Page 4 of This Love is Under Construction

The Griddle looks exactly like a diner should—worn vinyl booths the color of ketchup, counter stools that squeak when you swivel, and a waitress who calls everyone hon regardless of age, gender, or apparent life choices.

The air smells like coffee and bacon grease, with undertones of maple syrup and judgment.

“More coffee, hon?” Doris, according to her name tag, hovers with a pot that’s likely older than my career.

“Yes, please.” I slide my mug toward her. “And maybe another slice of that maple walnut pie?”

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on my choice to have pie for breakfast. Another point for small-town living: emotional eating without the LA side order of nutritional shaming.

She shuffles away, and I turn back to my laptop.

Zillow mocks me with brutal efficiency. I’ve spent the last hour researching options for the tiny disaster I now own, and they’re about as promising as my dating history.

The property value is listed at less than what I paid—and that’s assuming the structure isn’t actively trying to murder its inhabitants, which it absolutely is.

My phone buzzes with a text from Abby.

Status update? Has the hot lumberjack proposed yet? Have you been eaten by bears? DETAILS.

I type back:

No bears. No lumberjack. Just pie and Zillow regret. Drowning sorrows, trying to reverse-engineer my own rescue.

She replies instantly:

Pie LA juice cleanse. Also: messes can be fixed. That’s literally what hot lumberjacks DO.

I’m about to respond when I catch snatches of conversation from the booth behind me.

“…another auction mistake. You’d think they’d stop selling that place.”

“Third one in five years. Remember that couple from Seattle?”

“Left after the first rain flooded the foundation. This one won’t last ‘til fall.”

I sink lower in my booth, suddenly very interested in the sticky laminated menu.

“Walt said she was wearing sequins. At an auction. For a house. ”

“City people,” someone mutters, and it lands like a gavel.

I glance down at my outfit—black leggings, oversized sweater, outlet-mall boots. No sequins in sight today, though the infamous jacket is still folded in my suitcase, a glittery monument to champagne-induced hubris.

“The Sequin Shack’s gonna be another abandoned project by fall,” an older man declares, with the authority of someone who’s been proven right far too many times. “Mark my words. ”

The Sequin Shack. Great. My house has a nickname. Not Charming Cottage. Not Woodland Escape.

A name that makes it sound like a failed disco-themed strip club.

My phone rings, mercifully cutting through the spiral. It’s the real estate agent I contacted this morning—Barbara something, the only listing agent in Maple Glen according to Google.

“Hello?” I answer quietly, aware that the diner has reached that mysterious lull where everyone stops talking at once.

“Ms. Winslow? Barbara Lawson from Pine Valley Realty. Got your message about the Hendricks property.”

“Yes, hi.” I drop my voice further. “I was wondering what my options might be for, um… selling the property.”

A pause, then a chuckle. Not a warm one.

“Well, I’ll be straight with you. That place has been a tough sell for years. Land’s decent, but the structure’s a liability. Previous owners couldn’t give it away.”

“But I just paid seventy-five thousand for it,” I whisper-hiss into the phone.

Another pause. “At auction?”

“Yes.”

“Honey.” That word carries less affection and more oh, sweetie no. “They’ve been trying to unload that property for years. The auction house just slaps on ‘renovation packages’ and markets it to out-of-towners. You’re not the first.”

My stomach drops. “So what’s it actually worth?”

“Land alone? Maybe thirty thousand. With that structure? Less, since you’d need to pay for demolition.”

I close my eyes. I already know how this math ends—with me on the losing side of a very expensive mistake.

“What about the renovation package?” I ask, desperate. “Carver & Sons is supposed to?—”

“Owen Carver’s good people,” Barbara cuts in. “Best craftsman in three counties. But…”

She trails off, and I sit up straighter. “But what? ”

“Nothing. Just... the Carvers have a history with projects. Good luck, Ms. Winslow. Call me if you decide to list. But I’d wait until you’ve done some work. Right now you’d take a bath.”

She hangs up before I can ask what she meant about the Carvers, leaving me staring at my phone like it might offer a second, better ending.

Doris returns, sliding a plate in front of me—pie so massive it borders on spiritual intervention.

“You alright, hon?” she asks, topping off my mug without waiting for an answer.

“Just peachy.” I stab the pie with more force than necessary. “Apparently I made a very expensive mistake.”

She follows my gaze to the laptop screen, where photos of the house I now own are dwarfed by a Zillow estimate that practically plays a sad trombone.

