Rosa arrived with her daughter and two nieces, the extra hands they brought on for tomorrow. Kate walked them through the service plan Dani had created, complete with floor diagrams showing traffic flow and table arrangements. It was the kind of professional document that made Kate wonder again at her sister’s transformation from scattered dreamer to competent event planner.
“We’ll have two seatings,” Kate explained, pointing at the timeline. “First at ten, second at twelve-thirty. Full turnover between, which gives us exactly forty minutes to reset.”
“That’s not much time,” Rosa’s daughter said nervously.
“It’s enough if we work together,” Rosa said firmly, the kind of confidence that came from years of making difficult things look easy.
The morning accelerated as these Saturdays always did now, each hour bringing new problems to solve. The flowers Dani had ordered arrived half-dead, requiring an emergency run to three different stores to find replacements.
Lillian arrived at noon, moving more slowly than ever, her walking stick not quite enough to hide how much effort each step required. She’d been coming by daily, observing their chaos with an expression that might have been approval or might have been the kind of exhaustion that came from watching people learn lessons the hard way.
Kate couldn’t stop wondering about their grandmother’s plans for theatrics the next day. She had to remind herself to focus on the Mother’s Day event, and that thinking about whatever Lillian had to say would have to wait.
“It’s coming together,” she said, settling into one of the restored chairs that had become her spot.
“It’s a disaster,” Kate corrected, wiping sweat from her forehead. She’d been painting baseboards for the last hour, the detail work that Ben’s crew hadn’t had time to finish.
“All events feel like disasters the day before. Then guests arrive and never notice the things you think are obvious.”
Lillian watched Dani wrestling with a tablecloth, trying to make it lie flat on a table that had probably never been level.
“Coffee maker’s fixed. James is some kind of YouTube university genius. Also, I found your missing place settings. They were in Tom’s car… as usual.”
The gentle teasing in his voice about Tom’s oversight made Kate smile despite her exhaustion. This was what they’d become, the four siblings and Ben and Marcy and Rosa and even Lillian: a strange kind of family, bound by this impossible task of saving the inn.
The afternoon brought its own challenges. The health inspector arrived unannounced, requiring Marcy to drop everything and walk him through the kitchen while maintaining the kind of cheerful professionalism that kept him from looking too closely at the ancient refrigerator they hadn’t had time to replace. A seagull somehow got into the attic and had to be chased out by James wielding a broom while Dani filmed it for social media because “it’s authentic Maine content.”
Mrs. Porter arrived to inspect the preparations for her book club, finding fault with everything before declaring it “adequate” in a tone that suggested she was doing them a favor by not canceling. Tom handled her with a patience Kate couldn’t havemanaged, adjusting seating arrangements three times until she was satisfied.
By five o’clock, the dining room finally looked ready. The new paint gleamed in the afternoon light, the tables were set with Dani’s expensive linens and the good china their mother had saved for special occasions, and Dani added branches she’d cut from the garden to supplement Rosa’s flower arrangements, creating centerpieces that looked intentional rather than desperate.
Kate stood in the doorway, taking it in. For the first time, she could see what they were trying to create. Not just a meal, not just an event, but a possibility. The inn could be this, could be a place where people came for occasions, for memories, for the kind of experiences that justified higher prices and generated loyalty.
“It looks beautiful,” Ben said from beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach, but she was getting used to him appearing when she needed reassurance.
“If nothing goes wrong tomorrow.”
“Something will go wrong. Something always does. But you’ll handle it.” He looked at her, paint still in his hair, dust on his clothes, this man who’d spent his Saturday doing work he wouldn’t be paid for because he believed in what they were building. “You all will handle it. Together.”
The word hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond tomorrow’s brunch. Together was what they were becoming, the siblings who’d scattered, the grandmother who’d been estranged, the collection of people who’d chosen to pour themselves into saving this place.
Dani appeared, tablet in hand, a new crisis in her expression. “Three more dietary restrictions just came in. One person is apparently allergic to everything except rice and chicken.”
“Rice and chicken for Mother’s Day brunch?” Marcy called from the kitchen, incredulous.
“We’ll figure it out,” Tom said, already pulling up his phone to source ingredients.
“We always do,” James added, coming in from the porch, finally finished with the pressure washing.
This was their rhythm now, Kate realized. Not her solving everything, but all of them catching what fell, adjusting to each crisis, finding ways through impossibilities. She wasn’t alone in the responsibility anymore, and the relief of that was almost as frightening as the burden had been.
Lillian stood carefully, preparing to leave. “I’ll see you all tomorrow?”
The reminder cast a shadow over the room. Tomorrow, after the brunch, after the crisis and triumph or disaster, Lillian would tell them whatever truth she’d been carrying. Kate touched the pocket where she kept the photo showing her mother and Lillian reunited, the secret she’d kept that might not be the whole secret after all.
“We’ll be here,” Kate said.
After Lillian left, they worked until nearly midnight, pushing through every task possible. Kate found herself beside Ben more often than coincidence would suggest, their hands brushing as they adjusted table settings, their bodies navigating around each other with an awareness that had nothing to do with the work.
