Good To Be Home: The Cedar Creek Series, #1

By Heather Harlow

Down on her financial luck, and wiped out after the pandemic, Sarah Hardwood is returning to her childhood village of Cedar Creek. It's a tiny town, nestled in the rolling hills and picturesque farmlands of Southern Ontario. Her uncle Rob left her an inexplicable inheritance - a building on Main Street in Cedar Creek that he purchased just before he passed away. Sarah intends to sell the building and solve her financial woes, and get back to her old life before the summer ends.

Within hours of her arrival, though, her plans are going up in smoke. Literally.

Cedar Creek's plucky, eccentric residents never let anyone down, though. With the help of Cedar Creek's residents, friendship, and community spirit, Sarah is rescued from her initial problems. Not to mention that her old friendships have been rekindled, and she may have even found a romantic interest amid the ashes. She might even solve the mystery of why her uncle bought - and then left to her in his will - the building on Main Street.

But with all this help, there are new, tough decisions to be made. Her friends - new and old - will help her along the way. Settle in for a heartwarming, slice of life, cozy, small-town read that will make you laugh and cry - and maybe get caught up in the magic of Cedar Creek yourself!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Harlow
• Release date: Jan 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224567355

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Copyright © 2024 by Heather Harlow

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by Canadian copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. While partially inspired by real events in a real community, this work is ultimately a fictionalized interpretation of those events and the community in which they took place, or pure fiction. All details, characters, and timelines have been altered significantly for dramatic purposes, or are the product of the author’s imagination.

Contents

1.Chapter One

2.Chapter Two

3.Chapter Three

4.Chapter Four

5.Chapter Five

6.Chapter Six

7.Chapter Seven

8.Chapter Eight

9.Chapter Nine

10.Chapter Ten

11.Chapter Eleven

12.Chapter Twelve

13.Chapter Thirteen

14.Chapter Fourteen

15.Chapter Fifteen

16.Chapter Sixteen

17.Chapter Seventeen

18.Chapter Eighteen

19.Chapter Nineteen

20.Chapter Twenty

About the Author

Also By

Chapter One

Even though she was a bundle of nerves and worries, Sarah Hardwood was enjoying the summertime atmosphere as she drove through Southern Ontario.

She had grown up here, in a quaint village nestled among soft, rolling hills. The bright summer cottages, picture-perfect silos, and red barns scattered through the fields struck a chord of nostalgia deep inside her. The vast forests had exploded into a sea of vibrant green, too thick to see through, and the many lakes shimmered invitingly, dotted with brightly colored boats.

She was wistful that she wouldn’t be there for the fall in Cedar Creek. Maple trees of outnumbered cedars by a wide margin there, so it was anybody’s guess why the town was named Cedar Creek. In the fall, the churning froth of monotone green would become a patchwork of crimson, brilliant orange, and yellow, and it was breathtaking.

But she was returning to her childhood village for other reasons. She needed to see, in person, what her uncle Rob had left for her in his will: a building on Main Street.

The inheritance was mysterious and inexplicable. She hadn’t even known that her uncle, her last living relative in Canada, had owned a building on Main Street. She understood even less why he had left it, specifically, to her.

It was a fortunate turn of events for her, no matter why Uncle Rob had done it. She planned to sell it, and hopefully resolve her financial woes for the time being. It all needed to be done before the American school year began, so she could get back to her job and try to lock down a permanent teaching position.

She was feeling genuinely good. With a little luck, she’d have some kind of retirement to count on after all. Especially if she could get a good price for this building her uncle had left to her.

She was nervous about returning to a town she hadn’t even visited for almost three decades, though. She had no idea if it was still the same.

Her memories of Cedar Creek were so hazy and golden, she knew they were probably distorted by nostalgia. She hoped the return home wasn’t going to spoil the snow globe village of her memories by pouring the cold, hard light of reality on them. But she didn’t have much of a choice, if she wanted her inheritance.

She also doubted that anyone would remember her, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

The tires squealed as she braked hard to turn off the highway, onto the county road that led toward Cedar Creek. She’d almost missed the turn in her reverie.

