The list grew quickly as we began our tour.
We started with the kitchen, where Maude pointed out the quirks of each appliance. “Oven’s temperamental—kick it twice, if it won’t light. Ice machine’s fickle. Washer’s fine as long as you don’t overload it.”
I wrote everything down, trying not to let the disrepair overwhelm me. Each problem was a puzzle to solve, a thing I could control.
From there we moved through the common rooms—the sitting area with faded armchairs and a fireplace that hadn’t been cleaned in years, the dining room with its long table set for no one. Dust motes floated in the sunbeams slanting through the windows.
“Your grandmother always said the guests liked the place cozy,” Maude said, straightening a crooked picture frame. “She didn’t care for those fancy resorts up the coast. Said they lacked soul.”
“Maybe soul doesn’t pay the bills,” I muttered before I could stop myself.
Maude shot me a look, not unkind. “Maybe not. But she wasn’t one to measure life in money.”
I hesitated, then asked the question that had been clawing at the back of my mind since I saw the roofline sag. “Did she leave anything aside for repairs? The attorney mentioned a small discretionary fund, but it sounded more like pocket change than a budget.”
Maude pursed her lips. “A few thousand, maybe. Enough to keep the lights on and fix what’s urgent. Beyond that …”
“Beyond that, it’s on me,” I finished for her. I tried to sound resigned instead of panicked. “I’ll use my savings, for now. I’ll get it back when I sell.”
Maude’s expression softened, though her eyes stayed sharp. “You might find this place has other ways of paying you back, Hazel.”
I bit back a sigh.
Outside, the air was thick with the smell of salt and wet earth. The storm had washed the world clean, leaving everything bright and raw. Seagulls cried overhead. The sand in the yard squelched under my sneakers.
The porch steps groaned as we descended. “Watch that middle one,” Maude warned. “Soft wood. I keep telling myself I’ll fix it, but …”
“I’ll put it on the list,” I said automatically.
She chuckled. “You like your lists, don’t you?”
“They help me think.”
“Nothing wrong with that. As long as you remember not everything worth keeping can be written down.”
Her words lingered as we made our way around the property.
Behind the inn, a narrow path led toward the marsh. The air grew quieter there, heavy with the buzz of insects and the faint splash of something unseen in the reeds. Maude walked ahead, steady and sure.
“She used to come out here at dawn,” she said. “Said it helped her remember why she stayed.”
“Why did she stay?” I asked, genuinely curious.
Maude paused, eyes scanning the horizon. “Some people can’t leave the things that built them. Your grandmother was one. This place—every board, every nail—it was her story.”
I nodded slowly, though I didn’t really understand. I couldn’t imagine being bound to anything so completely.
When we circled back to the front, sweat dampened my hairline. I’d taken dozens of photos on my phone, each one evidence of more work to do: warped shutters, cracked plaster, a sagging roofline that made my stomach sink.
I looked down at my notes. The neat bullet points had already sprawled across the page, branching into sublists. Priorities, contingencies, action items. I underlined the last one three times.
Control the controllable. That was my mantra. Always had been.
Maude leaned against the porch railing beside me, wiping her hands on her apron. “She’d be glad you’re here, you know.”
I gave a small laugh. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough. You came.”
