Page 87 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

Sophie nodded, trying to shake off the nerves that had been building all day. Everything was coming along: every shelf now, including the floating ones, filled with books (arranged by genre and color, because she was nothing if not a woman of compromise), café area outside stocked with locally roasted coffee beans, children’s nook complete with a basket of stuffed animals for story time. The festival bunting she’d ordered specially from an Etsy shop after staying up until 2 a.m. scrolling through seventeen different options while eating biscuits straight from the tin like some sort of festival-decoration-obsessed gremlin had also arrived.

So why did it feel like something vital was missing?

She knew the answer, of course. It was six feet two inches of stubborn, sun-weathered boat captain, and it had been haunting her. It was embarrassing, borderline stalker territory. The man had made his feelings crystal clear…or rather, his complete lack of feelings. He wasn’t into her. Obviously. She needed to get that man out of her brain and the best way she knew to do that was through books and friendship.

“Come see what I’ve done with the local history section,” Sophie said abruptly, setting down her coffee and leading Grace to the far corner of the shop. “I finished it last night, which is why I look like something that’s been dragged through a hedge backward and then blow-dried on the wrong setting.”

The right-hand corner beneath the balcony had been transformed into a tribute to the lake’s heritage. Shelves of local history books were arranged beneath a collection of framed black-and-white photographs: boats being built, families gathered on docks, fishing expeditions from decades past. At the center was a display case containing what looked like hand-drawn boat plans, tools, and an old leather-bound journal.

“Is that…?” Grace trailed off, peering at the display.

“The Rhodes family collection,” Sophie confirmed, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from the display cloth for the fourth time in as many minutes. “I got most of it from the historical society archives at the museum. Ella really is a demon of research.”

Grace’s eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “You’ve created a whole exhibit on Luke’s family?”

“Not just on them,” Sophie quickly said, realizing this might only add to her stalker vibes. “On all the boat-building families of Solace Lake.” She gestured to the photographs, trying for nonchalance and missing by approximately the distance from London to Edinburgh. “But yes, the Rhodes family features prominently. They’ve been here the longest, after all.”

She’d spent hours at the museum with a very talkative Ella, combing through archives for mentions of the Rhodes family. The boat plans had been a particularly exciting find: original sketches by Luke’s grandfather for what would become his signature design.

“And I didn’t realize Luke’s mother’s family have just as deep roots here,” Sophie continued. “The Flores women were basically the lake’s unofficial medical department for about two centuries, weren’t they?”

Grace looked puzzled.

Sophie pointed to a sepia photograph of women in long skirts gathered around what looked like an herb garden. “Spanish settlers, originally. Luke’s great-great-grandmother was the go-to person for everything from broken bones to difficult births. The Flores women ran an informal healthcare system. Herbal remedies, midwifery, even weather prediction, if you can believe that.” Sophie’s voice grew more animated despite herself. “Ella found records going back to the eighteen hundreds.”

Grace’s eyebrows rose. “Wow, Sophie. You really went full detective, didn’t you?”

Sophie shrugged. “Needed to keep my mind occupied.”

Grace studied her face. “You did this for Luke.”

“No. I did this for Solace Springs.”

But maybe Grace was half right. Sophie ran a hand along the edge of the display case, remembering how Luke’s face had lit up the first time he’d told her about his grandfather teaching him to sand wood. How his voice had softened when describing summers spent in the boathouse workshop, learning techniques passed down through generations. The way his whole demeanor had changed, opening up like a flower to the sun.

Then she noticed something.

She blinked, suddenly focusing on what she’d been absently tracing with her fingertip. There, in one of the sepia photographs, was something that made her pulse race. One of the Flores men—Luke’s great-great-grandfather, according to Ella’s notes—was wearing a distinctive belt with an ornate buckle. Even in the faded photograph, she could make out the design: a compass rose that had been stylized to look like a flowering blossom, with delicate petals forming the directional points.

It was the same symbol that had been on the belt buckle left after her house was broken into!

“What’s up?” Grace asked, noticing the look on her face.

“That design was on the belt buckle I found after the break-in.”

“Really?” Grace frowned. “That’s odd.”

“Could whoever broke into my place be connected to the Flores family?”

“I mean, maybe. But Luke’s the only one in Solace Springs with Flores blood in his veins. Someone may have stolen the belt?”

Sophie frowned. The break-in, the scattered papers, the sense that someone had been looking for something specific…

“Should we ask Luke about it?” Grace suggested. “He might know if any family heirlooms went missing.”

“It’s fine,” Sophie said, too quickly. “I’ll figure it out. I’m opening a bookshop in a few days, not investigating a crime ring.”

A sudden gust rattled the windows. Tree branches bent at alarming angles, flinging sodden cherry blossoms to the ground, and the rain was no longer a gentle patter but driving sheets that obscured the opposite shore entirely. And the lake. It was starting to resemble the inside of a washing machine on spin.