Sorry, sorry, she intoned, holding a hand up at a driver turning right onto the highway. She was given a lazy, friendly wave in return, and she smiled. At least that was the same: the friendly country wave.

Over the next two hills was how people gave directions to Cedar Creek from the gas station at the intersection where she turned. The cluster of buildings near the gas station had no town name. The gas station had been updated to a modern Esso, but the pale blue clapboard building with the general store was still there, as though it had been sealed in a time capsule. The old gas pumps were still there, too, with charming painted bicycles propped up against their well-preserved forms.

Up one steep hill, down the other, and then again. Picturesque silos and barns dotted the landscape, set into the hills. Roadside vegetable stands were propped up at the edges of properties, where signs implored people to pay into a box for the produce.

Sarah was surprised and pleased to see that the Ontario tradition of unattended vegetable stands had survived so many years. She bet people left their doors unlocked all the time, still. It was quite a change from Buffalo.

At the top of the second hill, a wide valley among the hills opened up, surrounded by forest on all sides. In summer, the forest looked like a tidal wave of churning green, frothing over the spires of Cedar Creek’s five churches. Only the roofs of houses and the navy blue of the many creeks in town were visible amid the rampant greenery during summer.

The roads of Cedar Creek were haphazard, following the many bends of the creeks that meandered through the town, and bridges abounded. The trestle bridge at the bottom of the huge hill clanked with a sound familiar to her ears, and below it the drying creek moved lazily and glinted in the midday sun. The sky was so blue, and the image so perfect, it made her heart swell and a lump develop in her throat.

Cedar Creek, people often said, didn’t even look real. She hadn’t appreciated things like that when she was younger. She had only wanted to leave for more exciting venues.

But after years in the city, the sight was almost jarring: it really didn’t look real.

It looked too perfect.

In Sarah’s experience, when things looked too perfect, they usually weren’t perfect at all. She tried to tamp down her expectations, even as a little thrill fluttered in her heart.

She felt unexpectedly warm as she drove through the town to Main Street, surprised that the town - other than looking freshly painted and carefully maintained - didn’t seem to have changed much at all.

Main Street was about two blocks long, with two- and three-story brick buildings on either side. She’d peeked at the building on Google Street View before coming up here, so she recognized the building that was hers without having to look at the address. It was a narrow two-story brick building tucked among more brick buildings, near the corner of Main Street and the county road she drove in on.

There was a parallel parking space available right in front of it, and she was able to pull in without having to actually parallel park. She smiled. That was one nice thing about a small town with a population of seven hundred people: parking was everywhere.

She was surprised to see the building in summer, and her spirits got an immediate boost. The brick was clean, like someone had taken the time and care to have it repaired, and bright yellow awnings hung over tiny wrought iron tables and chairs painted bright yellow to match it.

Plant stands hung on wrought-iron fencing that enclosed the seating area, and startlingly bright pink-purple petunias spilled out of the planters. Gleaming windows looked in on a bright white and yellow cafe.

But even better than that, the smell of roasting coffee beans filled the air. Handwritten letters on the window explained why: We Roast Our Own Beans on Wednesdays! The remainder of the window was decorated by a border of hand-drawn flowers. They were a purple that matched the petunias, and a yellow the same sunny shade of the awning.

Sarah scanned upward. The windows of the apartment upstairs were highlighted by bright yellow shutters that she hadn’t seen on Google Maps. The windows looked brand-new, and bright purple paint had been applied to the trim to match the decor of the café.

This was all very encouraging: the building had curb appeal. Maybe she would be able to make a few small repairs, arrange the sale of it, and be out of here with weeks to spare.

She even let the hope of taking a proper vacation flutter in her heart.

A bell jingled as someone pushed open the bright yellow door of the cafe. A puff of even warmer coffee-scented air gushed from inside.

It’s you! a voice exclaimed. Sarah Hardwood. I can’t believe it!

