“Carly was lovely, wasn’t she? She is so poised and polished,” Mom commented.
“Rude and disrespectful as well,” I muttered, reaching for the coffee pot.
“What was that?”
“I said she certainly was." I poured a cup and added too much sugar. “What are we tackling today?”
Meri looked up from her paperwork. “Dining room restoration, section one. Dad already cleared out the furniture.”
Helen clapped her hands. “Isn’t it exciting? We might have that room ready for Christmas dinner!”
“Or Christmas of nextyear. Depending on what we find under the paint,” I said dampeningly.
Kitty waved her phone like a baton. “Lydia’s post from last night has over twelve thousand views. Half the comments are asking about bookings.”
“We are not ready for guests beyond the two already booked. There is too much work to be done with refurbishing the guest rooms and checking the plumbing in each room,” I protested.
“But we could be ready,” Lydia said, removing her earbuds. “I am marketing us asa boutique heritage experience. Think curated chaos meets small-town charm.”
“That sounds like a health-code violation,” Meri said dryly.
“It sounds like an opportunity,” Lydia countered. “People want authenticity.”
“Authenticity we have,” I admitted.
“People want to pay to come and help with the restorations. They want to be a part of the project,” Kitty revealed.
“What?” Jane handed me the plate of food. “Paying to stay and work?”
“Exactly. It’s a guest experience,” Kitty answered.
“It’s a violation of labor laws and our insurance would hate it,” I protested.
“Now Lucy, it would save us time and money,” Mom mused.
“If they were any good at the work, but if they aren’t and get injured? We could be sued. The answer is no,” I firmly stated.
“You’re such a downer,” Lydia rolled her eyes.
By nine o’clock, the dining room resembled a renovation show shot by amateurs. Dust sheets covered the furniture that remained in the room, paint cans lined the walls, and morning light cut through the tall windows in wide gold stripes. Dad had already pried off a strip of old paint. Beneath the cracked layers of white paint, dark honey-colored wood gleamed faintly. He gestured toward it like a proud magician. “Original wainscoting with a leaf motif trim. Can you believe this was hiding under there?”
Jane crouched beside him, her eyes wide. “It is beautiful.”
“It will be once we strip all this old paint away,” Dad corrected, a wire bristle brush in hand.
Helen stood nearby, duster ready. “Just imagine Christmas dinner here. Candles with music and guests laughing.”
“Let’s imagine not inhaling paint flakes first,” Meri said, handing her a mask.
I knelt to help Dad with the next section. The paint lifted reluctantly, curling away in thin flakes. Beneath it, the wood was smooth and solid, the kind of craftsmanship that didn't exist anymore. A faded strip of wallpaper peeked above the trim. Beautiful roses on pale gold were delicate and dignified. We had been so lucky to have original wallpaper and wood, mostly undamaged by time and previous renovations.
Lydia crouched beside me with her phone. She narrated in her best documentary voice, “And here, our fearless innkeeper unearths the long-lost soul of the SnowDrop Inn.”
I shot her a look. “If you post that while I have paint chips on my face, I will haunt you.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. ”You have no sense of fun. You’re almost as bad as Meri.”
“Yet Meri would never do this." I quickly grabbed her phone, holding it above my head.
