Today, I smile at the quirky resort town, even more beautiful in the snow. Pine boughs are draped in white, and the old-fashioned streetlights make it feel as if Charles Dickens might pop his head out one of the storefronts. I find a parking space directly in front of my favorite coffee shop and hop out. The place is empty, save for a few locals and retirees who are sitting at tables sipping lattes or mugs of hot chocolate.

I order my favorite latte, a Caramel Silk—white chocolate and caramel blended with the shop’s own roasted coffee—and as I wait, I see the owner wiping down tables.

“Dale?” I ask. “Adie Lou—” I stop and have to force out my married name as if I’m choking on it. “Clarke. Remember me? My parents owned Cozy Cottage?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, tossing the dish towel over his shoulder and extending his hand. “Good to see you. I was sorry to hear about your parents. Everyone loved them around here. What brings you up this way on a winter’s day? Heard your place was for sale...or already sold?”

“Well,” I start, “it was. And it almost did. But now I’m starting a business here. Turning the cottage into a B and B.”

“Need another one of those like a hole in the head,” cracks an old man in a stocking cap reading the newspaper.

“Don’t mind Phil,” Dale jokes. “Hasn’t seen his shadow since the seventies. That’s why he’s so grumpy.” Dale stares at me. He looks older than I remember, his hair now silver, his forehead lined, like a president you notice has aged significantly by the end of a first term. “That place needs a lot of work, doesn’t it?”

I nod.

He grins, as if he knows a secret I don’t. “Well, good luck,” he says. “Coffee’s on the house today.”

“Thank you,” I say. “But I already paid.”

“Now, that’s how you run a successful business,” Phil laughs in the background. “He always offers when it’s too late.”

“Shut up, Phil,” Dale laughs. He turns. “But he’s right,” he adds with a wink. “Seriously, next one on me.”

“Liar,” Phil says under his breath, before adding in an even more sarcastic tone, “Good luck with that B and B, Bob Newhart.”

I look at Dale, and he nods, giving me the okay. “Shut up, Phil,” I say as Dale laughs again and continues wiping down tables.

“Caramel Silk! Adie Lou!” a barista yells. I pick up my coffee, head back out into the snow and aim my car toward the cottage. As I turn onto Lakeshore Drive, the wind buffets my car, and the snow is no longer falling but flying horizontally. I feel as if the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz might bike over my head at any minute.