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“Yes, I know Kenzie. All good things must come to an end, though,” he says as he looks away from her, clearing his throat.

Mack leans back as if he struck her, before she corrects herself.

“Thank you, Jackson. Your hard work is appreciated.”

“Of course, anytime. She’ll need regular oil changes, and I’d plan on replacing the spark plugs in the near future, but otherwise, she looks road-safe.” He slams the hood closed, turning his attention to me.

“Hey, Sugar, ready to head home?”

And I can’t think of a sentence I’ve ever been happier to hear.

37

JACKSON

Phoenix is already perched in her front bench seat as I steady the canoe and push us off from shore. The sun is high, the air thick with that late-August heat that’s already starting to lose its nerve—fall’s coming, even if it hasn’t said so yet.

“Where are we off to today, gentle sir?” She leans back, basking.

“Well, my lady, I thought we’d take a meander down through the river. See where it leads us.”

“Downstream would be my guess,” she chides, sliding her sunglasses on and tipping her face up into the sun, shoulders finally loose.

We fall into comfortable silence, the current doing most of the work for me. She sighs, watching the houses drift past. “I’ve always loved the houses along the river. Each one’s different and somehow they all still fit together.”

We pass a large log home with green shutters and neatly trimmed grass. Across from it, there’s a blue craftsman with intricate woodwork and three lawn gnomes visible even from the water.

“Could you imagine living here? Waking up to the river every day.” She tilts her head, watching the houses go by like she’s already decided which one she’d pick. “It would be like The Quiet Bend, but every day.”

We ended up staying two extra nights at that B&B. Barely left the property. Most of it was spent on the patio, her curled into my lap, both of us staring at the water—not talking, not needing to.

“I can,” I say. “Sounds perfect.”

I dip the oar deeper than I need to, angling us around the bend slower than the current wants to take us. Months of planning, and it comes down to these next thirty seconds.

“Jackson, look at that cottage!”

White plaster, weathered soft at the edges. A black shingled roof, steep enough for real winters. It’s smaller than many of the houses on the river—but it sits right at the bend, close enough that the porch nearly hangs over the water.

“Let’s take a closer look.” I paddle us toward the dock that has seen better days with its chipped white paint and uneven boards, but its sturdy enough to stand on.

“What are you doing? We can’t walk on someone’s property like that.”

“There aren’t any ‘No Trespassing’ signs. And it doesn’t appear anyone is living here. Come on, Sugar. Live a little.”

I tie the canoe off on the dock and step onto the creaking boards, reaching a hand out for Phoenix. She hesitates for only a moment, curiosity about the property outweighing her desire to follow the rules.

The house has seen better days, but you can tell it has been well-loved. It sits on an acre lot, and the grass across the property could use a cutting. However, the ambiance of the home, nestled next to the river, naturally slows your breathing, releasing the tension in your shoulders.

“Jackson, look at this garden—it’s perfect! Exactly like Miss Honey’s.”

The cottage garden is an organized chaos of roses growing on a trellis, foxglove and black-eyed Susans on the borders, with a few herb varieties scattered throughout.

“It’s the only thing I’ve gotten to so far,” I murmur under my breath.

“What was that?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the house.

“Nothing, let’s go take a closer look.”