Chapter One: An Announcement
Jane
The kitchen always woke up before the rest of the inn.
I liked that about it.
The ovens hummed softly, already warm, the sound steady and reassuring, like breathing you could count on. Yeast bloomed on the counter beside a bowl of dough I had set out before bed, the surface puffed and alive beneath the cloth. Cinnamon lingered in the air from the rolls I had baked at dawn, the scent clinging to the walls the way comfort always did when it was given time to settle in.
Outside the window, frost edged the glass in careful lines. The light was pale and undecided, the kind of morning that felt as though it might change its mind if you waited long enough. December had arrived quietly, without ceremony, and that felt fitting. None of us were quite ready for it yet.
I moved through the space the way I always did. Efficient, quiet, and steady.
Timers were checked for the French Toast, coffee was brewed and my lists reviewed and adjusted with the pencil I kept tucked behind my ear. I reached for bowls and measuring cups without looking, my hands knowing where everything belonged even when my thoughts wandered.
The kitchen was the one place where nothing surprised me.
Ingredients behaved the way they were supposed to. Equipment did what it was told. If something went wrong, there was almost always a way to fix it, even if that meant patience or starting over.
People were less predictable.
This was our first December at the Snowdrop Inn. Our first Christmas together as a family in years.
The thought still felt strange, like saying something out loud and waiting to see if it sounded real. We had reopened the inn only a little time earlier, and everything about it still felt new and scary. The paint in some rooms had barely dried. The renovations were ongoing, careful and deliberate, the way my parents insisted they be even when speed would have been easier.
I understood why they were doing it. I even admired them for it.
This inn was their leap. Their second chance. They talked about it in terms of when things settled and once the work was finished, never if. My mother planned years ahead as though optimism alone could shore up loose floorboards. My father approached every repair with quiet patience, as if steady effort would eventually convince the place it belonged to us.
I wanted that to be true.
But I also noticed the draft near the back stairs that hadn't been sealed yet. The trim that still needed replacing. The way the heating system groaned on cold mornings like it was deciding whether to cooperate. Loving the inn didn’t stop me from seeing its weak points. If anything, it made me more aware of them.
My role in all of this was different.
I wasn't the dreamer or the builder like my parents. I was the one who made things function day to day. Meals served on time. Guests fed well enough that they wouldn’t notice what was unfinished. Calm respectability, plated and warm, was my domain.
If this place failed, it wouldn't be because of my cinnamon rolls or soups. I told myself that often, though the thought didn’t always settle the way I wanted it to.
I checked my list again for today’s things to do.
?Breakfast service.
?Supply order.
?Lunch service.
?Baking for light treats for the guests.
?Menu testing.
?Dinner service.
It was manageable. I liked that word. It implied boundaries. It meant there was an end to the task, something you could reach and stop. I preferred that to open-ended hope.
As I slid a tray onto the counter, I thought of Braxton.
Not deliberately. He had simply started appearing in my thoughts lately, uninvited and mildly surprising, like a song you didn’t remember learning but somehow knew all the words to.
