Page 178 of Down Knot Out
“How is that different from any other day?” When he stands, I accept his hand. Getting up from the ground isn’t as effortless as it used to be with the extra weight I’m carrying. “Think they’ll eat all the sourdough?”
“You know he set aside a loaf for you.” Nathaniel dusts off his knees, leaving smudges of earth on his khakis. “He said there would be corn chowder for lunch, too.”
My mouth waters, and I hurry to help gather our gardening tools, stowing them in the new greenhouse.
With a last look at our newly planted lilac tree, we walk back toward the path that leads around the outside of the Homestead, our shoulders brushing. The scent of pine and cedar fills the air, along with the delicious lunch Holden made.
The lodge stretches ahead, warm cedar and fresh paint, planters blooming with late spring flowers along the porch rail. A hand-carved sign swings overhead, the letters burned into the wood by Blake’s careful hand:The Homestead at Misty Pines.
As we approach, I catch movement through thewindows as guests move around the great room. While the cabins were open all summer, these are the first guests to enter the Homestead, not counting the soft opening we did for friends and family two weeks ago.
“I should change.” I brush at my dirt-stained clothes. “I must look a mess.”
Nathaniel’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “You look like someone who built this place with her own hands. I think they’ll appreciate that.”
His confidence steadies me.
Before we reach the porch steps, the front door swings open, and Quinn darts out, her pink dress swinging around her knees, a clipboard clutched to her chest.
“Aunt Chloe! Uncle Nat!” She bounces on her toes. “We have guests! Real ones! And I’m the official greeter!”
Nathaniel chuckles. “Is that so?”
“Uncle Dom said I have the best smile for the job.” With a solemn expression, she lifts her clipboard. “I need to check you in, please.”
I hide my amusement as Nathaniel bends at the waist, giving her his full attention. “Of course, Ms. Quinn. We’re here for lunch.”
She draws a giant check mark on her piece of paper. “You’re on the list.” Then she takes in mydirt-smudged appearance. “Aunt Chloe, you should wash your hands. Uncle Holden says no dirty hands at the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a mock salute, and she giggles.
As she darts back inside, I exchange a glance with Nathaniel. His expression reflects the same pride, joy, and touch of disbelief I feel.
He steps ahead to open the door. “After you, Mrs. Wright.”
The entryway of the Homestead welcomes me with warmth and light, so different from the burned-out shell we stood in months ago. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, catching on the polished wood floors we spent weeks sanding and finishing. The scent of sourdough and rich chowder drifts from the kitchen, mingling with the cedar and pine that frame the vaulted ceiling.
Guests cluster in small groups around the space, some settling into the leather couches by the stone fireplace, others examining the local artwork hung on the walls. The whole place hums with life, vibrant with possibility.
Nathaniel squeezes my hand once before releasing it, already shifting into business mode as he moves toward a couple examining the trail map mounted on the wall. An air of quiet authoritysurrounds him as he points out the hiking paths and viewpoints, his posture relaxed but professional.
I weave through the dining room toward the kitchen, where the clatter of dishes rises above the hiss of the espresso machine.
When I step inside, I spot Holden standing in front of a giant stockpot on the stove. His golden-brown curls stick to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen.
He catches my eye across the kitchen island, and his face transforms, the stress melting away for a moment. “Right on time. Can you try this and tell me if it needs more salt?”
Before I can answer, he ladles a small portion of chowder into a tasting bowl and slides it across the counter to me. I lift it to my lips, blowing on it before taking a sip.
“Perfect,” I tell him, and his shoulders relax a fraction. “But you already knew that. How many times have you practiced this recipe?”
“I’m just nervous.” He wipes his hands on his apron. “Maybe I should have done the cold strawberry soup instead.”
“Too fancy. This is comforting,” I reassure him.
I linger at the counter, watching him work. Holden moves with a confidence he didn’t havewhen we first met, his anxiety channeled into creating rather than worrying. The kitchen is his domain, redesigned to his specifications after the fire destroyed the original.
The space is larger, expanding out the back of the house, with windows that face the smaller garden where he grows herbs and edible flowers. His hands never stop moving as he floats around the space, tasting, adjusting, and arranging.
