Chapter Three
Maisie
"Would you look at what the tide washed in?" Piper Summers squealed, dropping the box she was carrying and racing across the barn to envelop me in a fierce hug. "My God, Maisie O'Malley! You didn't tell me you were coming home!"
I returned her embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of coconut shampoo and vanilla perfume that had been Piper's signature since high school. "It was... unexpected."
Piper stepped back, her bright brown eyes scanning my face with the penetrating gaze that had always seen right through me. At five-foot-two, she was shorter than I was, but what she lacked in height she made up for in energy. Today she wore jeans with embroidered flowers climbing up one leg, a bright yellow sweater, and dangling earrings shaped like tiny birds.
"Unexpected like surprise party unexpected, or unexpected like 'my life imploded' unexpected?" she asked, arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow.
"The second one." I picked up a dusty box labeled 'Christmas Decorations' and hauled it toward the growing pile by the door. "I dumped Brad. Or he dumped me. It's complicated."
"Oh, honey." Her expression softened. "He never deserved you anyway."
I managed a smile, grateful for her loyalty. When Gram had called Piper yesterday to ask for help with my "barn project," she'd dropped everything and shown up this morning with coffee, donuts, and her boundless enthusiasm.
"It was for the best," I said, brushing dust from my hands. "Besides, I've got bigger concerns now. Like turning this barn into a functioning café in less than three weeks."
Piper followed my gaze around the cavernous space. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating decades of accumulated farm equipment, furniture, and miscellaneous junk. We'd spent the morning clearing the central floor space, creating pathways through the clutter. It was progress, but we still had a mountain to scale.
"I still can't believe you're doing this," Piper said, shaking her head. "The Little Red Hen. It's perfect—the name, the concept, everything. I can already see the social media campaign. Hashtag FarmToTable, hashtag StarlightBay..."
"Let's focus on actually building the café before we worry about Instagram," I laughed, heading back for another box.
"But they go hand in hand!" Piper protested, falling into step beside me. "We need buzz, Maisie. Pre-opening excitement. I'm thinking a soft launch over Palm Sunday weekend, then the grand opening for Easter brunch. I already started a Facebook page."
I stopped mid-stride. "You did what?"
Piper's grin was unrepentant. "What? You need customers. I need a project. Win-win."
"But we don't even have—" I gestured helplessly at the barn around us. "Tables! Or chairs, or a working kitchen, or—"
"Details," she dismissed with a wave. "We've got three weeks. That's practically an eternity."
The creak of the barn door interrupted my retort. We turned to see Carter Beckett making his way inside, tool belt slung low on his hips. Carter had been a fixture of my childhood, helping Gramps with major farm repairs and teaching me to fish off the town pier. Now in his early sixties, he moved more slowly but retained the calm, steady presence I remembered.
"Well, well," he said, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "If it isn't little Miss, all grown up and taking on the world."
"Hey, Carter." I crossed to give him a hug, inhaling the familiar scent of sawdust and peppermint. "Thanks for coming on such short notice."
"Wouldn't miss it." He stepped back, eyes twinkling beneath bushy gray eyebrows. "Your grandpa would be mighty proud, seeing you take on this place."
A lump formed in my throat. "I hope so."
Carter's gaze swept the barn, his expression turning professional. "Nora says you want to turn this old barn into some kind of restaurant?"
"A café," I corrected. "Farm-to-table breakfast and lunch. Nothing fancy, but good, honest food made with ingredients from right here."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I reinforced the foundation and main support beams last summer, so the structure's sound. Roof's good for another few years at least." He walked to the far wall, tapping it with calloused fingers. "You'll need proper insulation, up-to-code electrical, plumbing for the kitchen area..." He trailed off, jotting notes on a small pad.
Piper sidled up beside me. "Is that Carter-speak for 'this is going to cost a fortune'?"
My stomach tightened. "Carter, be straight with me. How bad is it?"
He tucked the notepad away, meeting my eyes with characteristic directness. "It's not impossible. But it ain't cheap or easy, either."
"I don't need easy," I said firmly. "I just need possible."
A faint smile touched his lips. "Then let's make it happen. I'll draw up an estimate for materials. I can do the labor at cost—consider it my contribution to keeping this farm where it belongs."
Gratitude washed over me. "Carter, I can't ask you to—"
"You didn't ask. I offered." He patted my shoulder. "Your grandpa was my best friend for forty years. He'd haunt me something fierce if I didn't look after his girls."
As Carter began measuring the back wall where I envisioned installing a service counter, Piper pulled me toward a dusty trunk we'd uncovered earlier.
"Look what I found while you were sweet-talking our handyman," she said, lifting the lid to reveal stacks of faded red-and-white checkered fabric. "These must be from when your grandparents hosted those barn dances your Gram's always talking about."
I lifted one of the cloths, pleasantly surprised to find it intact despite decades of storage. "These are perfect," I breathed, imagination sparked. "We could use them for the tables, maybe hang some as accents..."
"And look—" Piper reached deeper into the trunk, pulling out a wooden sign carved with a chicken silhouette. "It's like the universe is endorsing your idea."
For the next hour, we worked steadily—sorting through keepsakes, designating areas for trash versus treasure, and sketching rough floor plans. The vision was taking shape: rustic tables arranged across the open floor, a counter with glass display cases for pastries, shelves showcasing farm-fresh eggs and homemade preserves. Simple, honest, and wholly authentic.
