His brow twitches. “Well, you do. I mean—fuck, of course you don’t.” He rubs at his temple, like the sentence got away from him midstream. Then, grappling for whatever excuse he can scrounge up, he mutters, “You keep leaving the front door unlocked.”
I snort. “You worried someone’s going to come steal the crockery?”
He gives me that flat, unreadable look that makes me want to throw something at his chest just to get a reaction.
“Relax,” I say. “I was getting statements. Doing actual work for this committee you keep acting like I shouldn’t be on.”
Before he can volley back a reply, the front door swings open, cold air sweeping in with Bobby’s booming voice. “Knock-knock! Hope we’re not too early.”
Alma follows at her measured pace, shawl trailing. Jack brings up the rear, scarf crooked, grin easy. Chairs scrape. Bobby takes his usual seat at the head of the table. Jack tips his back onto two legs. Alma folds her shawl like origami.
Wells stands behind his chair like he doesn’t trust himself to sit.
What follows is the usual parade of updates. Alma outlines her narrative draft, Jack reports on the structural survey, Bobby runs through permits. I hand over Isla’s and Mrs. Fallon’s statements; Alma ticks boxes with efficient nods.
For a fleeting moment, it feels like we might all be pulling in the same direction.
Then Bobby clears his throat. “So, long-term use. What parameters should we try and outline before the county stamps this thing? We should probably start talkin’ about it.”
I swallow. “There are options, right? Event space. Museum. Seasonal rentals. The important thing is preservation, not necessarily . . .” I glance around the table, searching for softer words and finding none. “I mean—”
“What?” Wells cuts in. “Go on and say it.”
“Not necessarily reopening it as a full-time inn.”
His eyes flash. “Bullshit. That’s not what Elspeth would have wanted.”
“I suppose you have the funds, the staff, the endless patience to run it, then?” The snap’s out before I can stop it. “If that’s the case, great. We’ll sell it to you. Noble, tireless Wells Rourke, martyring himself for a house. Doesn’t matter what we write into the designation.”
He doesn’t flinch. “You know I would if I could.”
“Right, and you can’t. So maybe don’t lecture me about what’s realistic.” Heat rises down my neck. “We’re not even supposed to be talking about a sale, are we?” I look to the others, gesturing wildly. “Isn’t that right?”
Alma clears her throat. “There are limits the designation sets, yes. But we still have to outline how the property could be used long-term, should it ever transfer again. That means future ownership has to be discussed.”
My knee bounces under the table. Wells gives me an infuriating sideways look.
“I propose either limited-use rentals or seasonal reopening,” he says. “If we place the property into a trust rather than leave it vulnerable to outright sale, a board of trustees can oversee use and upkeep.”
I blink. “A trust?”
“Elspeth mentioned it years ago,” he says. “She never filed, but she told me she wanted the inn protected in case family ever—well.” His gaze cuts to me. “In case family couldn’t keep it.”
The words land heavily. My grandmother, who left me keys and silence, had considered this possibility all along. She’d known the world might be too much for someone like me. And here I am, proving her right.
“But I’m the legal owner,” I say, stiff. “She left it to me. You can’t just—”
“I know.” His voice is steady, grating. “You’d have to sign it over. Deed it into a preservation trust. That way, it’s stewarded, not bartered like any other parcel of land.”
I almost say it—that would mean no sale, no money—but the words curdle on my tongue. It isn’t about greed, not really. It’s about control. About feeling like every choice I’ve made since stepping through that door has been stripped from my hands.
“If she truly wanted that, she would have written it down somewhere. She would have had things in place to—”
“Like I said, she mentioned it to me only in passing,” Wells cuts in. “She probably assumed that her granddaughter would, well, that you would step up to the plate rather than walk away from it.”
Heat blooms behind my eyes. My spine goes stiff. I can’t cry here—not in front of them, not in front of him. I clench my jaw so tight it aches, blink up at the ceiling light until the burn passes.
“Can we table that discussion for next time?” I ask, voice low and even, the closest I can get to composed.
