Page 86 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

Yep, time to head back. He’d been so deep in thought, he hadn’t even noticed how the clouds had transformed in minutes, piling up like mountains, dark and heavy with rain. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by a rumble of thunder that Luke felt in his chest.

“Hang on,” Luke told his boat, opening up the throttle. “Going to get rough.”

That was an understatement. Solace Lake, usually as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror, had transformed into something wild and vengeful. White-capped waves rose from nowhere, spray stinging his eyes as he fought to keep them on course.

Rain was coming down in sheets now, cutting visibility to nearly nothing. He navigated by instinct, by the patterns etched into his brain after a lifetime on this water.

The sky turned an unnatural shade of greenish-black, a color Luke had only seen once before, during the microburst of ’98 that had taken out half the docks on the eastern shore.

Another wave crashed over the bow, soaking him now. He ignored the rising panic, focused instead on the task at hand: getting the hell away from this storm.

He was maybe five minutes out from the marina when Luke saw it: a wall of water rising ahead of him, taller than any wave had a right to be on an inland lake. Behind it, the sky had gone pitch black, as if someone had drawn a curtain across the world.

Luke jammed the throttle forward, hoping to crest the wave before it broke.

But the lake had other plans. The water rose higher than Luke thought possible, blocking out everything as it loomed over their small craft.

Luke had just enough time to think of Sophie before the wave crashed down and the world dissolved into chaos.

Thirty-Five

Sophie

Sophie perched on her newly cushioned window seat, a book in hand, and a steaming mug of Earl Grey at her side. The rain tapping against the glass reminded her of lazy Sundays in her London flat, except here the view was of churning lake water rather than bustling streets.

“Very British weather you’re giving me today, Solace Springs,” she murmured, taking a sip of tea. “Miserable and moody.”

Appropriate really, considering how she felt. Three weeks since their blowout and she still found herself turning to share a thought with Luke, only to find empty space where his broad shoulders should be. Three weeks of throwing herself into bookshop preparations to avoid thinking about the hurt in his eyes when she’d mentioned Claire.

She’d spent the night staring at the ceiling beams of her boathouse as, finally, the truth had seeped into her bones, settling like sediment at the bottom of a lake—undeniable, immovable.

Luke didn’t want to be with her. She’d been one of those tourist flings after all, like Natalie said. She needed to focus on more book ordering, which, she’d discovered, was part science, part gambling addiction. Would that obscure Finnish crime novel find its audience or would it gather dust until the next millennium? Should she order five copies of the new celebrity cookbook or twenty? Each decision felt momentous, even as a voice in her head reminded her that no one would die if she got it wrong.

The reality of running an actual business—not just the romantic dream she’d sold to her crowdfunding backers—was hitting her like a series of small, persistent waves. There were vendor accounts to establish, sales tax permits to file, insurance policies to decode. Every day brought a new expense she hadn’t budgeted for, another complication she hadn’t foreseen when she’d been wine-drunk and dreaming of literary success.

Not to mention the unfinished counter. She couldn’t bring herself to ask Luke to complete it and any carpenters she found were all booked out.

Her gaze was drawn to the driftwood shelves Luke had built lining the walls, each one now filled with carefully curated titles. When he’d installed them, he’d run his hand over the smooth wood with such quiet pride that Sophie had nearly combusted on the spot. Who knew craftsmanship could be such an aphrodisiac? Certainly not her previous boyfriends, whose DIY skills had maxed out at assembling IKEA furniture, usually with parts left over.

But now those shelves just reminded her of what she didn’t have.

She dragged her eyes away. This wasn’t about Luke. This was about her. She’d wanted this for so long. Independence. A business built on her terms.

So why did the achievement feel hollow?

Maybe it was because, despite her best efforts, Luke’s ghost seemed to haunt every corner of the boathouse. The mug he’d used the morning they’d shared coffee on the dock (the one she absolutely did not wash less frequently than the others). The pencil marks on the wall where he’d carefully measured for shelving, his handwriting so precise it could have been a font called “Stubborn Craftsman Bold.” Even his blasted power drill had memories, like the way he’d patiently shown her how to use it, standing close enough that she could feel the rumble of his voice against her back when he’d murmured, “Not so hard, just let the tool do the work.”

She looked out toward the section of dock they’d sat on one night, talking about constellations. He’d surprised her by knowing not just the traditional names but all the stories behind them. “My grandfather taught me about the stars,” he’d said, “told me a man should know his place in the universe.” Sophie had nearly replied that she’d like his place to be right next to her, forever, but had swallowed the words with her wine instead.

And now any chance of forever with him was gone.

There was a knock at her door. She opened it to find Grace standing outside, pink hair drenched from the rain, two coffees in her hand. “In my defense, it wasn’t raining like this when I left the café.”

Sophie laughed, letting Grace in. Grace paused, taking in the interior. “Wow, Sophie. Look how much you’ve done! I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never seen the old boathouse look so good.”

Sophie took a fortifying sip of coffee, trying to ignore the swarm of butterflies performing an interpretive dance in her stomach. “Thanks. Though I’m not sure the whole town will agree. I’m expecting at least three passive-aggressive comments about ‘changing the character of the place’ and one direct accusation of gentrification.”

“Stop it.” Grace bumped her shoulder. “Everyone’s so excited for the opening this weekend! We’ve never had a proper bookshop in Solace Springs; this is major!”