“Ah,” she says, recognizing the emotional carnage. “You’re the one who bought the old Hendricks place. The Sequin—” She stops herself. “The one up on Pinecrest.”

“That’s me,” I sigh. “Apparently I’m this year’s cautionary tale.”

Instead of laughing or giving me the bless your heart look I expect, Doris’s expression softens.

“Don’t let the busybodies get to you. This town runs on gossip and maple syrup, and we’ve got an excess of both.” She pats the pie plate. “On the house. Welcome to Maple Glen.”

It’s such a small kindness—but after days of panic, whiplash decisions, and rain-soaked regret, it nearly undoes me. I blink fast, refusing to cry over free pie in public.

“Thank you,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.

Doris gives my hand a gentle squeeze and moves on to the next table.

I sit back in the booth, pie in front of me, coffee refilled, and the murmur of diner chatter all around.

Maybe, just maybe, Maple Glen isn’t entirely hostile territory.

“You must be Penny! I’m Marge Sullivan—we spoke on the phone?”

The woman who greets me at Marge’s Bed & Breakfast is exactly what you’d expect from someone who names a business after herself—confident, warm, and wearing an apron that says Bake the World a Better Place without a hint of irony.

She’s in her mid-fifties, with silver-streaked dark hair swept into a loose bun, laugh lines around her eyes, and an air of calm, capable kindness that makes me trust her instantly.

“Yes, hi,” I say, suddenly aware that I smell like diner coffee and desperation. “Thanks for having room for me.”

“Of course! We don’t get many visitors this time of year.” She ushers me into a Victorian house that looks like it was decorated by someone who genuinely loves doilies, not someone performing “authentic vintage” for Instagram. “I’ve put you in the Cascades Room—it’s our coziest.”

I follow her up a creaking staircase, past walls lined with black-and-white photos of Maple Glen through the decades. The place smells like cinnamon and furniture polish, and somehow that combination tells my frayed nervous system: you’re safe here.

“I heard you bought the Hendricks place,” Marge says as we reach the landing. “Brave of you.”

“Or stupid,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

She laughs—genuine, not mocking. “Sometimes they’re the same thing. Here we are.”

She opens the door to a room that is the polar opposite of my sterile LA apartment.

A patchwork quilt covers a four-poster bed.

Watercolor paintings of mountain landscapes hang on walls painted a soft, calming blue.

A window seat overlooks the garden, complete with mismatched cushions that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

“This is...” I search for words that won’t sound condescending. In LA, I’d call this “rustic chic” or “authentically curated.” Here, I think it’s just... real. “ Really lovely.”

“The bathroom’s down the hall—you’ll share with the Rose Room, but it’s empty for now.

Breakfast is seven to nine. Wi-Fi password’s on the desk, though it’s about as reliable as the weather forecast. Here’s your key.

” She hands me an actual metal key attached to a wooden keychain.

“I lock up around ten, but the side door has a keypad if you’re out late. ”

“Thank you,” I say, setting my overnight bag on the bed. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. Still figuring out... everything.”

“I’ve got a monthly rate,” she says, watching me closely. “Significantly discounted. Might be worth considering while you sort out your place.”

It’s practical help, not pity. That small distinction nearly undoes me.

“That would be amazing,” I say. “I saw the house yesterday and it’s... it needs more work than I realized.”

“Owen Carver’s handling the renovation, I heard?” Marge straightens a doily on the bedside table that was already perfectly centered.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

Her lips twitch. “Honey, everyone knows everyone in Maple Glen. I’ve known Owen since he was stealing cookies off my cooling rack. Good man. Bit rough around the edges—but aren’t we all?”

I think of Owen’s sharp gaze. The way he looked at the house like it had personally offended him. “He seemed... intense.”

“The Carvers are all intense. It’s part of their charm.” She moves to the door. “Oh—before I forget—Walt down at the hardware store asked me to tell you to stop by. Said he might have some salvage materials for your place.”

“Walt?”

“Henderson. Maple Hardware. Been there since dinosaurs roamed, if you ask him. He’s a character, but he knows his stuff.” She gives me a warm smile. “Come down when you’re ready. I’ll introduce you to proper tea. None of that teabag nonsense.”

After she leaves, I sink onto the bed, which is somehow both softer and more supportive than the designer mattress I left behind. The room feels lived-in. Intentional. Personal in a way my perfectly curated LA apartment never did.