Kate poured her a coffee, noting how Marcy's arrival immediately made the kitchen feel warmer, more alive. The older woman's presence had that effect, filling spaces with competent energy. “Is there ever good news?”
“Rosa can't make it in. Her road's not plowed.”
“And the good?”
“That was both.” Marcy wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the steam warm her face, and giggled.
Marcy and Rosa always teased each other, but everyone knew they were as thick as thieves. Kate couldn’t run the place without them.
“We having a fancy dinner tonight or what? Dani texted me about cooking for four.”
The reminder hit Kate like cold water. Tonight. Lillian Whitfield would walk through their front door, as if she’d been here since the beginning.
Kate moved to the dining room they never used, flipping on lights as she went. The room was frozen in time, her mother's china in the glass cabinet, silver that hadn't been polished in years, a table that seated twelve but usually stood empty, except for the occasional guest.
Kate ran her hand along the table's surface, feeling the small scratches and water marks that told the story of decades of dinners. Her mother had loved this room, loved filling it with people and laughter. Elizabeth would spend hours preparing for dinner parties, arranging flowers from the garden, pressing linens, making everything perfect. Kate could almost see her: hair pinned up, wearing the blue dress she favored for special occasions, adjusting a fork here, a flower there.
The comparison was inevitable and brutal. Elizabeth had been elegant even in an apron. Kate looked down at herself, thermal shirt, yesterday's jeans, thick wool socks with a hole starting at the big toe. She was her father's daughter in every way that showed, and perhaps that had always been the problem. Lillian Whitfield had taken one look at Daniel Perkins and seen someone unworthy of her daughter. Would she look at Kate the same way?
By eight o'clock, Ben Calloway's truck pulled into the driveway, and Kate was grateful for the distraction. He brought a box of donuts from Dock Square, the good ones that were still warm from the fryer. They spread his estimates across the dining room table, between the tarnished candlesticks she'd been attempting to polish.
The morning light was unforgiving in this room, highlighting every water stain on the ceiling, every spot where the wallpaper had started to peel. Ben didn't comment on it, but she sawhim notice, his contractor's eye cataloging damage even as he explained the estimates.
“Five thousand,” he said finally, pointing to the third option. “I can make it work for five thousand.”
She studied the numbers, aware of him watching her. He had sawdust in his hair again, and paint under his fingernails, the marks of someone who did real work, who built things instead of just talking about building them. Her kind of people, she thought, then wondered when she'd started dividing the world into such categories.
Kate nodded, certain she’d be spending money she didn’t have.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of preparation. Kate found herself standing in front of her closet at noon, staring at the few dresses she owned. Three black ones for funerals. One navy blue that she'd worn to Tom's wedding five years ago. A summer dress with flowers that felt too cheerful, too hopeful for this occasion.
She pulled out the navy dress and held it up to herself in the bedroom mirror. The woman looking back seemed older than thirty-five, tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix. She thought of Dani with her professional highlights and designer clothes, of Lillian Whitfield who would undoubtedly arrive looking like money itself. Then she thought of her mother, who had chosen love over money, this inn over that life, Pop over everything else.
The dress would have to do.
By four o'clock, the dining room glowed with candlelight that softened every flaw, made everything look like a painting. The silver gleamed, the china looked delicate and precious, and the smell of Marcy's pot roast filled the inn with warmth. Kate stood in the kitchen doorway, watching snow fall through the window. The sun was gone and the harbor had disappeared into white,the whole world shrinking to just this inn, this moment, this time of waiting.
Dani arrived at four-thirty, shaking snow from her expensive coat, carrying wine and flowers and nervous energy. She'd changed into something that probably cost more than Kate's monthly mortgage, a dress that moved like water, jewelry that caught the light. Standing beside her, Kate felt like exactly what she was: the sister who'd stayed behind, who'd chosen duty over dreams, who'd never learned how to be anything but practical.
“You look nice,” Dani offered, adjusting Kate's collar with the automatic intimacy of sisters.
Kate pulled away from her touch. “I look like what I am.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
The silence stretched between them, filled with all the choices that had pulled them in different directions. Daniella Perkins had always been the pretty one, the one who could charm anyone, who moved through the world like it owed her something beautiful. Kate had been the one who fixed things, who stayed, who made sure everyone else was okay. Looking at Dani now, polished and poised, Kate felt every hour of lost sleep, every day of hard work written on her body.
Pop appeared in the doorway at 4:45, wearing his good suit. He'd managed to dress himself properly, though his tie was slightly crooked. Kate fixed it for him, noticing how his hands trembled slightly, how his wedding ring hung loose on his finger.
“You look handsome, Pop.”
“Want to look right,” he said quietly.
Kate had only said they were having company. She tried to explain about Lillian, but her father didn’t register anything unusual. She had no idea how her father would react whenhe saw Lillian. Her grandmother’s Mercedes pulled into the driveway, and Kate’s heart raced.
Through the frost-covered window, Kate watched the driver open the door. Lillian emerged into the snowy evening like something from another era, tall, straight-backed, wrapped in what looked like cashmere. She stood for a moment in the falling snow, looking up at the inn, and Kate saw something cross her face, pain, perhaps, or memory, or loss. Then the mask reassembled itself, and she walked toward the door with the measured steps of someone approaching the gallows.
