“Because he loves you, and what I have to say will hurt you.”
Katherine made a sound that might have been laugh or sob. “He doesn't love me.”
“Child, I'm dying. I don't have time for willful blindness. He loves you, you're terrified of it, and that's your business. But he should be there Sunday.”
She ended the call before Kate could respond. The driver arrived, helped her into the car with professional discretion.
“What about my car?” she asked, suddenly realizing her situation.
“Don’t worry about it. We’re not that far from the cottage. I’ll get someone to drive me back. Let’s get you back home.”
As they drove through Kennebunkport, past the houses she'd once visited for garden parties and charity events, Lillian thought about time and waste and the terrible cost of pride.
Sunday would be her confession. But tomorrow she had one more thing to do. She needed to visit the lawyers, change her will one final time. Because watching Katherine try so hard to benothing but responsible, watching all four of them struggle with their family’s past, she'd understood something.
They needed permission to be happy. And if that was the last thing she could give them, then perhaps years of mistaken priorities might find some small redemption.
The cottage was cold when she returned. She built a fire, though it exhausted her, and sat watching the flames with Elizabeth's letters in her lap. Tomorrow the lawyers. Sunday the confession. And then, however many days remained, she would watch her grandchildren decide if love could overcome what she'd done.
She hoped, with whatever part of her still believed in hope, that Elizabeth had been right about forgiveness. That it could heal even the deepest wounds, even when it came too late, even when the one offering it would soon be gone.
Outside, the rain continued, washing the last of spring’s mud from the streets, preparing the ground for whatever might grow.
CHAPTER 26
The Mother’s Day brunch had seemed like such a good idea in April. Now, on the first Saturday of May, with twenty-three confirmed guests arriving tomorrow and only half the dining room renovated properly, Kate stood in the chaos and wondered if they’d finally overreached.
Sawdust still hung in the air from where Ben’s crew had worked until an hour ago, racing to finish the crown molding. Drop cloths covered half the floor, and the new paint smell filled the room strongly enough to make her eyes water despite every window being thrown open to the unusually warm May morning. Through those windows came the sound of James pressure-washing the porch, the rhythmic spray interrupted occasionally by his cursing when the ancient machine sputtered.
The dining room table where they’d held so many family meetings was pushed against the wall, loaded with boxes of new linens that Dani had ordered. Kate ran her finger along one of the tablecloths, ivory damask that felt like prosperity itself. They'd cost more than the inn used to make in a week during the off-season. Now they were betting everything on tomorrowbeing perfect enough to generate the kind of word-of-mouth that could save their summer season.
Tom emerged from the kitchen carrying a clipboard, his shirt already soaked with sweat despite the early hour. He'd been up since four, going through vendor deliveries with the kind of attention to detail that probably made him a good lawyer before his life fell apart. Now he applied that same intensity to counting dinner plates and arguing with the seafood supplier about the quality of the lobster.
“We’re short six place settings,” he announced. “The rental company says they delivered thirty, but I count twenty-four.”
“They’re probably still in the van,” Kate said, though she moved to help him look. This was how they worked now, the four of them rotating through crises like a tag team, one picking up what another had to set down.
The past month had taught them a rhythm. Tom handled anything requiring negotiation or contracts, his lawyer voice getting them better deals than Kate had ever managed with her apologetic requests. James had transformed their online presence, the inn's website now featuring virtual tours and professional photos that made the place look like something from a magazine. Dani had proven to have an almost supernatural ability to make events feel special, turning their limitations into charming features. “Authentic Maine inn experience” she called it, which sounded better than “we can’t afford matching everything.”
Kate had learned to step back, to orchestrate rather than do everything herself. It was harder than the physical work had ever been, this trusting, this delegating, this believing things would get done without her direct hand on them.
The kitchen was its own controlled disaster. Marcy had been there since yesterday, preparing what she could ahead. The walk-in cooler now showed how thoroughly she’d arrangedit, stacked like a game of Tetris with containers of hollandaise waiting to be finished, fruit salad in massive bowls, pounds of bacon ready for the oven. She moved through her domain with the confidence of someone who’d cooked for forty before, though never with this much pressure, never with the inn’s survival hanging on a single meal.
Dani burst through the back door, phone pressed to her ear, her hair already escaping from the bun she’d twisted it into. She’d been on calls since six, confirming last-minute details with guests, several of whom had specific dietary requirements that were causing Marcy to quietly reinvent half the menu.
“Yes, Mrs. Whitcomb, we absolutely can accommodate gluten-free. And yes, we have alternatives to eggs. Of course, no nuts in anything at your table.” She rolled her eyes at Kate while maintaining her cheerful phone voice. “We’re so looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
When she hung up, she immediately pulled up her spreadsheet on the tablet she carried everywhere now. “Mrs. Whitcomb’s table is going to be a nightmare. One gluten-free, one vegan, one kosher, and one person who apparently only eats white foods.”
“White foods?” Marcy called from the stove.
“Some kind of sensory thing with her autistic son. No colors on the plate.”
“My goodness,” Marcy muttered, but she was already adjusting, pulling out potatoes, cauliflower, making mental changes to her prep list.
Through the window, Kate saw Ben’s truck pulling back into the drive. He’d left at dawn to get more paint for touch-ups, the kind of last-minute run that had become commonplace as they discovered everything that wasn’t quite right. He moved with the easy efficiency she’d come to rely on, unloading cans without being asked, knowing exactly what needed attention.
They’d barely spoken about anything personal in the past month, both too exhausted and focused on the renovation to navigate the space between them. But she was aware of him constantly, noticed when his truck arrived each morning, felt his absence when he left each night. Sometimes she caught him looking at her, something patient and knowing in his expression, but neither of them had energy for anything beyond the work.
