When they finally stopped, when they had done absolutely everything they could, the five of them stood in the finished dining room. It wasn’t perfect. The floors still sloped slightly, the windows were still old and drafty, and if you knew where to look, you could see where the new paint met the old in not-quite-matching shades.
But it was theirs. They’d built this together and tomorrow would either prove they could make it work or teach them an expensive lesson about ambition.
“To tomorrow,” Dani said, raising an imaginary glass.
“To not poisoning anyone,” Marcy added from the kitchen doorway.
“To Mom,” Kate said quietly. “She would have loved this.”
They dispersed to their beds, exhausted and anxious, leaving Kate alone in the dining room. She stood there, imagining it full of guests, imagining success, imagining failure, imagining all the ways tomorrow could go.
Ben appeared one last time, heading for the door. “You should sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“I can’t sleep. Too nervous.”
He crossed to her and stood close enough for her to look into his eyes. “It’s going to be wonderful. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you all care so much it hurts. That kind of caring shows in everything. People will feel it.”
He touched her face gently, just his fingertips against her cheek, then left before she could respond. Kate stood in the dining room, her face warm where he’d touched her, looking at what they had built, and let herself believe, just for a moment, that he might be right.
CHAPTER 27
The first disaster happened at six-fifteen in the morning, before a single guest had arrived. Kate discovered it when she went to check the coffee station one final time: the industrial coffee maker that Ben and James had supposedly fixed yesterday was creating a small lake on the dining room floor. Not dripping, not leaking, but actively flooding, water spreading across the old wood boards and creeping toward the Oriental rug they'd pulled from the attic and cleaned specifically for today.
She stood frozen for three seconds, watching the water advance like an incoming tide, her mind cataloging everything that would be ruined, everything that would go wrong, how this single mechanical failure would cascade into complete catastrophe. Then training kicked in, the muscle memory of years of crisis management. She grabbed every towel from the linen closet, threw them down like sandbags against a flood, and yelled for James in a voice that probably woke guests three towns over.
He appeared in boxers and a T-shirt, took in the scene, and dove under the coffee station without hesitation. The water stopped, but the damage was visible: water stains spreadingacross the floor they'd refinished just two weeks ago, the rug's edges darkened despite her towel barrier.
“We can't serve coffee,” Kate said, the words coming out hollow. A Mother's Day brunch without coffee. They might as well close now.
“Yes, we can.” Dani appeared, fully dressed and made up despite the early hour, carrying her tablet like a shield. “The coffee shop in town opens at six. They have those big carriers for events. James, go now. Get ten carriers. Twenty if they have them.”
“In my boxers?”
“Put your pants on first,” Dani said with the kind of patience reserved for small children and panicking brothers. “Tom, help Kate with the water. I'll call guests who are coming for first seating, tell them we're serving a special local roast from our partner café. Make it sound intentional.”
This was what they'd become in the past month: a machine that adapted to failure, that turned disasters into features. Kate watched her siblings scatter to their tasks and felt that strange mix of pride and loss that had become familiar. They didn't need her to direct them anymore. They just moved, each knowing their part.
By seven-thirty, the evidence had been erased. Tom had used a hair dryer on the floor until the water marks faded to barely visible shadows. The rug had been replaced with another one from the attic, this one actually nicer than the first. James had returned with enough coffee to caffeinate half of Kennebunkport, and Dani had successfully spun the story to arriving guests that they were featuring “artisanal local coffee” as part of their commitment to supporting Maine businesses.
The first seating began at ten, and Kate watched from the kitchen doorway as twenty-three guests filed into the dining room. Mrs. Porter's book club took the long table by thewindows, a cluster of women in their seventies who examined everything with the critical eye of people who'd been coming to the inn since before Kate was born. A family from Boston had the round table in the corner, their three young children already eyeing the fruit display with destructive interest. The remaining guests were couples, some local, some tourists who'd found them through James's improved website.
Rosa moved through the room with coffee, her daughters following with cream and sugar, their movements choreographed from yesterday's practice run. Dani floated between tables, greeting everyone personally, somehow knowing everyone's name without checking notes. Tom stationed himself near the kitchen, ready to intercept any service problems before they reached the guests. James had disappeared into the basement to monitor the patched plumbing, convinced something else would fail.
Kate felt useless. Everyone had a role except her. She stood in the doorway, watching her siblings and staff execute the plan they'd all created, and realized this was her role now: to watch, to be ready, to trust.
The kitchen was barely controlled chaos. Marcy worked with the focused intensity of a surgeon, plating eggs Benedict with assembly-line efficiency while keeping track of the special dietary needs Dani had marked on each order. The girl allergic to everything except rice and chicken got a plate that Marcy had somehow made look festive rather than pathetic, garnished with herbs and arranged like artwork.
“Behind you,” Rosa called, carrying out the first wave of plates.
The dining room filled with the sounds Kate had been hoping for: conversation, laughter, the clink of silverware on china. She watched Mrs. Porter take her first bite of eggsBenedict, waited for the criticism that always came. Instead, the older woman closed her eyes, savoring.
“This hollandaise,” she announced to her table, “is better than what they serve at the Harbor Hotel.”
Coming from Mrs. Porter, this was the equivalent of a Michelin 3-star rating.
