A car crunched up the drive outside.
“Jane is here!” Mom squealed with happiness.
Seconds later my sister appeared in the doorway, pink-cheeked from the cold and smelling like sugar. She enveloped me in a hug that felt like home. Jane wassoft edges and cinnamon rolls in human form. She wore her blonde hair in an easy twist and had flour on her sleeve from some past baking project. Some people simply radiated butter and comfort.
“You made it,” she said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“It is... definitely an inn,” I said, and she laughed as if that were the compliment she needed most.
“We can share one of the two upstairs apartments,” she offered, eyes bright with plans. “Unless you would rather stay with Lydia and Kitty when they get here.”
I didn't even pretend to hesitate. “You and me, always.”
We headed into the kitchen together. It was large but dated, all avocado appliances and cracked tile. The industrial mixer looked like it had seen two wars and survived both by stubbornness. The oven door hung off one hinge in a posture of surrender. Someone had slapped a sticky note on it that read "don't open fast,” which wasn't confidence inspiring.
Jane’s eyes sparkled anyway. “Once I get this cleaned and organized, it will be perfect for baking. Imagine a pastry case over there, and a coffee station here. We could have hot chocolate taps in winter.”
“Hot chocolate taps?” I asked in confusion.
“Like a beer tap,” Jane explained.
I gave her a slightly disbelieving look.
“Okay, we will use practical carafes even if a girl can dream,” she said, unfazed.
I smiled. Sometimes Jane was a little fanciful when it came to how she wanted her dream kitchen.
Dad tested the water faucet and winced as the pipes groaned like an old man getting off a couch. Rust sputtered, then water ran clear. He looked mildly impressed, which for Dad was the same as cartwheels.
“Plumbing is alive,” he commented.
“Being alive isn't the same as being usable,” I mentioned, reminding myself to have a professional look at the water system.
Mom flitted through the space, opening cupboards. “We can sand and paint these. Maybe a white or a soft blue. Something that says, ‘Jane’s pastries live here.’”
Jane grinned, and I felt the familiar mix of protectiveness and envy. She knew who she was. Jane wanted to bake and feed people. My own what-do-I-want file had been blank for a very long time. Be indispensable, my old job had said. Be quiet. Be precise. Be invisible. I had been all of those things, and at the end of each day I had walked home through city crowds of people who didn’t know my name. I had put up with it until I couldn’t stand it anymore. The invitation to be an entrepreneur with my family had been a daunting but welcome one.
“Do you think we can really do this?” I asked, lowering my voice as Mom launched into a speech about twinkle lights to Dad’s back.
Jane looked at me with that steady kindness that made everyone trust her. “We will make it work. We always do.”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. Yet as I stood in the middle of the dusty old kitchen, I couldn't help picturing the faces of the people who had walked away from here before us, each one certain they would make it work too.
My phone buzzed again. I didn't need to look to know the name.
Decline.
“He’s persistent,” Jane said with amusement.
“You have no idea." I rolled my eyes.
We climbed the back stairs to the staff apartments. The hallway smelled like old carpet and the sound of memories. Our apartment had two small bedrooms off a narrow living area, a postage-stamp kitchen, and a bathroom with tile that had once been white and had now resigned itself to beige. It wasn't much, and yet when Jane opened the curtains and winter sunlight poured in, the room felt slightly fresher.
“I brought new sheets. Blue for you and green for me,” Jane revealed.
“You are an angel." I had forgotten such a simple basic. Thank goodness for my sister’s mindfulness.
“You say that now. Wait until I set a baking schedule and ask you to be my helper at seven in the morning,” Jane teased.
