Your Great-Aunt, Constance Lawson.
I finished the letter,tears now openly tracing paths through the dust on my cheeks. I carefully folded the fragile sheets and held them to my chest, the faint, dryscent filling my senses. For the first time, Heron House felt less like an overwhelming project and more like a gift. A sacred trust.
A story I was meant to continue.
Aunt Constance wasn’t just a distant, disapproving relative whose lawyer had sent a shocking letter. She was a woman with her own complexities, regrets, and unexpressed hopes.
“Thank you, Aunt Constance,” I whispered to the silent, dusty room. “I’ll try my best.”
I tucked the letter back into the drawer, arranging the magnolia sprig on top, a profound shift settling within me. My determination to succeed with the B&B, already strong, was now fortified by a sense of legacy, a desire to honor the complex, ultimately kindhearted woman who had chosen me.
With a new surge of purpose, I wiped my face dry. I padded into the grand foyer and stopped at the base of the sweeping staircase. Its elegant lines were obscured by dust, but the potential was breathtaking. The hand-carved newel post was worn by over a century of passing hands, its former glory waiting to be coaxed back to life. I ran my fingers over the cool, solid wood, then arched a brow as my gaze swept up the curved risers.
“I'll have to warn guests to use care,” I murmured to the empty hall. “It’ll be something else when it’s refinished, but one misstep on a staircase this grand could ruin a vacation in a hurry.”
Shaking the sobering thought away, I focused instead on the promise of it all. Aunt Constance saw a stubborn sort of light in me, not a girl who abandoned a half-finished pottery studio when the logistics got messy. She saw the potential. And for the first time, I felt a desperate need to live up to it.
Thursday afternoon,armed with my copy ofLove on the Tideand a healthy dose of nervous anticipation, I walked the few blocks from Heron House to a bungalow in the residential district for my first Sips and Pages book club meeting. Pam, a friendly woman with a neat brown bob and a welcoming smile, was the de facto den mother of this literary coven.
The door to her charming, brightly lit bungalow was already open, cheerful voices and laughter spilling out into the warm air. The scent was wonderful as I stepped inside—a mix of paper, wine, and something deliciously sweet and spicy.
“Iris! You made it!” Brenna’s voice, warm and familiar, cut through the happy din. She emerged from a cluster of women, her auburn hair gleaming under the light. She moved with an easy grace, something I suspected wouldn’t be too deterred as her pregnancy progressed.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” A smile spread across my face. A friendly face could dispel lingering anxieties.
Brenna drew me into a cozy living room packed with comfortable furniture, overflowing bookshelves, and about a dozen women of various ages, all chatting animatedly, wine glasses in hand. The atmosphere was instantly inclusive, a far cry from the stuffier book clubs I’d tentatively tried back in Abingdon.
“Everyone, this is Iris Holloway,” Brenna announced, her voice carrying easily. “She’s new to Dove Key and is bravely taking on the resurrection of Heron House! Dove Key will have a new B&B soon.”
A welcoming chorus went around the room. A blush crept up my neck, but it was a pleasant, warm feeling, notthe mortified heat I associated with, say, creating a swamp in my neighbor’s yard.
Brenna guided me toward a plush armchair, then leaned in conspiratorially. “I want you to meet someone. Liv! Over here!”
A woman with a cascade of long, brown curly hair and a smile that could light up a lighthouse detached herself from a group near a platter of what looked like miniature cheesecakes. She was curvy and vibrant, her eyes glinting with infectious energy. Her stylish sundress had a sprinkling of flour dusting it.
“Iris, this is Liv Markham,” Brenna said. “Liv owns Sweet Dreams Bakery on Main Street. You absolutely must try her Key lime macarons. And she’s also my sister-in-law.”
Liv’s handshake was firm and warm, her grin wide. “Welcome! Wow, tackling Heron House is ambition with a capital A! Any friend of Brenna’s, and anyone brave enough for that glorious place, is a friend of mine.”
An instant connection sparked. “I’m a huge admirer of professional bakers. Your shop always looks so wonderful when I drive by. It smells incredible even from the street.”
“Aw, thanks!” Liv beamed. “I moved here myself not so many years ago and opened the bakery from scratch. I totally get the whole new-in-town, slightly terrified, trying-to-build-a-dream vibe. It’s a wild ride, but worth it.”
The book discussion got underway, fueled by more wine and Liv’s amazing miniature cinnamon-apple cheesecakes. But my attention, and later my conversation, drifted back to Liv.
“So, a bed and breakfast,” she said during a lull when Pam was refilling wine glasses. “That means a whole lot of breakfast baking. You a baker yourself?”
“Enthusiastic amateur,” I admitted. “I love it, butscaling up for guests and doing it consistently well… that’s the part that keeps me up at night. That, and the plumbing in Heron House, which I suspect is possessed.”
Liv laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “Oh, honey, possessed plumbing is practically a prerequisite for owning an old Keys house. Listen,” her expression grew earnest, her eyes sparkling, “any time you want to talk shop, troubleshoot a recipe, or just vent about contractors, you give me a call. We small-business gals, especially in the hospitality game, need to stick together. I can teach you a few tricks for high-volume scones that’ll knock your guests’ socks off.”
My heart swelled. “That is so incredibly generous of you, Liv. I’d love that.”
“Don’t mention it.” She pulled a pen from her pocket, grabbed a napkin, and scribbled down her number. “Call me. We’ll do coffee. Or taste-test experimental batches of muffins. My customers are always up for being guinea pigs.”
The book club wrapped up with hugs, laughter, and the announcement of next month’s selection, a historical romance set in Key West during the Depression.
Brenna handed me a copy. “See? Painless, right?”
