Welcome to Havens Rest

The bell above the door jingled the same way it always did, soft and sweet, like the town itself. I was halfway through my Monday special, two eggs over easy, bacon crisp enough to shatter, strawberry jam glistening on the corner of my toast, when she stepped inside.

She had the look of someone who did not belong. Not in a bad way. Just untethered. City shoes, hair windblown from the highway, eyes moving as if she was not sure whether she had walked into a diner or a photograph of one.

Ruth leaned across the booth and nudged me with her elbow. “Fresh blood,” she whispered. Daniel chuckled into his coffee.

The newcomer cleared her throat. “Sorry, do you know when the realtor’s office opens? I was told nine, but no one’s there.”

I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and rose with my best smile. “That would be me.”

Her face brightened. “Oh, good. I am Claire.”

I shook her hand, firm and steady. “Welcome to Haven’s Rest. You could not have picked a better place to start your Monday.”

She laughed politely and slid into the booth across from me after Ruth and Daniel scooted over. Maggie, the waitress, brought her coffee without even asking. That is how we are here.

“So,” I said, “what brings you to our little corner of the world? Looking for property?”

Claire wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the steam curl into her glasses. “I am just passing through. But the town looked so peaceful, I thought I might see if there were homes for sale.”

“Peaceful is what we do best.” I gestured toward Main Street through the window, neat and tidy. “You will not find a quieter, kinder place.”

She nodded slowly. “I have heard small towns can be difficult to break into. You know, everybody knowing everybody. Is it like that here?”

“Not at all,” I said. “We welcome anyone who wants to be part of the community.”

Her mouth tugged into a half smile. “That is good to hear. And do people usually stay once they settle?”

“Of course,” I said, chuckling. “That’s how it works. Once you’re here, you’re here for life. And if you're really lucky,” I added with a smile, “you find a way to give back.”

Daniel tapped his spoon on the rim of his cup. “Best breakfast in the county. Best neighbors too. Nothing goes to waste here.”

Claire studied me. “And how long have you been the realtor?”

“Long enough to know every porch swing and every roof shingle. Folks trust me to keep things steady.”

She nodded again. “That sounds like an important role. And when someone new arrives, how do you welcome them?”

Ruth chuckled. “We make them feel at home.”

I spread my hands. “Exactly. A grand welcome every time.”

Claire’s eyes swept the table, like she was taking in each face. Then she smiled, gentle and calm. “That sounds perfect.”

Her coffee sat half-empty, the steam thinning as the morning sunlight spilled across our booth. I checked my watch, then smiled at her.

“Well, the office is still locked up for now,” I said, “but that is no problem. I always like to give newcomers a little tour first. Helps them understand what we’re really about.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You would do that?”

“Of course,” I said. “There is not much inventory these days, but if you are serious, I can promise you will find exactly what you are looking for here in Haven’s Rest.”

Ruth leaned in with a knowing grin. “No better guide than him. He knows every porch swing in town.”

Claire laughed softly. “Alright then. A tour sounds perfect.”

I finished the last bite of toast, wiped my hands on the napkin, and stood. “Good. Then let’s get started. Once you have seen Main Street, you will understand why no one ever leaves.”

She slid from the booth, tucking her bag under her arm, and I held the door open for her. The bell jingled above us again as we stepped out into the clean morning air.

The sun was just high enough to paint the storefronts in gold, the glass windows shining like they had been polished only minutes ago. Main Street stretched in both directions, lined with tidy brick buildings and painted shutters, hanging baskets spilling with flowers, flags stirring lazily in the breeze.

Claire let out a low breath. “It looks like one of those photographs. Peaceful towns in the 1950s. Perfect, almost too perfect.”

I smiled, tucking my hands in my pockets. “That is the beauty of Haven’s Rest. Some say we are behind the times, but I think we simply held on to what matters.”

“And where are you from?” I asked as we started walking.

“California,” she said, adjusting the strap of her bag.

I grinned. “Then this will be a culture shock. It may take some getting used to, but you will fit right in.”

Her eyes moved slowly over the neat rows of shops as if committing each one to memory.

We stopped first at the post office, a squat brick building with a white flagpole out front and a hand-painted sign above the door. The windows gleamed. A rack of mailboxes lined the front wall inside, each marked with a neat brass number.

