“Then let’s follow your plan,” Lucy graciously agreed.
We did exactly that. Meri built fast, the guests followed orders, and we held the hill within minutes. Across the yard, Braxton rallied the others shouting orders and returning fire.
It worked longer than it should have. Snow flew in all directions while laughter carried louder than the wind. Somewhere in the middle of it Lucy hit me in the shoulder with a perfect shot and pretended she hadn’t meant to. I called it deliberate. She called it karma.
We fought until everyone was out of breath. Kitty declared the result a draw, which was probably true. William slipped during a final charge and called for a truce before anyone got hurt. The entire group retreated inside for cocoa and towels, wet and half frozen but unwilling to stop smiling.
In the foyer, boots made puddles in neat rows. Helen herded everyone toward warmth, promising more cinnamon rolls. I stood by the radiator, hands thawing, watching Lucy talk to one of the guests. Her cheeks were flushed, hair damp at the edges,the kind of glow that doesn’t come from lights or cosmetics. She caught me watching and tilted her head. I drew my gaze away and pretended to inspect the radiator valve.
“That was more dangerous than expected,” I said when she passed.
“Your pride will recover,” she said.
“Mostly.”
She smiled, quick and unguarded, and for a moment the kitchen noise fell away. She didn’t say anything else, and neither did I. I hoped that perhaps her heart was thawing a little towards me.
The rest of the day eased into comfort. Jane and Braxton started a card game with the guests. Lydia filmed everything again. William and I set about to open all the shutters to let the light in.
I took the chance to walk the perimeter and check for damage. The inn had handled the storm well, with only one window on the north side showing a bad seal. I made a mental note to repair it. On my way back to the reception room, I noticed a small stack of books on the desk. There were novels, a local history, and something about architecture from the 1950s. They looked out of place sitting on the paperwork basket.
Lucy came through with a clipboard and stopped when she saw me. “Guests leave them everywhere. We were going to put up shelves somewhere but haven’t had time.”
“You should,” I said, picking one up and looking it over. “You have the space.”
“Not really. Most of the area is taken up with storage or needed for the guests. I suppose we can put a small shelf in the reception room.”
“You could line one of the walls with shelves but it would take up some of the space,” I said, thinking of its shape. “But it’s warm enough and the light is decent.”
She laughed softly. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is. Two bookcases, one corner chair, and a reading lamp. It would work.”
“Maybe someday,” Lucy said wistfully.
I set the book back on the pile. “You might want to measure the wall before someday.”
She gave me that cautious look again. The one that meant she wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed. “You think of everything in measurements, don’t you?”
“Mostly. Measurements don’t lie,” I murmured.
“People do?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Sometimes.”
She smiled faintly. “Good thing you’re not a people person then.”
“Good thing,” I echoed, although I wondered if I understood people more I might not have messed things up with her.
Dinner was crowded and loud, every chair taken. The guests shared travel stories, Helen told family ones, and for a while it was difficult to tell which category was louder. I sat near the end of the table beside Braxton and across from Lucy. Every time she laughed, something eased that I hadn’t realized was tight.
Halfway through dessert, Lydia cleared her throat. That sound already meant trouble. She stood with her phone in hand and smiled like someone about to announce a miracle.
“I did a thing! We’re hosting a Christmas dance next weekend,” Lydia announced grandly, a sparkle in her eyes.
The room went still with forks frozen halfway to their mouths.
Lucy stared at her. “You’re joking.”
