Snowbound at Harbor's Rest
The snow started falling just outside of Portland, fat wet flakes that splattered against my windshield like suicidal moths. By the time I pulled off the coastal highway onto the long gravel drive leading to Harbor Lights Lodge, the world had dissolved into a swirling white curtain. My knee throbbed in time with the wipers, a dull ache that had been my constant companion for the past year.
I parked in the circular drive, the lodge looming before me like something out of a storybook—sprawling and gabled, with cedar shakes weathered to silver by the salt air. Smoke curled from the stone chimney, promising warmth I could already feel seeping into my chilled bones.
The front door swung open before I could knock, revealing a woman silhouetted against the golden light of the foyer. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with close-cropped dark hair and eyes that crinkled at the corners when she smiled. “You must be Whitney. I’m Bethany Chen, part-owner and head chef. Welcome to Harbor Lights.”
Her handshake was firm, her palm calloused in a way that spoke of hard work. I followed her inside, the warmth enveloping me along with the scent of something savory and rich—garlic, rosemary, and roasting meat.
“Dinner’s in an hour,” Bethany said, leading me through the great room, where a fire crackled in a massive stone fireplace. “Plenty of time to get settled. Your room’s on the third floor, ocean view. Best in the house.”
We passed a cozy bar area, where a slim woman with a riot of auburn curls was polishing glasses behind a long mahogany bar. She looked up as we approached, her eyes a startling shade of sea-glass green. “Heather Dubois, bartender extraordinaire. Welcome to the madhouse, Walsh.”
Her voice was low and smoky, with an undercurrent of laughter. I felt her gaze sweep over me, assessing, and a flush crept up my neck.
Bethany rolled her eyes, but there was affection in her voice when she spoke. “Ignore her. She likes to play the cynic, but she’s all bark and no bite.”
“Don’t lie to the new girl, Bethany. I bite when provoked.” Heather winked at me, and I felt that wink all the way to my toes.
Next, Bethany led me past a closed door marked with a placard that read “Spa.” “That’s Brynn’s domain,” she said. “She’s probably still with a client, but you’ll meet her at dinner.”
As if on cue, the door opened, and a petite woman with a wild mane of dark curls emerged. She wore yoga pants and a flowing tunic in a shade of lavender that matched her eyes. “You must be Whitney,” she said, her voice soft and melodic. “I’m Brynn Rossi. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Her handshake was gentle, almost tentative, but her eyes were warm and knowing as they met mine. “Bethany taking good care of you?”
“Like always,” Bethany said, pride coloring her voice. “I was just giving her the grand tour.”
Brynn smiled. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. I’ll see you both at dinner.”
As we turned towards the stairs, a muffled curse echoed from down the hall. A moment later, a woman emerged from a utility closet, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans. She was lean and wiry, with sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a messy braid and eyes the color of weathered denim. “Damn faucet’s leaking again,” she muttered, more to herself than to us. “Gonna have to replace the whole fixture.”
“Teagan Hayes, handywoman and resident grump,” Bethany said, her tone fond. “Teagan, this is Whitney Walsh, our new manager.”
Teagan looked up, her gaze sharp as it swept over me. She gave a curt nod. “Walsh. Bethany says you’re a skier.”
“Former skier,” I said, gesturing vaguely at my knee. “Career-ending injury.”
Teagan’s gaze flickered to my leg, her expression neutral. “Sorry to hear that.”
She turned to go, but Bethany stopped her. “Dinner in an hour, Teagan. Don’t be late.”
Teagan just grunted in response, already halfway down the hall.
Bethany shook her head, but she was smiling. “Don’t mind her. She takes a little warming up to, but she’s solid. We all are.” She started up the stairs, and I followed, my knee protesting a little less with each step. “We’ve been running this place together for five years now. It’s not always easy, but we make it work.”
At the top of the third-floor landing, she opened a door and gestured me inside. The room was spacious and airy, with a king-sized bed piled high with fluffy white linens and a wall of windows overlooking the churning gray Atlantic. “Home sweet home. Bathroom’s through there, and there’s plenty of closet space. Make yourself comfortable. Dinner’s at seven in the dining room.”
She left me alone, and I sank onto the edge of the bed, my knee throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Outside, the snow fell harder, muffling the crash of the waves against the rocks below.
I felt a million miles away from the life I’d left behind—from the endless cycle of training and competition, from the searing pain of my accident and the hollow ache of my recovery. Here, in this place, with these women, I could almost believe in the possibility of something new.
Something better.
I unpacked slowly, hanging my clothes in the closet and arranging my toiletries in the spacious bathroom. As I bent to tuck my suitcase under the bed, a sharp twinge in my knee made me gasp. I straightened up, leaning against the bedpost until the pain subsided.
When I could breathe again, I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Ten minutes until seven. Time to meet my new life head-on.
I made my way downstairs, the murmur of voices growing louder as I approached the dining room. The table was already set, with Bethany and Brynn chatting over glasses of wine while Heather uncorked another bottle. Teagan was nowhere to be seen.
“Ah, there you are,” Bethany said, gesturing to an empty seat beside her. “Come, sit. Teagan will be down in a minute.”
I slid into the chair, and Heather poured me a glass of rich red wine. “So, Whitney Walsh,” she said, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Career-ending injury, huh? That sounds like a story.”
I took a sip of wine, the bold flavors exploding on my tongue. “Not a very interesting one, I’m afraid. Wiped out during a training run, tore just about everything there is to tear in a knee. Titanium replacement, months of rehab, and here I am.”
“Here you are indeed,” Brynn said softly, her lavender eyes warm on mine. “And we’re glad to have you.”
Before I could respond, the door swung open, and Teagan appeared, her hair damp as if she’d just showered. She slid into the empty seat across from me, nodding briefly in my direction before reaching for the basket of warm, crusty bread in the center of the table.
Bethany began to serve the meal—a hearty beef stew with chunks of tender meat, carrots, and potatoes swimming in a rich, fragrant broth. I took a bite, and the flavors exploded on my tongue, savory and complex, with a depth that spoke of hours of slow simmering.
“Bethany made this,” Brynn said, her tone proud. “She’s an absolute wizard in the kitchen.”
“I just like to feed people,” Bethany said, her cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s how I show love.”
“Better than my way,” Heather muttered, topping off her wine glass. “I show love by making people drunk.”
Teagan snorted, and I caught a glimpse of a smile teasing the corner of her mouth. “Speak for yourself, Dubois. Some of us show love by fixing leaky faucets.”
“Or by rubbing people’s sore muscles,” Brynn added, her eyes twinkling.
I felt a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the wine. There was an ease here, a sense of camaraderie that felt both foreign and deeply comforting.
As the meal progressed, the conversation flowed easily, the women sharing stories about the lodge and its guests, about their lives before Harbor Lights. I listened more than I spoke, content to soak up their warmth and wit.
When the stew was gone, Bethany brought out a apple crisp, the scent of cinnamon and baked apples making my mouth water. As I took my first bite, I felt a foot nudge mine under the table. I looked up to find Heather watching me, her expression neutral.
“So, Walsh,” she said, her voice deceptively casual. “You any good at darts?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been known to throw a dart or two. Why?” “Because I’ve got a dartboard in the bar,” she said, a challenge in her eyes. “And I could use a new victim.”
I met her gaze, a spark of something like anticipation igniting in my chest. “Lead the way.”