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Miri
Current Day
Ipat the pocket of my leather jacket and feel the reassuring crinkle of well-worn paper there. There’s no need for me to keep the letter from my mom on me. I’ve read the thing so many times I could recite it by heart, but there’s something comforting about it. When the promised phone call never came from her after that night ten years ago, I knew what it meant. She was gone from the world just as surely as I still had breath in my lungs. I felt her life get extinguished, like someone had snuffed out a flame inside my heart. When days passed without a word from her, I knew it to be true. She wouldn’t have left me to wait in agony if she made it through that night.
Dani had comforted me the best she could, but we’d been virtual strangers at the time, and it felt wrong to have someone else wrap their arms around me when my own mother couldn’t. It made for a rough start to our relationship, but Dani is too damn sweet for her own good. Her good intentions eventually won me over, and I started trusting her enough to learn from her. She’d been my only steady in life since my mother’s death. I know she’s not thrilled about my latest decision, but she also knows exactly why I’m making it. She even helped me pack because that’s Dani for you, loving, supportive, understanding.
With Dani’s help and a pathetically small number of boxes that contain every item I possess, I’ve made the move to Wild Haven Island. It’s a small island, roughly one hundred square miles of land, that sits 15 miles from the coast of Maine. Technically, it’s still part of Maine but the only way to access the little water locked town is by ferry. Although a lot of the permanent residents have their own boats, so they can come and go as they please.
Today might be the first time I’m setting foot on the island, but I’ve done endless hours of Googling before I decided to come here. No amount of research could have prepared me for the sense of completeness, of coming home, that greeted me when I arrived. The images of incredibly lush forests of pine and extraordinary cliffs surrounded by the crashing waves of the ocean are the stuff of gothic fiction, and it’s hauntingly beautiful.
The teenage girl that still lurks inside me, the one who went through a goth phase after a bit of an obsession with Victorian spiritualism, is silently squealing with delight. This place has the combination of nature and luxury living that people pay gobs of money to visit, and I get to live here. The town is small and isolated, but it’s not claustrophobic. The acres of woodland and forest are gorgeous, and I can’t wait to explore them.
I’ve been on the island for less than a day, and I’m just about to sign the papers on my new house. It’s the house my mother grew up in and has been held in trust for me these past ten years until my twenty-fifth birthday. It’s part of the reason I moved here. The other is less clear-cut, but I’m determined to figure out what happened to my mother, and Wild Haven was the best place to start that search.
The crumpled letter in my pocket told me about the house, but even in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined what it would look like. The house is my second stop on the island. I dropped off my bags at the Airbnb I rented and headed straight here. Standing before the house makes my chest tighten with a familiar ache. For family. For a permanent home. The house is a combination of gothic revival and Queen Anne style architecture, built with washed out gray-brown brick and limestone covered in ivy and currently in need of a really good power wash. To say I love it would be a vast understatement.
It’s too grand to be called a cottage, but too small to be considered a mansion. I’m relieved to see that it looks to be in mostly good repair, except for the yard which has grown wild from years of inattention. It’s the middle of January so everything is dead and brown, not quite ready for the new growth that will happen in the months to come.
I spoke to the real estate agent on the phone a few times before my move, making sure everything was ready for me to take occupancy as soon as I signed the papers. He gave me the option to meet at his offices or here at the house. There was no question. I’ve been dying to see this house for years.
Pushing open the waist-high wrought-iron gate at the edge of the property, I stop and stare at the place that’s going to be my first proper home. There’s a wooden sign near that gate that’s dangling by one hook that says Wild Cottage in a scrolling font. The wood is faded and worn from years of exposure to nature. That same nature has overrun the yard. Weeds and wildflowers have run rampant and hide any semblance of a lawn. There’s a stone path that leads from the gate to the house and someone must have hacked out a path recently because it’s the only part of the yard that isn’t overgrown. The path circles around a dry fountain that looks wrong without water bubbling out of it cheerfully. Not that I have anything to compare it to, that’s just how I imagine it should be.