A petite woman with a a wiry build was peering at her from behind a cascade of graying brown locks, piled high on her head with a bright violet scarf wound up in it. Crow’s feet threatened the edges of her twinkling eyes, which left no mistake about who she was: they were the kind of unforgettable ice-blue that popped so dramatically they seemed as unreal as the town.

Holly Lund. No doubt about it. Her hands were on her hips and she was smiling so broadly that her wide, Norweigan cheeks looked like she’d stuffed nuts into them, which is what the teachers had always said about her in school.

Holly? Sarah exclaimed. She felt a sudden, irrepressible urge to hug her, even though they’d probably last seen each other over thirty summers ago. There was no need to refrain from this, however, because Holly was already coming in for a fierce embrace. The smaller woman threw her arms around Sarah and squeezed tightly.

Is this your coffee shop? Sarah asked, surprised. A pang of discomfort throbbed in her gut: if Holly owned the store below, that might complicate things for selling the building.

Holly stepped back, arms outstretched, eyes twinkling. She was wearing a yellow and white striped apron with purple lettering embroidered on it that read: Holly’s Rustic Roasts and Relics. She didn’t offer any other commentary.

I see! Sarah exclaimed. Wow. Sarah’s eyes moved to the interior of the cafe. You won’t believe this but -

Holly grasped her arm excitedly. Holly’s father had given her the startling blue eyes, the broad face and ample cheeks, and a love of the winter. But her mother had been a small, vibrant woman who seized people and hugged them fiercely, as Holly was doing now.

You’re the new owner! I know! We know! I’m so excited! This is going to be so fun. Where did you drive from? I have your key. Come inside, though, first.

This whole time Holly was talking excitedly, she was pulling Sarah gently toward the door of the cafe. Have a seat, try my new summer drink, I’ll get you the keys, and if you can wait ten minutes I can find -

Holly cut herself off as the door flew open, the bell jingling, and a portly man waddled through the door from inside, patting his brow.

Now, just you wait a minute, Neil, Holly said to him, with aggressive cheer. I got caught up out here, but I’ll get that sugar for you. Now sit.

It’s too hot in there, the man complained, still holding the door open. Holly had stopped, so Sarah did, too. They appeared to be waiting for something.

Very slowly, a stiff, brindle-colored dog made its way out of the cafe. It paused in the doorstep as Holly and Neil exchanged a few words about the heat, ignoring the dog. The dog sniffed the air suspiciously. Then, after looking down at the ground as if to gauge its progress, the dog hobbled out.

To Sarah’s surprise, it continued out the door, turned left as if it had somewhere to go, and began plodding down the street while Neil and Holly continued chatting. No one seemed to care where it was going, or that it had just walked out of the cafe and didn’t seem to have an owner with it.

Sarah turned to watch the dog, and looked back at Holly, alarmed.

Oh, that’s just guts, Holly said, waving her hand dismissively.

Sarah squinted, not fully understanding the sentence.

Old Mac’s dog! Neil shouted at Sarah, as if she was deaf. He’s hot as heck, too, Holly, he said pointedly to Holly.

Sit, Holly told Neil, who obediently lowered himself into one of the tiny chairs in the seating area outside. Then Holly seized Sarah’s arm and pulled her inside behind her. Stay, she commanded Neil, as the door closed behind them.

The interior of the cafe was quite a few degrees warmer than outside, but the humidity was so high it felt like the jungle.

I’ve got Randy coming in about the air conditioning, Holly said over her shoulder, letting go of Sarah’s hand as she rushed behind the counter, loudly enough for Neil to hear. Her voice dropped and she whistled. But he’s about as reliable as my car, so you can imagine. Now where did I leave that Tupperware I was going to...

Holly’s wild hair disappeared as she ducked behind the counter, and a clatter of pots and pans indicated she was searching for something.

Sarah looked around while she waited. The interior of the cafe was neat and tidy in the seating area, with yellow tables, white benches, and an array of antique tables. Mismatched vases were set out on each table, stocked with yellow and purple wildflowers.

