Read Chapter 33: The Competition

The phone call came at nine in the morning, and Maren almost didn't answer it. She was elbow-deep in pastry dough for the weekend's breakfast service, flour dusting her forearms like early snow.

"Cole's Inn," she said, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder.

"Hi, is this the inn that hosted that writing workshop last spring? I heard through the grapevine you might be running another one."

The voice was polished, vaguely familiar in that way NPR hosts sound familiar—cultured and effortless. Maren wiped her hands on her apron.

"We're not—we haven't announced anything yet. We're still figuring out the winter schedule—"

"Perfect. That gives us time to collaborate." The woman laughed, a warm trill. "I'm Natasha Reyes. I'm sure you've heard of me. I write literary fiction—*The Glass Orchard*, the Oprah pick?"

Maren's stomach dropped. She'd seen that book everywhere two years ago. The cover was unmistakable: a stark apple tree against a blood-orange sky. Her mother had owned a copy. She'd never read it, but she'd admired the spine on the shelf.

"Of course," Maren managed. "I didn't realize you were in Vermont."

"I'm renting a cabin up in Stowe. I've been working on my next novel and I'm stuck, honestly. I heard through—well, through a mutual acquaintance—that there's a talented writer crashing at your inn. I thought maybe a bit of camaraderie could help us both. And I'd be happy to pay top dollar for a stay, plus run a few sessions for your guests if you're interested in hosting."

Maren's grip tightened on the phone. *A mutual acquaintance.* Julian hadn't mentioned knowing Natasha Reyes. But Julian had a whole life that predated her, a world of glowing reviews and literary parties where people like Natasha Reyes fluttered like rare birds.

"Let me check with my business partner," Maren said, forcing warmth into her voice. "We had some recent changes in ownership, so I'll need to confirm everything. Can I call you back?"

"Of course. I look forward to hearing from you." Light pause. "And I hope Julian's doing well. Tell him Natasha says hello."

Maren hung up, heart thrumming. She finished the dough, but her hands moved without her, one eye on the window where—sure enough—she could see Julian crossing the yard from the cabin, his breath fogging in the cold. He was smiling at something, probably a line he'd written that morning. Since Arthur left, Julian had been writing steadily, two or three hours every morning in the cabin before he came to help with breakfast.

She felt a sharp pang of something she didn't want to name.

---

Julian came in stomping snow off his boots, cheeks red with cold.

"Morning," he said, shrugging off his coat. "You're up early."

"I got a call." Maren pulled the tray from the oven and set it on the counter. "Natasha Reyes."

Julian's face went through a quick sequence—surprise, something guarded, then a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Natasha? She's in Vermont?"

"She says she knows you. She wants to come stay here, run some sort of writing sessions for guests. She mentioned you by name."

Julian scratched the back of his neck. "She's—we've known each other for years, met at a residency in Iowa. She's brilliant. A little intense, but brilliant."

"I said I'd check with my business partner." Maren folded her arms. "Should I invite her or not?"

"Sure. Why not?" Julian shrugged with a casualness that felt practiced. "It could be good for the inn. She's got a following. And honestly, I could use someone who actually knows the writing world. No offense."

None taken. Maren didn't say it. Something cold settled in her ribs.

The call was made. Natasha arrived that afternoon.

---

She was not what Maren expected. Natasha Reyes, at forty-five, was a study in calculated elegance—silver-streaked black hair swept into a loose knot, tortoiseshell glasses perched on a delicate nose, a cream-colored turtleneck that probably cost more than the inn's heating bill. She stepped out of a forest-green Land Rover looking like an advertisement for the literary life, and she embraced Julian like a friend from another lifetime.

"Darling," she said, kissing both his cheeks. "You've gone rustic. It suits you."

Julian laughed, and Maren felt her jaw tighten. He didn't laugh like that with her. With her, he laughed carefully, as if morning light might shatter.

Natasha turned to Maren with a warm smile, her hand extending. "You must be Maren. Julian's told me so much—the inn is lovely, what you've done with it. Saving an institution is no small feat."

"Thank you." Maren smiled back, aware that her own turtleneck had a mustard stain near the collar she hadn't noticed.

The first evening was fine. Natasha charmed the guests at dinner, telling stories about publishing misadventures and failed book tours. Maren caught Julian watching Natasha with something like admiration. He offered her seconds of the butternut squash risotto. He asked her about her new manuscript.

Maren scraped plates in silence.

---

By Tuesday, Natasha had taken over the parlor as her workshop space. The sign-up sheet filled immediately—the inn was nearly full now, winter tourists and aspiring writers drawn by the promise of intimate sessions with a literary celebrity. Natasha was good, Maren had to admit. She made writing feel possible, each participant leaving with flushed cheeks and renewed purpose.

Julian attended every session. He sat in the back, notebook open, nodding at Natasha's insights.

On Wednesday evening, Maren brought in a tray of hot chocolate after the workshop ended. She heard them through the open parlor door before she saw them—Julian's voice, low and hesitant, Natasha's response, encouraging.

"Your problem," Natasha was saying, "is that you've been ashamed of your own story. You keep circling it like it's a wound. But it's a gift, Julian. Your father's past, the legacy of that house—there's a novel in it. A great one."

"I don't know if I'm ready to—"

"Ready isn't something you fake. It's something you build. Come to my cabin in London this spring. A month of uninterrupted work. No distractions." She paused, and Maren could picture the hand on Julian's arm. "I'll show you the scene where the mother leaves. You were always strongest with the mother."

Maren's fingers tightened on the tray. The cups rattled, and she had to steady herself by pressing an elbow against the doorframe. The noise caught their attention; Julian looked up, his expression flickering somewhere between guilt and relief.

"Maren," he said. "We were just—"

"Hot chocolate." Maren set the tray on the sideboard with more force than she intended. A splash of cocoa slopped onto the lace doily underneath. "For the workshop."

Natasha rose with the ease of a cat. "How thoughtful." She took a cup, cradling it like she was used to being served. "Julian and I were just discussing the future. I was telling him how good his new pages are, how glad I am he's writing again."

"Pages?" Maren looked at Julian.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I started something new. Short thing. Nothing definite."

"They're expansive and gorgeous," Natasha corrected. "He's finally writing about his father, about the house. It's the best work he's done since the debut." She turned back to Julian, eyes bright. "I mean it, Julian. London in the spring. Before the English countryside blooms—that's when the light is best for writing. You'll come, won't you?"

Julian opened his mouth, and Maren held her breath. The pause stretched long enough for her to count every crack in the ceiling plaster.

"I'll think about it," he said finally.

Natasha smiled like she'd already won.

---

Later, when the inn had gone quiet and the last guest had retired, Maren stood in the kitchen scraping burnt caramel off a pan. The motion was satisfying, violent. She heard footsteps and didn't look up.

"Natasha's intense," Julian said. "But she's a good friend. She just wants to help."

"Is that what she wants?" Maren scraped harder. "She was inviting you to London. With her."

"I don't know if I'd frame it that way."

"How would you frame it then?"

Silence. She finally looked at him; Julian's face was open and confused and infuriatingly sincere.

"I haven't written this much since—since before everything. She makes me feel like it's possible again. Like I can come back."

Maren turned back to the pan. The caramel had burned black, useless.

"Then you should go to London," she said.

The words came out even and quiet. Julian started to say something else, but she was already walking past him, up the stairs, to the room she now thought of as hers—where the letters Clara had written to her mother were hidden in a shoebox under the bed, unread, still carrying whatever secrets she hadn't had the courage to face yet.