That was the only language I spoke fluently.
I grabbed my notebook and pen from the suitcase. The first page already had a heading:
Bradford Inn – To Do Before Sale (One Year Clause)
Under it, a bulleted list:
• Assess property condition
• Inventory furniture
• Review financial records
• Contact repair services
• Determine resale potential
I stared at the last item for a long moment. The words looked practical, impersonal. But they hummed with the truth beneath them: I couldn’t even think about selling until a year had passed.A full turn of the sun, my grandmother’s lawyer had said, reading the clause like a spell.
Why a year? What difference did it make? It felt less like a condition and more like a punishment.
I pressed the pen harder than I needed to, dotting the page.
One year.
Three hundred sixty-five days in this place.
If I was going to survive it, I needed order. Structure. A plan.
I got up and moved around the room, straightening things that didn’t need straightening. Pillow. Lampshade. Curtain tie. The motions calmed me.
The shower in the tiny en-suite bathroom groaned when I turned the knob, spitting brown water before clearing to lukewarm. I scrubbed fast, hyper-aware of every sound the house made—the groan of plumbing, the thump of wind against the siding. I toweled off and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, practical clothes for facing disaster.
Downstairs, the scent of coffee greeted me.
Maude stood by the stove, humming to herself as she poured two mugs. She wore the same floral dress as yesterday, but with a fresh apron. Her gray hair was pinned in its immaculate twist, not a strand out of place.
“Morning, Miss Bradford,” she said with a smile that reached her eyes. “Sleep all right?”
“Fine,” I lied. “But please—call me Hazel,” I said, wrapping my hands around the coffee mug she offered. “Miss Bradford makes me sound like a schoolteacher.”
“Hazel, then. Dreams’ll be loud your first few nights here,” she said knowingly. “The sea gets in your head. It pulls up memories you think you buried.”
That hit too close. I busied myself adding sugar to my coffee I didn’t really need. “I was planning to walk the property today. Take stock of everything.”
Maude looked pleased. “That’s the spirit. I’ll come with you. Got to make sure you don’t fall through a loose board or get turned around near the marsh.”
“I can manage?—”
“Maybe,” she interrupted gently. “But it’ll go faster with two. Your grandmother and I used to do our morning rounds after breakfast. Old habits die hard.”
Something about her tone made it sound less like an offer and more like a law of the house.
“All right,” I agreed. “Let me grab my notebook.”
While she finished breakfast, I walked through the foyer again, noting details I hadn’t noticed the night before. The guest ledger sat on the front desk, a fine layer of dust coating the cover. I ran my finger along it, leaving a clean line behind. The brass door knocker shaped like a gull gleamed faintly in the daylight, watching me.
I added a line to my notebook:Polish brass fixtures. Replace chandelier bulb.
