"Just like Elizabeth used to make," he said, his hands shaking as he leveled the measuring cup.
"Amy," Kate said quietly, waiting until Pop was focused on the flour. "Has Lillian seemed unwell to you?"
Amy's face was thoughtful, careful. "She hides it well, but yes. Yesterday after your argument, she had to sit in her car for ten minutes before driving away. Just sitting there, eyes closed. I watched from the window."
The guilt twisted in Kate's stomach like something alive, but she pushed it down hard. Lillian being sick didn't erase the foreclosure notice. It didn't undo years of criticism and control. It didn't give her the right to take over their lives, even if—especially if—she was trying to fix things before...
Kate stopped that thought. She wouldn't feel sorry for Lillian. She couldn't afford to.
“Where's Dani?” she asked.
“She went to Portland. Something about meeting with suppliers.”
More decisions being made without her. Kate felt control slipping away like sand through her fingers.
Martin spent the morning measuring every room, making notes in a leather-bound book, occasionally making small sounds of disapproval. Kate followed him like a shadow, which clearly made him nervous.
“The bones are good,” he admitted in Room 5. “But these quilts have to go.”
“My mother made those quilts.”
“Oh.” He looked at the quilt with new eyes. “Well, perhaps we could frame one? As art?”
“They're not art. They're bedding. They're meant to keep people warm.”
Martin made another note. Kate could imagine it:Owner's daughter—difficult, sentimental, resistant to change.
That afternoon, Kate reconciled invoices when Donna Warner came in with her book club, followed by Marie Brennan and three other longtime locals.
“Kate, dear,” Donna said with false sweetness. “We were just wondering if the rumors are true. Is Lillian Whitfield really taking over the inn?”
“No one's taking over anything.”
“But she's financing everything? After all these years?” Donna leaned in conspiratorially. “Your poor mother would be rolling in her grave.”
“My mother wanted the inn to survive,” Kate said evenly.
“Of course, dear. But at what cost? We've been coming here for Mrs. Porter’s book club for years. Will we still be welcome when it's all fancy and modern?”
Marie Brennan chimed in, “The Harbor Hotel already caters to the wealthy summer people. Whaler’s Landing was always for real Mainers.”
“It still is.”
“Is it? With that fancy designer measuring windows? With Amy Atkinson… who's she, anyway? Not from here.”
Kate's temper flared. “Amy is taking excellent care of my father.”
“Your father doesn't need a stranger. He needs his family.”
“Sometimes family needs help,” Kate said through gritted teeth.
“Well, I suppose that’s a good thing. Your father is a good man. He should get all the help he can,” Marie said.
“Of course it’s not easy to get good help,” Donna replied. “I’m sure she’s qualified.”
Kate waited for the other shoe to drop.
“It’s just that sometimes a family needs to stand on their own feet,” Donna continued. “That's what your mother did. Never took a dime from anyone.”
