“You're Kate Perkins.”
She looked up to find a young woman, maybe twenty-five, wearing expensive ice fishing gear that looked brand new.
“Yes.”
“I'm Jenny Tremblay. I'm writing a piece for Down East magazine about women in traditional Maine industries. I'd love to interview you about running the inn, especially now with all the changes happening.”
Kate's stomach dropped. “Changes?”
“The Whitfield money. Your grandmother returning. The renovations. It's quite a story... the reconciliation after all these years.”
“There's no story.”
“But...”
“There's no story,” Kate repeated firmly. “Excuse me.”
She packed up quickly, pulling her lines, dumping the fish back. Let them live another day. The morning was ruined now,contaminated by the outside world's interest in her family's drama.
By the time she got back to the inn, it was nearly eight. She entered through the back door, hoping to avoid everyone, but found Dani in the kitchen with someone Kate didn't recognize... a woman about Dani's age, polished and professional looking.
“Katie! Perfect timing. This is Serena, my friend from New York. She's a hospitality consultant.”
Kate felt ambushed. “Hospitality consultant.”
“I asked her to come look at the inn,” Dani said quickly. “Just for ideas. With the renovation money, we could really transform this place.”
“Into what?”
Serena smiled professionally. “Into a destination property. You have incredible bones here, amazing location. With the right positioning, you could be commanding three times your current rates.”
“We're not a destination property. We're a family inn.”
“You could be both,” Serena said smoothly. “Look at the Whitby in Nantucket, or the Osprey in Bar Harbor. Authentic charm with modern luxury.”
Kate looked at Dani, who was practically glowing with excitement. Her sister wore designer jeans and a cashmere sweater, her hair professionally styled, looking every inch the successful New York professional she'd become. Next to her, Kate felt like exactly what she was: someone who'd been ice fishing since dawn, who smelled like bait and pond water, whose hair was shoved under a wool cap that had seen better decades.
“I need to shower,” Kate said, looking directly at Dani.
She escaped upstairs, passing the room where Amy helped Pop with his morning routine. Through the open door, she could see him struggling with his sweater, confused about which holehis head went through. The man who'd once navigated by stars, who could repair any engine, who'd built half this inn with his own hands, defeated by a sweater.
In her room, Kate stood before the mirror and pulled off her hat. Her hair fell flat and lifeless around her face. When had it gotten so long? She couldn't remember the last time she'd had it cut properly, not just hacked at it herself with kitchen scissors when it got in the way.
She stripped off her layers... thermal underwear, fleece, flannel, all of it practical and worn. Her body underneath was strong but utilitarian, shaped by work rather than exercise, function rather than form. She had her father's broad shoulders, his sturdy build. Hands that were rough and competent, nails torn and dirty. There were calluses on her palms from tools, scars on her arms from years of maintenance work.
Kate tried to remember the last time she put on makeup for any reason other than a funeral or wedding. The last time she'd felt pretty rather than just presentable.
In high school, before everything went wrong, she'd been different. Not beautiful like Dani, but she'd cared about her appearance. She'd worn lip gloss and painted her nails. She'd gone to dances and flirted with boys and spent hours getting ready for dates.
When had that girl disappeared?
During her mother's illness, probably, when there was no time for anything but hospital visits and keeping the inn running. Or maybe during graduate school, when she'd been the oldest student in her program, already marked by loss and responsibility. Or maybe it had been a slow erosion, each crisis wearing away another piece of who she might have been until only the essential Kate remained: the one who stayed, who fixed, who endured.
She thought about Ben looking at her, the way his eyes softened when he watched her work. He saw something in her that she couldn't see in herself. Yesterday, he'd called her beautiful. Not pretty, not attractive. Beautiful. As if it were just fact, like saying the sky was blue or water was wet.
Kate touched her reflection, trying to see what he saw. All she saw was tired. Worn. Practical.
A knock at her door interrupted her self-examination.
