Page 2 of Winter in Kentbury
He’s not wrong. When Meadow, my best friend and roommate, started dating Raffa McFolley, I figured it was time to give her some space. So, I moved into the small apartment above the shop. It hadn’t been lived in for years, and the dust alone took me days to clean up.
The place is still rough around the edges. The walls need a second coat of paint, the floors need more than a good scrub, and there’s an old furnace that groans every time I turn up the heat. But it’s mine. For now, it’ll do.
Later, I’ll need to replace the stove and maybe even add a few things to make it feel like a real home. For now, I’m living on microwave dinners and air-fried meals. It works. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. The best part of the place is that I can just come downstairs to work when I’m bored—and so what if maybe I’m down here way more than I should be, no one would ever know.
I walk Grandpa to the door, brushing powdered sugar from my fingers as we go. “Thanks again for breakfast.”
He pulls his coat tighter, a smile lingering as he steps outside. “See you tonight, Bee.”
“See you,” I reply softly, holding the door as he steps into the cold. The bell jingles gently as it swings shut behind him, and I watch him disappear down the snowy street, his figure fading into the morning.
Back at the workbench, I set the half-eaten donut beside the arrangement I’d been working on. The shop feels quieter once he’s gone—just me, the flowers, and the ever-growing list of tasks waiting to be tackled. But this part? This is what I love. Just me in my element, no distractions. The rest of the world, the cold, the noise—it all fades away as I lose myself in the careful dance of petals and stems.
I clip a rose stem at a perfect angle, back to humming softly to myself. Getting lost in my own tempo like Grandma did. She used to say flowers bloomed better with a little melody. So I hum, letting the rhythm settle over me, a small comfort in the quiet of the shop.
When the bouquet is finished, my hands are stained green, and my cardigan is speckled with powdered sugar. I lift the arrangement to the light, tilting it slightly, admiring how the roses nestle into the greenery. Outside, the town is waking up under a soft, pale light, everything touched by a gentle winter glow. Peaceful. Almost perfect.
Yet beneath that calm, there’s something else—a quiet unease, like a murmur just out of reach. It’s been lingering for a while now, a restlessness I can’t quite shake. It whispers to me in these quiet moments, filling the silence with questions I don’t yet have answers for. Am I waiting for something? Or maybe . . . someone?
I don’t even know. I push the thought away. There’s no time for mysteries or daydreams, not today.
I check the time on my phone and feel the weight of the hours ahead settle over me. The to-do list is endless, and Knightly’s event won’t come together on its own. I breathe in, steeling myself, and glance down at the finished bouquet in my hands. “Alright, Jenna Santos,” I murmur, placing the delicate arrangement into its vase with care, as if sealing a promise. “Let’s make some magic.”
Winter may not be on my side due to the cold, but at least I have my flowers, each bloom a reminder of resilience. And thanks to Grandpa’s kindness, I’ve got pastries too—a little sweetness to see me through the season.
Chapter Two
Holden
I jog along the trail,each step steady on the frozen ground, the crunch of dirt and ice filling the quiet around me. My breath comes out in small clouds, each one hanging in the air beforevanishing into the cold. Every morning, rain or shine, snow or heat—it doesn’t matter, I run five miles, non-stop.
This is the routine. I push forward, mile after mile, letting the rhythm of my feet on the ground keep me grounded.
The cold seeps through my skin, chilling my muscles until each step feels heavier. Winter mornings in Kentbury have a way of making the world feel paused, the landscape suspended in silence.
The lake lies still beneath a layer of ice. As if waiting for something to break the calm. The air carries a bite, laced with the scent of pine and woodsmoke, clear and refreshing as if everything was scrubbed clean while we slept.
Out here on the outskirts of town, where the thirty acres of Miller Vineyard stretch out before me, it’s just me, the snow-dusted vines, and the crunch of my steps. No neighbors to ask questions, no small-town gossip creeping in. Just open space, empty fields, and quiet mornings.
I slow as I reach the top of a small hill, hands on my hips, breath coming out in steady bursts that fog up the air. From here, I can see the vineyard stretching in neat rows, each vine bare and brittle in the cold, stripped down for the season. They’re waiting, just like everything else, for spring to arrive to decide if they’ll bloom again or wither away.
And somehow, staring out over those rows of vines, I feel a pang of recognition. My life, too, feels lined up neatly, laid bare, but completely out of my control. I tend to the vineyard, do everything I’m supposed to, but there’s no telling if all this work will amount to anything. The frost could hit too hard, the buds could die off, and then all that’s left is to start over again.
Winemaking, though—that’s a whole different challenge. For now, I’m learning from Bishop, one of my best friends. He’s got it all figured out. He runs the orchard, knows his way aroundcider-making, and he even went to school for chemistry to become a winemaker.
Who does that? Only Bishop Harris, who knows exactly what he’s doing with his life. Me? I knew a lifetime ago and never thought about what would happen if I had to retire. Everyone thinks I’m fine, that I’ve got everything sorted. But the truth? I’m no better off than I was the day I retired. Winemaking wasn’t the plan.
Hell, thereisn’ta plan. That was always Landon’s thing. My younger brother’s the one with the plans, the one who kept saying, “Just try it until you figure out what you really want. Or if this isn’t it, we can sell the vineyard to the Harrises.”
Yet here I am, stuck in this waiting game, just like these vines. Settled, hoping that somehow the next season will give me something I can hold on to. It feels too much like the military. You train, you prepare, but in the end, the outcome is always uncertain.
I pull my gloves tighter, exhale hard into the cold, and start the jog back toward the farmhouse. The big, empty house looms ahead—a place built for more than one. But it’s just me, rattling around in the quiet.
For the past six months, I’ve kept myself busy with renovations—replacing the roof, sanding down old wood, patching walls that probably haven’t been touched in decades. Somehow, it helps. There’s a certain comfort in fixing things, in seeing solid results. A wall that won’t crumble. A roof that keeps the rain out. Furniture I’ve built with my own hands.
Maybe today, I’ll start on that end table. There’s not much else on the list, and the quiet of this place is starting to itch under my skin. Landon left a voicemail last night, something about stopping by the shop if I got bored. There was also a reminder about the Harris event. Or maybe it was someone’s birthday? I barely listened, already knowing I wouldn’t be attending.
Somehow, Landon seems to think we still have that easy rhythm we had as kids. But we don’t. I’m not that teenager who left home all those years ago. I almost called him back, but . . . what would I even say? That the silence here is creeping into my bones? That I have no idea how to ask for help without feeling like I’m coming apart?