“Now, here is one of the places that keeps the town stitched together,” I said. “Everyone could have mail delivered to their door, but nearly all of them choose to come here. Gives them a chance to catch up with Sally. She is the finest conversationalist you will ever meet.”

Claire tilted her head. “So people stop by every day? Just to get their mail?”

“Almost without fail,” I said. “It keeps us connected. Nobody drifts too far from the thread of the town.”

We walked on. A striped barber pole turned slowly in the breeze, squeaking faintly on its spindle. Inside, Frank sat in his single chair with the morning paper open, the old radio humming out a tune from before my time.

“This is Frank’s shop,” I said. “He has been cutting hair longer than I have been selling houses. He says he can tell the story of this whole town through the heads that have sat in that chair.”

“Does everyone go to him?” Claire asked.

“Of course,” I said, as if the idea of another option were absurd. “Who else would they trust with something that personal?”

She gave a small smile, more thoughtful than amused.

We passed the grocery store next. A chalkboard propped on the sidewalk listed the week’s specials, the handwriting neat and sure. Wooden baskets of apples and peaches were stacked under a striped awning, their colors bright against the brick.

“All local,” I explained. “No chains here. If you need something, you come see Mary. If she does not have it, she will find a way to get it for you.”

“That must mean everybody knows what everyone else buys,” Claire said lightly.

I laughed. “That is small-town life. No secrets at the checkout line.”

She nodded, lips pressed together, as if she was testing the truth of that in her head.

We carried on down the street, past shopfronts with neat signs and painted doors, until the road opened into the square. At the center, the town hall rose tall and solid, its white facade catching the light. Children ran across the grass out front, their voices sharp and bright in the morning air. Neighbors waved from benches. It was the kind of scene you could frame and hang on a wall.

Claire watched the children for a moment. “Isn’t it odd they are not in school? It is mid September.”

I smiled, hands in my pockets. “They have school year round. That means there are weeks here and there when they are off. Since the kids are needed in the fields, most of their classes happen in late fall through winter and early spring. Once late spring hits, they have every other week off. The state does not mind as long as the calendar adds up to enough school days.”

Her brow lifted slightly, but she nodded.

“Do you have a family, Claire?” I asked.

“No,” she said simply.

I gave her a warm look. “That is all right. Families come in all shapes here.” I paused. “Sometimes, a town like this adopts people.”

Her gaze shifted to the white columns of the hall. “And what about the houses?”

“After we step into town hall,” I said, “my office is right around the corner. I can pull out my file and show you which properties are open for sale. Not much inventory, but if you are serious, you will find exactly what you are looking for.”

She smiled faintly. “I would like that.”

We crossed the square, the bell above the hall doors just beginning to chime the hour.

The closer we came to the doors of the town hall, the stronger the air seemed to change. Sunlight fell bright on the white columns, children still laughing in the square, but when I pulled the handle and opened the door for Claire, the first thing that hit me was the smell.

It was not the sharp polish of lemon cleaner or the dust of old records. It was heavier, like meat just beginning to turn, threaded with smoke and iron.

I forced my smile to hold. “Old buildings always have a scent,” I said. “Part of their history.”

Claire stepped in beside me. Her eyes swept the lobby. Staff stood waiting, their smiles wide, their hands folded neatly in front of them.

“Welcome,” one of them said.

“Welcome,” echoed another.

Before I could speak further, we were surrounded. Gentle hands at first, then firmer, guiding us down a narrow hall that seemed to stretch longer than it should. My words stumbled over themselves as I tried to keep up my pitch, to assure Claire this was just our way of showing hospitality.

She looked calm. Too calm.

A heavy door opened, and we were ushered inside. The air was thicker here, rich with smoke and copper. My chest tightened. I turned toward Claire, ready to keep selling her on the dream of Haven’s Rest, when something sharp cracked against the back of my skull.

The realtor crumpled to the floor. The staff stepped back. The room was quiet.

Claire stood over him, the smell wrapping itself around her like damp cloth. Her stomach turned, but her face stayed smooth.

She looked down at the realtor, his head tilted, unconscious, maybe worse.

One of the town staff stepped beside her and placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

“He served us well,” the woman said quietly. “Now it’s your turn.”

Claire nodded once.

“They told me the bacon here is fantastic,” she thought, steadying her breath. “I didn’t know I’d have to see how it’s made. But now I do. Next time, it won’t be so shocking.”