“I didn’t expect you’d still be here,” I said.
“Your grandmother wouldn’t have it any other way.” Maude stepped inside, dusted her hands on her apron, and looked around as if assessing what I saw. “It’s not what it was, of course. But it’s still standing.”
Barely.
The inn might have been charming once. It sat on a quiet stretch of Kiawah Island, just far enough from Charleston to feel unreachable. The wraparound porch leaned a little. The shutters were sun-bleached, the kind of blue that used to be bold. Ivy had crept up one side, curling under the windowsills like fingers.
Inside, everything smelled faintly of lemon polish and salt. The floors moaned with every step. A few framed photographs hung in the foyer—sepia tones of smiling guests in wide hats, dated decades before I was born.
“She loved this place,” Maude said softly. “Said the sea kept her honest.”
I wanted to ask what that meant, but my throat felt tight. My grandmother had been a distant figure in my childhood—more myth than memory. My mom used to say she was “a different breed.” Independent. Stubborn. The kind of woman who built something from nothing and didn’t apologize for it.
And now she’d left it all to me.
I took a deep breath, forcing my shoulders back. “Can you walk me through everything? The books, the keys, what’s working, what’s not?”
Maude’s lips twitched—approval, maybe. “Of course. Though there ain’t been real guests in nearly two years. Just the odd traveler looking for something cheap, or someone who wants a story to tell.”
I followed her down the narrow hallway. The wallpaper was faded, patterned with vines that seemed to disappear halfway upthe wall. A crystal chandelier hung crooked above the stairs, its light refracting in uneven fragments.
“You’ll find the pipes are temperamental,” Maude continued. “And the roof leaks in the west room when it rains. But your grandmother kept it running as best she could.”
“And the money?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Her eyes flicked to mine, sharp for a moment. “There’s some savings in the account. Enough for basics. After that—well, that’s for you to figure out.”
Right. Me.
The woman whose idea of home repair was replacing a lightbulb.
I tried to picture myself here for a year—managing bookings, fixing pipes, keeping company with this quiet, sprawling house and the woman who came with it.
The image didn’t settle. It rattled around like a puzzle piece jammed into the wrong space.
We reached the kitchen. It was big, with wide counters and a farmhouse sink. A single light bulb hummed above the island. Everything was neat but old—worn wooden cabinets, an ancient stove, a calendar stuck on last December.
Maude pulled out a chair for me. “Sit. You look pale.”
I did as I was told, partly because the room tilted a little when I didn’t.
“Long trip,” I muttered.
“You flew into Charleston?”
“Yes. Then rented a car. The bridge to the island nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Her laugh was soft. “Takes getting used to. Out here, the air’s thicker. The world moves slower. City folks find that hard.”
“I’m not sure I’m built for slow,” I admitted.
Maude studied me for a long moment. “Maybe that’s why she left it to you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, either.
Instead, I asked for tea. She set a kettle on the stove and busied herself with familiar motions. Watching her felt like intruding on something sacred—routine born from years of loyalty.
“Did she—” I hesitated. “Was she alone when she passed?”
