“You've checked the dining room four times this morning.”
Kate stopped mid-step. She had been pacing. “I don't know what to do with myself.”
“You could try enjoying life a little.”
“I don't know how to do that.”
Marcy studied her with those knowing eyes. “Your mother did. Even when things were hard, she found joy. Little moments.”
“I'm not my mother.”
“No,” Marcy agreed. “But you could learn from her.”
That afternoon, Kate found herself in the attic, going through boxes she'd been avoiding for years. Now that the electricians had improved the lighting, she could see everythingclearly. Boxes of Christmas decorations, old guest registers, her mother's things she'd never been able to sort through.
She opened one box marked “Elizabeth—Personal” and found photo albums. Her parents' wedding, small and simple. Her mother pregnant with Tom, radiant despite the morning sickness Kate knew she'd suffered. Birthday parties, Christmas mornings, ordinary Tuesday afternoons captured and preserved.
In one photo, her mother stood on the inn's porch, paint in her hair, laughing at something off-camera. She looked so young, so alive, so unaware of what was coming.
“Found treasure?”
Kate jumped. Ben stood at the top of the ladder, tool belt around his waist.
“Just memories.” She closed the album quickly, feeling exposed.
“Good ones?”
“Complicated ones.”
He climbed the rest of the way up, sat beside her on the dusty floor. “Families are complicated, Kate.”
“Is yours?”
“My parents moved to Florida five years ago. They wanted me to come, start over somewhere warm.” He picked up a photo that had fallen out, Kate at maybe five, covered in flour, helping her mother bake. “But you can't start over, not really. You just take yourself somewhere else.”
Kate looked at the photo in his hand. She didn't remember that day specifically, but she remembered the feeling: safe, loved, part of something bigger than herself.
“I don't know who I am without responsibility,” she admitted quietly.
“Maybe this new routine is a gift,” Ben said. “You’re getting a chance to find out.”
Their shoulders touched, just barely. Kate was acutely aware of the contact, of his warmth in the cold attic. She wanted to lean into him and pull away simultaneously, caught between desire and fear.
“Kate?” Amy's voice from below. “Your father's asking for you.”
The spell broke. Kate scrambled to her feet, Ben rising with her.
“I should go.”
“Kate.” He caught her hand gently. “You don't have to run every time.”
“I'm not running.”
“Aren't you?”
She pulled her hand free, confused by the hurt in his eyes. “Pop needs me.”
“He has Amy.”