My gaze drifts up the house—my house—taking in the perfect amalgamation of different architectural styles. There are large windows in pointed arched frames, detailed with ornately carved stonework that also adorns the porch. There’s even a turret at one corner. Toward the back of the house is a conservatory completely encased in glass. What I can see of the windows from my spot at the gate shows them to be fogged up with steam, although it could just be built up grime. It’s a toss-up.
I take a step toward the house, compelled to cross over the threshold of the gate and explore this new place that belongs to me. Two things happen at once. Something skitters across the path in front of me, darting from one side of the overgrown grass to the other, and someone calls my name.
“Ms. Wilds?”
I screech and stumble back as I try to turn around, my feet and my brain fighting for dominance and both failing. I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to jump away from the rodent or the voice that scared the crap out of me. Arms catch me, keeping me from falling on my ass, and I freeze. Yep, some random dude has his hand on my boob. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I cringe and pull away, turning around so I can get a look at the guy who just copped a feel. Thank God I’ve got layers on. In front of me is a golden ray of light wrapped in a pristine suit. I never thought I’d consider calling a man dapper but damn if that doesn’t fit this guy to a tee.
He looks a little older than me, late twenties maybe. His blonde hair is cropped short on the sides and longer on top, but it’s artfully swept back. He’s so tidy looking that I want to ruffle his hair just to mess with him. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who instantly set me at ease. Even though he’s gorgeous, and we’ve already been to second base, all I get from him is a kindred spirit vibe. Definitely not a jumping his bones one.
Warm gray eyes, like stormy skies, are full of good humor, as if he knows I’m thinking about messing up his well-groomed appearance. I’d bet my eye teeth he was homecoming king or the quarterback or some shit like that. He doesn’t look remotely sorry for the boob brush.
When a smile breaks out over his face, there’s no way I can stop my grin in response.
“Ms. Wilds?” There’s laughter in his tone and I wonder if he’s always this bright and sunshiny or if our introduction is what’s put him in a good mood.
“Yes. Sorry. There was an animal. Probably a chipmunk. But then you scared the crap out of me. Anyway, yeah, right. It’s Miri. Not Ms. Wilds.” I exhale loudly, running a hand through the tousled waves of my dark hair. The smile, if possible, only seems to get brighter on his face.
“Archer Warren. I’m your real estate agent.” He holds out a hand and I chuckle as I take it, the feeling of camaraderie and friendship oddly instant. His hands are surprisingly rough for someone so polished looking, but his suit isn’t hiding the build of his body. Whatever Archer does in his free time, it isn’t lying around eating Cheetos.
I briefly contemplate if Archer might be a possible friend in more ways than one. I can’t imagine there are a lot of eligible bachelors here on Wild Haven Island. The population isn’t that big, a little over two thousand people, and three-fourths of the town’s income is from couples from east coast cities who come for romantic weekend getaways. But Archer, in his gray suit, all buttoned up and proper, gives off a charming vibe that must draw women to him like flies to honey. I’m sure the ladies of this island love him.
As quickly as I consider making out with Archer—at a future date, not like right this second in the overgrown yard with rodents running around—I dismiss it. I just don’t have that stomach swooping, tingly ache that the mere thought of someone else from my past always gives me.
I clear my throat and pull my hand away when I realize I’ve been holding his hand and inspecting him for way longer than is polite and turn back to the house. I eye the grounds, looking for any more furry little creatures that might scamper on by.
“It’s a bit overgrown.” Archer leans against the iron gate, not seeming to care that his suit will probably get dirty.
I snort and toss a jovial look over my shoulder at him. “Just a little.”
“I might be able to get you a few names of someone who could help clean it up.”
“I’ll let you know, thanks.” I actually love working outside in the dirt, but I’m not so sure I have the equipment needed to chop down the field of weeds. If it didn’t come with the house, I don’t have it.
“Do you want to go inside? Or are you ready to get everything signed?”
I desperately want to go inside and inspect every corner of the house, but when I do, I want to take my time with it. If someone is looking over my shoulder, I’ll feel rushed. Not like I get the sense from Archer that he would be anything but patient, but I don’t want to waste his time.
I take one last look at the house I plan to make a home, and happiness and hope take up equal space in my chest.
“Let’s go make you a homeowner.”
