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Granddad hosted the event every year. He called the numbers, handed out the prizes, and knew most of the guests by name. He also knew who needed a seat near the front, who drank tea instead of wine, and which couples would argue over their cards. His notes are still clipped inside the event folder. Beside Mrs. Porter’s name, he wrote, Save her a lemon slice. She was his favorite, though he always denied having one. I had to close the folder for a few minutes after I found it.

This year, I’ll hold the microphone. Planning the event was easy. Taking Granddad’s place won’t be.

At least the final details have kept me busy enough to ignore Eric. He called Monday night. Yesterday, he sent two texts, then tried again after dinner. I haven’t answered any of them.

That last call was harder to resist. I was sitting on the couch with Percy and a glass of wine when Eric’s name appeared on my screen. I smiled before I could stop myself, but I still let it go to voicemail.

If I keep my distance, I can keep this under control. Saturday and Monday were two mistakes. They don’t have to become anything more.

I turn back to work and open my inbox. An urgent email from our insurance broker, sent to Jane in accounting and automatically forwarded to me, is waiting at the top.

Dear Mr. Hartwell,

The insurer that agreed to replace your current carrier withdrew its offer this morning. We have contacted several other insurers but haven’t been able to arrange coverage.

The Hartwell Hotel’s current policy will expire at 12:01 a.m. tomorrow. Unless we secure a replacement today, the hotel will be uninsured from that time.

Panic rises as I read. Then I glance back at the top of the email.

Dear Mr. Hartwell.

For one second, I think I should take it to Granddad. The thought comes so easily that I almost stand before the truth catches up with me.

It still happens at odd times. I’ll see his name on an old file or at the top of an email and forget, for half a second, that he’s gone.

I check the recipients. The broker sent the warning to Granddad’s old address and copied Jane. Her emails are being forwarded to me while she’s away, which is the only reason I received it. I changed the account details when I took over, so Granddad’s address shouldn’t still be on file.

Jane is our financial controller. When she left for Hawaii this morning, she believed our new insurance policy was ready to begin. The company must have pulled out after her flight took off.

I call her anyway, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. The Hartwell has about fourteen hours of coverage left, and I’m the only person here who can fix this.

I take a breath and focus on what needs to happen next.

I call the number beneath the broker’s signature. A recorded voice thanks me for my patience for eleven minutes before a woman finally answers.

“My name is Rachel Hartwell. I’ve received an email saying the hotel’s replacement insurer withdrew its offer.”

“Give me a moment to open the account.”

The hold music returns. A minute later, she transfers me to Mark Ellison, the broker handling our renewal.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hartwell,” he says. “We haven’t been able to arrange a new policy.”

“Why not?”

“The age of the building and the cost of replacing it have made insurers cautious.”

That would’ve been useful to know before today.

“You sent the warning to my grandfather,” I say. “He died eight months ago.”

“I’m very sorry. I can see that you changed the contact details when you took over. Mr. Hartwell’s email should’ve been removed as the primary address, but it wasn’t. That was our mistake.”

Frustration rises, but taking it out on him won’t insure the hotel. Right now, I need a solution.

“Can our current insurer extend the policy until we find another one?”

“We’ve already asked. They refused.”