“Mrs. Porter isn't even invited.”
“That's not stopping her.”
Kate laughed and got to work. This was her life now, Thursday night driving back from Biddeford after her last seminar, Friday catching up on inn business, Saturday and Sunday working events or maintenance or whatever crisis arose. But early Sunday morning was her time in her floating shack processing the week, then back to Biddeford to do it all again.
The first semester had been harder than she'd imagined. Being a student at thirty-five, meant her brain worked differently. Not worse, but differently. She had to study harder than the twenty-somethings, but she understood context better. Her life experience made the theories real in ways her younger classmates couldn't grasp yet.
“Katie!” Tom appeared in an actual tux. As the inn's official legal counsel and unofficial patriarch, he'd been asked to be a groomsman. “The photographer wants family portraits. She insists the inn family counts.”
The inn looked spectacular. Dani had outdone herself with lavender and white everywhere, fairy lights that would glow come evening, and the arbor Ben had built that was even more elaborate than last year's spring weddings.
Kate changed into the dress she kept for these occasions and found herself swept into the controlled chaos of wedding preparation. But she also found moments to observe, to appreciate how far they'd all come.
James had started dating Rebecca Hartly, the librarian, who was currently helping arrange flowers and looking at James like he hung the moon. Dani and Ryan had moved in together, running both the inn and their new restaurant with seamless partnership. Tom was finally ready to date again, having joined a grief support group that met Tuesday nights.
And Ben... Ben was exactly who he'd always been, but more. Patient, present, but lately with an undercurrent of anticipation that Kate recognized. He'd been disappearing for mysterious errands, having whispered conversations with Dani, checking his pocket repeatedly like he was confirming something was still there.
“You're thinking too hard,” he said, appearing beside her as the photographer arranged them all.
“I'm thinking about my publication.”
His face lit up. “And the doctorate encouragement?”
“I'd be forty when I finished. At least.”
“So?”
“So that's old to start a career. Old to start... other things.”
Ben's hand found hers. “Not too old. Just experienced.”
The photographer interrupted them, arranging the “inn family” for portraits. Tom, James and Rebecca, Dani and Ryan, Kate and Ben, even Marcy and Rosa who'd become as much family as employees. Mrs. Porter had somehow appeared in the shots despite not being invited.
“Everyone smile!” the photographer commanded.
And Kate did, genuinely, completely. Because this was her life now, complicated and exhausting and perfect in its imperfection.
The wedding itself was beautiful. The bride cried, the groom forgot his vows and had to improvise, a ring bearer decided to make a run for the harbor (Tom caught him), and Mrs. Porter somehow caught the bouquet despite being technically a wedding crasher. Fortunately, she subsequently handed it over to the closest young, but anxious, single lady.
As the reception began and Kate worked the crowd with practiced ease, she kept thinking about the doctorate offer. Three more years, minimum. The commute to Biddeford was manageable for a master's, but a doctorate would mean more intensive research, longer lab hours, maybe overnight stays for experiments.
And children. She was thirty-six. Ben was thirty-seven. If they waited until after the doctorate, she'd be forty, forty-one. Possible, but risky. If they didn't wait, she'd be pregnant in a doctoral program, defending her dissertation with a toddler at home.
“You're doing the math again,” Dani said, appearing with champagne. “I can see it on your face.”
“Just thinking about timing.”
“Timing is a luxury, Katie. Sometimes you just jump.”
The reception continued into the evening. Kate slipped away at sunset, needing a moment of quiet. She found herself on the widow's walk, looking out at the harbor where she'd learned to ice fish, where her parents had built their life, where everything had nearly fallen apart and somehow came back together stronger.
She heard footsteps behind her. Ben. She knew his gait, the particular weight of his step.
“Beautiful view,” he said, but he wasn't looking at the harbor.
“Ben...”
“I had a plan,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Wait until you finished your first year. Do this properly. Maybe at Christmas Prelude, or next summer when the gardens are perfect. But standing here, watching you today, thinking about you doing a doctorate, about time passing, about all the reasons to wait...” He pulled out a small velvet box. “I'm tired of waiting.”