But the walls were stacked with all manner of brightly-colored antiques, some perched precariously and seemingly oozing from behind the mismatched antique shelves. Around the shelves, oil paintings of native flowers on reclaimed wood were arranged on every spare piece of wall.

Holly popped up from behind the counter with a container filled with sugar. Those are the relics, she said proudly, following Sarah’s gaze to the knickknacks and antiques. And this... she waved around at the general humidity, is no good for them, but... she sighed, and put a hand on her hip. That’s Randy for you, eh?

She looked at Sarah as if she genuinely wanted her to agree with this statement, then jumped suddenly and scooted out from behind the counter. Neil’s sugar, she explained, hustling by.

The door clanged open and smacked into a chair, much like it had when Neil exited. Here you go, Neil, but you make sure to tell Annie I want some of those cookies.

Grasping the door behind her with a smooth movement that looked well-practiced, Holly hopped back into the cafe. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

Okay. Where we we? Ah, yes, you wanted to try my new drink. Holly was as busy and chatty as Sarah remembered her from grade school, moving like a bee from one thing to the next. It’s a cherry-mint-cucumber tea, which... don’t judge until you try it... oh, I shouldn’t have told you the ingredients. Here.

She set a tall, antique glass with ice on the counter after preparing the drink rapidly as she talked. She winked. It makes a good martini, too.

Crystal’s right down the street if you want to ask her for a tipple, Neil called from outside, revealing the faintest tinge of an accent from somewhere in the UK. He held up his hand and clapped it closed in a goodbye wave of sorts as he struggled onto the sidewalk.

Holly smiled and shook her head, then positioned her hand on the side of her mouth like she was telling a secret in a crowd. Crystal might have it, but she wouldn’t share it with you, she informed Sarah.

Sarah sipped the drink, which was delicious entirely on the basis of it being ice-old. She gulped it carelessly, realizing how thirsty she had been.

Holly’s eyes went wide. I guess you liked it.

Mmm, Sarah said, wiping her mouth. I’m sorry, I was much thirstier than I thought.

I’ll make you another one, and you have a seat - in or out - while I get your keys out of the back. Holly started in on the drink and produced another antique glass with the pale pink liquid in no time. Here you are.

Then she spun around and disappeared into the long kitchen of gleaming stainless steel and copper pots.

Sarah took her drink out to the quaint tables to escape the overbearing humidity. It was hot outside, too, but better. She sat down in a patch of shade under the awning.

The old brindle dog was trundling back toward the cafe, alone, its stiff legs a little more limber. It eyed her with a calm, mild suspicion, but carried on in the other direction until it turned abruptly and started into the street.

Oh, my, Sarah exclaimed, standing up and setting her purse down. Dog, hey, uh... She whistled and walked toward the dog, who gave her a look over his shoulder before heading into the street.

It stopped abruptly when he reached the edge of Sarah’s car, and turned his head to the left, looking for all the world like he was watching for traffic like a human.

A truck turned onto Main Street from the highway and Sarah lunged toward the street, her hand held up, waving at the driver. She saw that the driver was slowly rolling to a stop anyway. The air brakes hissed and he dropped an elbow out of the window, followed by his head.

He was a young guy, in his twenties, with tattoos all over his arm. Sarah was afraid he was going to yell at the dog. Instead, he dropped his hand down and waved something at the animal, smiling. Come here Guts, you mangy old beast, I got roast beef on white, buddy.

Sarah stared, her mouth open, as the dog hobbled over to the truck - as if it was where he was headed the whole time - and delicately clamped down on the sandwich. It turned and hobbled back to the sidewalk where she was standing.

The driver smiled, watching him, then leaned back into the cab to release his brakes. Another hiss and the truck was off. The side of the truck read Kirby’s Plumbing in plain blue letters on white.

The dog hobbled onto the sidewalk and continued in the direction he had been walking before the interruption, sandwich in mouth, without another look at Sarah.

She sat back down and contemplated Main Street. A lot had changed from her memory: fresh paint, new awnings, and pretty flowers planted everywhere spoke of love and investment in the town, just like she remembered.

But the businesses had all changed, from Holly’s cafe to a diner on