“I wanted someplace for everyone to go year-round,” Eric said. “Casual dining, but good food.”
“And ever since The Taproom opened, we’ve been mobbed,” Jo said. “Especially on weekends during the tourist season. So Eric got the idea for Oak Hill. Fine dining, in season, weekends only.”
“What about Gusto?” His restaurant in New York. The one that launched his bestselling cookbook.
“I will still consult, yeah? But I have been in New York for ten years. When I started, my restaurant is something different. Now there are restaurants like Gusto on every corner. Here in Bunyan, I am making a difference again.”
“Eric started hiring teens at The Taproom. Training them,” Jo said. “But now he has the chance to do more. He’s hired a whole new staff. Local kids who can’t afford culinary school. Working at Oak Hill willgive them a chance to learn the high-end food business—everything from busing and dishwashing to cooking and hosting—without going into a bunch of debt.”
“I do not do it alone. Your sister is teaching them life skills, how to budget, how to write a résumé.”
“Jo wants to change the world,” Trey had said one summer long ago.“And you want to make it pretty.”
“It’s a great idea. But how on earth did you get Aunt Phee to go along?”
“It was her idea,” Jo said. “She wants Oak Hill to stay in the family, and she wants us to spend more time in North Carolina. So she offered us Oak Hill.”
“But where will she live?” I asked.
“She’s moving into the carriage house. At least for now.”
“Aunt Phee is going to live withDad?”
Jo hesitated. “I think they’re still working that part out.”
“She is in the library with your mother now,” Eric said. “They will be glad to see you.”
“They were arguing about a seating chart for the reception when I left,” Jo said.
“Oh.” Well. Definitely not the time to spring my surprise on Jo. “I’ll go... referee.”
Jo grinned. “Better you than me.”
My sandals tapped and echoed on the polished pine floor. “... have a responsibility,” Phee was insisting as I came down the hall.
“Not anymore.” My mother’s voice was flat.
I blinked. Abby March was all about taking responsibility.
“He’s still your husband,” Phee said, and my stomach sank.
They weren’t talking about the wedding. They were arguing about Dad. I pasted a smile on my face and pushed open the door. “Hey, Momma,” I said brightly. “Hi, Aunt Phee. Am I interrupting?”
Phee glowered. She and my mother faced off across the librarydesk. My mother’s hands and lips were pressed together, a sure sign she was angry. But she smiled when she saw me.
“Hey, sweetie. What are you doing here?”
Like I needed another reason to feel de trop. I felt my smile slipping and dragged it back. “I thought I’d come in early. To help.” I gave Momma a quick hug before going around the desk to kiss Phee’s cheek. The little dog in her lap growled.
“What about your work?” my mother asked.
“Flo’s handling orders while I’m gone. That’s the advantage of owning your own business,” I said. “I can take time off.” As long as I paid for the extra help and checked in three or four times a day.
If my mother was impressed by my entrepreneurship, she didn’t show it. “Jo doesn’t want a lot of fuss.”
Don’t fusswas our mother’s motto. I pictured it embroidered under an imaginary coat of arms: two goats on a green field with a pricker bush.
“I thought I could help with the flowers,” I said.
