“To forgiveness,” Lillian said quietly.
“To fixing things,” Ben said, looking at Kate.
They drank, and Kate felt something shift. Not healing, not yet. But the possibility of it. The idea that maybe they could build something from all this wreckage.
The inn creaked around them, settling into its bones, sheltering a family trying to find their way home.
CHAPTER 24
April had come and gone with the typical mud season Maine was known for, the inn's driveway a mess of ruts and puddles, guests tracking in half the yard despite the mats Kate laid everywhere. Now, with the first week of May ending, spring had finally taken hold with tentative green leaves and the promise of tourists returning to enjoy the warmer climate.
Kate scrubbed mud from the entryway floor to the kitchen when her phone rang. Tom, at the stove, turned to look at her. “Are you going to answer?”
Kate didn't want to answer, her hands were filthy and she had reservations to confirm for Mother's Day brunch. But something made her grab it on the third ring.
“Katherine.”
Kate knew something was wrong the moment she heard Lillian's voice. For most of her life, she'd been able to read people by tone alone, guests trying to hide complaints, Pop reaching for a memory he couldn't quite catch, Dani winding herself up into a storm. Lillian had been the exception. Every word she spoke came out polished and controlled, like someone dictating a letter to a courtroom. But today, there was a faintgive in her voice, a thinness that made Kate straighten where she stood.
“I need to speak with all of you,” Lillian said.
Kate pressed her muddy palm against the counter, leaving a smear she'd have to clean later. Outside, she could hear Ben's hammer, steady, rhythmic, fixing shutters that had been loose since the last nor'easter. “Okay. When?”
There was the briefest pause, and Kate could almost imagine Lillian gathering whatever strength she had left.
“Mother's Day Sunday. After dinner. All four of you.”
Kate blinked. “Mother's Day?” This Sunday. Five days away. Mother's Day at the inn was chaos, twenty-three guests already booked for brunch, every table reserved, roses to order, special menu to prepare. They'd all be exhausted by evening.
“Yes. It has to be then.” Lillian swallowed, and for the first time Kate could remember, the sound carried vulnerability. “There are things I can't delay any longer.”
The urgency in her voice made Kate's stomach clench. Five days. Whatever Lillian needed to say couldn't wait longer than five days.
“Are you… is this medical? Should we come sooner?”
“No.” The word came out sharp, more like the Lillian she knew. Then, softer: “No, Katherine. Mother's Day. It has to be Mother's Day. Please.”
The specificity of it, the insistence of that particular day, told Kate everything. This was about her mother. Had to be.
“Fine, I’ll let the others know.”
A soft exhale, relief, fatigue, maybe both. “Four o'clock. After your brunch service.”
She knew their schedule. Of course she did.
“That’s fine,” Kate repeated.
“Thank you, Katherine.”
The line clicked off.
Kate lowered the phone slowly, letting the silence settle around her. The refrigerator hummed in the corner. A seagull cried somewhere outside. Nothing else moved, but the call still felt like it had shifted the whole house off its foundation.
“I assume that was Lillian?” Tom asked.
Kate nodded but didn’t say a word. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph she'd found just yesterday while searching for tablecloths in the attic. It had been tucked inside her mother's recipe box, hidden between the index cards for apple pie and blueberry muffins. The edges were worn from being handled. Her mother, thin and obviously dying but smiling softly. And beside her, Lillian. Touching her shoulder. Looking at her with an expression Kate didn't have a name for. Regret? Love? Both?
The photo shouldn't exist. Not in the world Kate thought she knew.
