Page 3 of Winter in Kentbury
At the porch, I brush the snow from my jacket and step inside, letting the door swing shut against the cold. The air indoors holds a faint scent of cedar, leftover from the coffee table I finished last Sunday. I shrug off my coat and toss it over a chair, peel off my gloves, and rub my hands together, trying to coax warmth back into my fingers. The dog tags around my neck jingle softly.
I reach for them, my fingers curling around the cool metal, feeling the familiar weight resting against my skin. I roll them between my fingers for a moment, almost absent-mindedly, before letting them fall back into place. I’ve thought about taking them off more times than I can count. But every time, it feels like slicing away a piece of myself, a piece I’m not ready to leave behind.
I pour myself a mug of black coffee. No sugar, no cream. Leaning against the counter, I let my gaze drift out over the vineyard. Rows of vines stretch beneath a layer of fresh snow, stark and still. A quiet calm settles over everything. Each vine stands bare and brittle, lined up neatly, waiting for spring to decide their fate.
On the table, my notebook sits open, filled with messy scribbles: soil acidity levels, pruning schedules, notes on frost protection. Some days, I almost convince myself I’m getting the hang of this. Other days, it feels like I’m just a kid playing dress-up, going through the motions, waiting for reality to catch up and knock everything down.
Landon keeps telling me it’s fine if the first few batches aren’t perfect.Part of the process,he says, like it’s no big deal. Easy for him to say. He works with engines. They either run, or they don’t. And if they don’t, he can just tweak them until they do. But wine? Wine demands patience, waiting, and a kind of faith I’ve never been good at summoning.
I drag a hand down my arm, fingers brushing over the scar that cuts across my forearm. It’s faded, but the memory is sharp. I remember how one wrong jump can change everything in an instant. That’s the thing about pararescue—you prepare for the worst but hope you never live through it. I survived more worst-case scenarios than I can count.
The quiet here is supposed to be peaceful. Instead, it leaves too much space for thoughts I’d rather not revisit—memories that stick around, questions that go unanswered. Like whether this new life is really what I want, or if I’m just trying to convince myself it’s safer than clinging to the past.
I take a sip of coffee, feeling its warmth spread through me, but it barely makes a dent in the cold that seems to follow me everywhere these days. Outside, the wind picks up, howling as it rattles the windows, while snowflakes drift slowly through the dim afternoon light.
This place was supposed to be a fresh start. A chance to build something real, something that lasts. But most days, it feels like I’m still waiting. Waiting for things to click into place, for life to make sense again.
I glance at the clock. It’s still early, but there’s work to do. And if not I have homework from the winemaking master—Bishop. There is always something to keep me busy. I grab the notebook, flipping through pages of scribbled notes, trying to make sense of what I still don’t understand. Winemaking is a lot of trial and error, and I can live with that. What I can’t shake is the thought that I might never figure out what comes next.
For now, I keep moving forward. One day at a time. One vine at a time. Maybe, eventually, things will fall into place. People talk about finding peace in the simple things, and I’m trying to believe that. Trying to let these small routines pull me along until something shifts. It’s almost like I’m in some kind of rehab, one with no clear goals and no timeline, and I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be getting over. Is it the past? The uncertainty? Or just this hollow feeling that I’ve been carrying for longer than I’d like to admit?
Still, I do what I can. I show up. Tending the vines, fixing the house, filling each day with enough work to keep the silence from creeping in.
And if things never fall into place? If this life stays as raw and uncertain as it feels right now? Well, I’ve been through worse.
Chapter Three
Jenna
The highway stretches ahead,dusted in snow as I make my way to the wedding venue. The back of the van is filled with flowers arranged down to the last petal that are ready for the wedding taking place tomorrow. Winter isn’t my favorite season, butwhen I’m home, watching snow drift by the window from the warmth of my couch, curled up by the fire with a good book? I can appreciate it.
But on workdays, when I have to be out in it, driving across snow-slicked roads? Winter becomes my worst enemy. Today, it’s me against the biting cold, trying to pull off one of the biggest wedding orders the shop has ever had—and it’s for a town fifty miles away from Kentbury. The last thing I need is for the snowfall to mess with the timing.
“Dusting” might be generous, though. Snow is coming down faster now, blurring the road and stubbornly sticking to the asphalt. I squint through the windshield, wipers struggling to keep up as the flakes fall thicker and heavier.
I’m probably halfway to Silver Pines by now, but it’s hard to tell with the snow coming down harder by the minute, and I’m directionally challenged. A twinge of worry creeps in. This is starting to look dangerously close to snowstorm territory.
And just as that thought sinks in, the van gives a horrible, clunking noise.
“No, no, no . . . don’t do this to me,” I mutter, giving the dashboard a pleading look. “Come on, not today. Not now.”
But the universe seems to have a different plan. The van gives one last sputter as I steer it onto the shoulder, hitting the steering wheel in frustration as it rolls to a stop. This is the last thing I need, every time I try to get the shop back on its feet, something happens to knock me back down.
Business has been rough lately, and I feel like I’m letting my grandmother down. She trusted me with this place, and here I am stranded with the biggest order in jeopardy.
I turn the key again, hoping for a miracle, but all I get is silence. After a few more desperate tries, I give up and pull out my phone.
“Hello?” Meadow’s voice answers, faintly cheerful, like she’s already mid-celebration.
“Meadow, who’s your favorite person in the world?” I ask, trying to keep things light even though my patience is running thin.
“Uh-oh,” she says, instantly catching on. “What do you need?”
I groan. “The delivery van broke down a few miles out of town, and the snow’s coming down fast. I’ve got to get these flowers to the venue. Can I borrow your SUV? Or, even better, could you drive me? You know how bad I am in the snow.”
A sigh on her end. “Sorry, girl, I can’t. It’s Mr. Harris’s birthday, and we’re all out at the resort celebrating.”
Of course, she’s celebrating. I can practically picture her, cozy by the fire, enjoying the flowers I set up for the event earlier. And no, I’m not bitter—it’s just that ever since she started dating Raffa, Meadow’s practically become part of the McFolley family. Which means she’s tight with the Harrises too.
