across the water on a barge that probably should’ve sunk under the weight. Three stories of gray granite that had withstood every storm the lake could throw at it, standing stubborn as the day it was finished. Used to be the place folks came for their honeymoons, back when this was supposed to be some grand resort destination. These days it wasn’t as popular: too old-fashioned for the Tripadvisor crowd who expected marble bathrooms and room service. Abe and Margaret were too stubborn and set in their ways to modernize it. They didn’t much care what city folks thought about their threadbare carpets or the way the floorboards creaked. But hell, the bones were still solid. Just needed some spit and polish to bring it back up to standard. Maybe something newborn from the very driftwood the island produced.

Every spring and fall storm washed new treasures onto the island: driftwood bleached silver by sun and salt, twisted into shapes more interesting than anything you’d find in those fancy art galleries in Seattle.

Luke guided his boat through the familiar channel, feeling each subtle shift in the current through the wheel. He’d made this trip a thousand times, could practically do it blindfolded, but today the weight of having company—her company—made everything feel different. He’d been a damn fool to bring her here. But he’d felt that gnawing guilt about how he’d snapped at her the day before, so showing her the island seemed a good way to make her truly see what these waters and buildings meant. What was worth preserving.

Then she had to go and mention Claire, prodding at wounds he thought had finally begun to heal.

The island’s shoreline drew closer, revealing a small wooden dock. Luke eased back on the throttle, feeling the boat respond to his touch as he approached at just the right angle to counteract the morning current. He looped the bowline around the nearest cleat, then secured the stern before hopping onto the shallow shoreline. He turned, holding out a hand to help Sophie down. “Watch your step. Wood here gets slick.”

She hesitated just long enough to be stubborn before taking his hand, her palm warm against his calloused one.

As Luke stepped off the dock, his boots hit the boards with a dull thud, then something sharper. He looked down.

A broken bottle lay near the edge of the path. Not shattered, just cleanly snapped at the neck, like it had been set down and forgotten. Too intact to be lake debris. Too deliberate to be driftwood junk.

Frowning, he crouched beside it. There were faint scuff marks nearby. Maybe a boot print, maybe just wind. But something about it didn’t sit right.

Sophie stepped down beside him. “What’s wrong?”

He stood, brushing off his hands. “Glass. Fresh.”

“Probably teenagers sneaking beers, right?”

“Maybe.” He looked toward the trees, quiet and still in the morning mist, then carefully picked up the glass, throwing it in his boat’s bin.

“The wood we’re looking for will be over there,” he said, nodding toward the eastern edge. “Current brings in the best pieces after a storm, and we had a good one last week. Should be plenty to choose from.”

“I’ve always liked driftwood,” Sophie said as they headed to the eastern edge. “It’s got history in it, you know? Like it’s been places and survived all kinds of things. Anyone can buy furniture. But this”—she leaned down to pick up a small broken piece of driftwood, tilting it toward the light—“this has a story.”

Luke caught himself watching the way her lips moved as she spoke, that British accent flowing smooth as a current over river stones. It was like she actually understood the place and what it meant. Then he snapped back to his senses. He wasn’t here to get hypnotized by some fancy accent. He was here to show her what real lake history looked like, not the kind you could pack up and rearrange to match some modern idea of “rustic charm.”

The eastern shoreline opened up like nature’s own junkyard, littered with driftwood scattered across the expanse. Some pieces were just splinters, but others were whole branches, tree trunks even, bleached bone-white after years battling the lake. Morning sunlight lit up the water droplets still clinging to the wood, making everything glitter like Grandma’s old crystal glasses when the light hit it just right.

“Amazing the lake produces all this,” Sophie said as she picked up another piece.