The morning took on a rhythm. Plates out, plates back, coffee refreshed, special requests handled. The child who only ate white foods got a plate that looked like modern art in monochrome. The vegan guest received something Marcy had constructed from vegetables that actually looked appealing. Every crisis got handled before it became visible to guests.
Then Kate spotted her: a woman at table six, pushing her eggs around her plate with obvious disappointment. Before Kate could move, Dani was there, crouching beside the woman's chair, listening intently. She disappeared into the kitchen, returned with Marcy, who spoke directly to the guest. Three minutes later, a new plate appeared, the eggs exactly as requested, the woman smiling with surprise at the personal attention.
“She wanted them over easy, not poached,” Dani explained to Kate in passing. “Her late mother used to make them that way on Mother's Day.”
This attention to the story behind the request, the understanding that they were serving memories as much as food, was something Kate never could have managed alone. She watched Dani return to the woman's table, saw them talking, the woman pulling out her phone to show photos. Dani wasn't just managing service; she was creating connection.
The first seating ended at eleven-thirty, guests lingering over coffee, reluctant to leave. Several stopped to compliment the food, the service, the ambiance. Mrs. Porter made a point of finding Kate.
“This is what the inn should be,” she said, her usual critical tone softened. “Your mother would be proud.”
The words should have been comforting, but they lodged in Kate's chest like a stone. Her mother hadn't lived to see any of this. Had died thinking the inn was failing, would always fail.
The turnover between seatings was a ballet of efficiency. Tables cleared, reset, flowers refreshed, coffee stations refilled. The floor where the coffee maker had flooded showed no evidence of the morning's crisis. Everything looked intentional, professional, like they knew what they were doing.
The second seating brought different energy. These guests were younger, several tables of adult children taking their mothers out, a group of teachers celebrating someone's retirement, a surprising number of tourists who'd driven up from Boston specifically for this. James's online marketing had worked better than they'd hoped.
Ben stopped by, not for the brunch but to fix something in the basement that couldn't wait. He nodded at Kate as he passed, and she felt that familiar flutter she'd been ignoring for weeks. He'd showered and changed since yesterday's work, was wearing a clean shirt that made his eyes look impossibly blue. She wondered if he'd chosen it intentionally, then pushed the thought away.
The second seating was easier, the rhythm established, everyone confident in their roles. Kate actually sat down for five minutes, ate something for the first time since yesterday. She watched her siblings work, saw how Tom's lawyer instincts made him excellent at de-escalating problems, how James's tech brain helped him optimize service flow, how Dani's need to matter translated into making every guest feel special.
They were good at this. Better together than any of them had been alone.
By two-thirty, it was over. The last guests departed with promises to return, several booking rooms for the summer on their way out. The dining room looked like a battlefield, but a victorious one. They'd served sixty-seven guests in total with only one major disaster and several minor ones, none of which the guests had noticed.
“We did it,” Dani said, collapsing into a chair. Her perfect morning makeup had slipped slightly, revealing exhaustion underneath.
“We pulled it off,” Tom agreed, loosening his tie. He'd worn a suit, the first time Kate had seen him in one since arriving from Boston.
“The website's already getting hits from people posting photos,” James reported, looking at his phone. “Three Instagram posts tagged us, all positive.”
Kate wanted to celebrate with them, but the weight of the evening was already pressing down. In less than two hours, Lillian would arrive to tell them something that required all of them present, something that would hurt. She touched the photo in her pocket again, wondered if what she'd found was just the surface of something deeper.
“I need to check on Pop,” she said, though she'd already called the facility twice today.
“He's fine,” Tom said gently. “I called an hour ago. He had a good morning, ate all his lunch.”
This was another change: her siblings now checked on Pop without being asked, sharing the worry she'd carried alone for so long.
Ben emerged from the basement, a pipe fitting in his hand. “Fixed the leak, but you'll need a proper plumber soon. This is just a patch.”
Always something needing repair, Kate thought. Always something about to fail. But now there were people to help catch what fell.
The afternoon dissolved into cleanup, everyone moving slower now that the adrenaline had faded. Kate found herself beside Ben, drying dishes while he washed, a domestic rhythm that felt too comfortable.
“You did something amazing today,” he said quietly.
“We did. All of us.”
“You trusted them to help. That's got to feel good.”
She wanted to argue, to minimize, but he was right. Trusting had been harder than doing everything herself. Letting go of control had been its own kind of work.
At four o’clock, Lillian's car arrived. Kate watched from the window as their grandmother emerged slowly, each movement careful and considered. She was dying, Kate realized with sudden clarity. Not eventually, not abstractly, but now, actively, her body failing in real-time.
They gathered in the dining room, the same space that had held such life this morning now feeling somber. Lillian sat at the head of the table, pulled out the USB drive and a folder of documents.
“Before I begin,” she said, her voice steady despite obvious pain, “I need you to understand that everything I'm about to tell you is true. I have documentation, recordings, proof of my failures.”