A chicken-shaped clock for the wall. Mason jars filled with wildflowers. The old-fashioned tablecloths lending warmth and nostalgia. I could almost smell the coffee brewing, the bread baking, the promise of new beginnings filling the air.
Around noon, Gram appeared with sandwiches and lemonade, her green eyes brightening at our progress. "It's starting to look like something," she admitted, handing out napkins. "Though I still think you're putting the cart before the horse, Maisie."
"Sometimes the horse needs to see the cart to know which way to pull," I replied, taking a grateful bite of ham and cheese.
After lunch, Gram motioned me back to the house with a subtle tilt of her head. "There's something we need to discuss," she murmured, leading me toward the kitchen.
Once inside, she pulled a manila folder from a drawer and spread its contents across the table: bank notices, property tax statements, utility bills—all stamped with variations of "Past Due" or "Final Notice."
"I didn't want to dampen your spirits," she said quietly, "but you have a right to know what we're up against."
I leafed through the papers, my throat constricting as I tallied the figures. The farm was much deeper in debt than I'd realized. "How long?"
"The bank has given us until the end of April to make good on the mortgage." Gram's voice remained steady, but her fingers trembled slightly. "After that, they'll start foreclosure proceedings."
"That gives us just over a month," I said, mind racing. "If the café takes off, and with the spring crop coming in—"
"It's a mighty big 'if,' sweetheart."
"It's our only shot," I countered, squaring my shoulders. "I'm not giving up, Gram. Not on the farm, not on us, not on anything."
She studied me with a mixture of pride and concern. "This isn't just about the farm, is it? It's about proving something to yourself after what happened with Brad."
The observation struck uncomfortably close to home. Yes, part of me was driven by the need to prove I wasn't broken, that I could rebuild from scratch, that I was more than someone's disposable girlfriend. But that wasn't the whole story.
"It's about family," I told her, gathering the papers back into their folder. "About honoring what you and Gramps built. About remembering who I am."
A knock at the front door interrupted our conversation. Gram sighed, rising from her chair. "That'll be him again."
"Who?"
"That developer fellow. Westbrook. He left his card yesterday, said he'd be back."
My temper flared instantly. "I'll handle this."
Gram caught my arm. "Maisie, now don't—"
But I was already striding toward the door, anger simmering beneath my skin. This vulture thought he could circle our home, waiting for us to fail? Not if I had anything to say about it.
I yanked open the door to find myself face-to-face with a man in a tailored gray suit, his hand raised to knock again. He was taller than I'd expected, broad-shouldered, with sharp hazel eyes and dark hair that looked expensively cut. Handsome in that polished, corporate way that screamed money and privilege. I hated him instantly.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, surprise registering at the sight of me instead of Gram. "Good afternoon," he recovered smoothly, extending his hand. "Logan Westbrook, Sheffield & Associates. I'm looking for Mrs. O'Malley."
I ignored his outstretched hand. "I know exactly who you are, Mr. Westbrook. You're the developer who thinks our family home would make a lovely spot for cheap high-rises that will collapse when the wind blows."
A flicker of recognition crossed his features. "Ah. You must be the granddaughter. Pretty sure I saw you yesterday, in the barn."
"Maisie O'Malley." I crossed my arms, blocking the doorway. "And you're wasting your time. We're not selling."
His gaze swept over me—taking in my dust-smudged jeans, flannel shirt, and undoubtedly messy ponytail—before returning to my face with renewed interest. "Miss O'Malley, I understand your emotional attachment to this property. But sometimes pragmatism has to override sentiment. Your grandmother is facing foreclosure."
"Our financial situation is none of your business."
"On the contrary." He withdrew an envelope from his suit jacket. "I'm offering a solution. Sheffield & Associates is prepared to pay well above market value for this property. Your grandmother could settle her debts and retire comfortably. You could pursue whatever dreams you have without the burden of a failing farm."
"Failing?" I bristled. "This farm has survived four generations of O'Malleys, two world wars, and the Great Depression. It's not failing—it's evolving."
A hint of condescension colored his smile. "Evolution requires adaptation. Are you equipped to adapt this place fast enough to outrun the bank?"
"As a matter of fact, we are," I shot back. "Not that it's any of your concern."
"I apologize," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "I don't mean to be harsh. But this property is sitting on prime coastal real estate that could benefit the entire community. Our development would create jobs, increase tourism, boost tax revenue—"
"While destroying a family legacy and paving over farmland that's been sustainably managed for a century," I interrupted. "How many jobs will your corporate overlords create once construction is finished? How many of your fancy vacation homes will sit empty most of the year while locals can't afford housing?"
His expression hardened slightly. "I see you've made up your mind without examining the facts."
"And I see you've made up yours without considering anything but the bottom line."
We glared at each other, the tension between us almost palpable. I noticed, absurdly, that his eyes weren't simply hazel but a complex mix of green and gold that shifted in the sunlight. I also noticed that beneath his corporate veneer, he looked tired—faint shadows under his eyes, a certain tension in his jaw. Not that it mattered. He was still the enemy.
"Look," he sighed, attempting a more conciliatory tone. "I know this is difficult. Change always is. But the realities of modern agriculture—"
"Oh, please spare me the corporate lecture," I snapped. "I don't need a man in an expensive suit telling me about farming realities. I lived them. We're staying, we're adapting, and we're going to save this farm without selling our souls to developers."
"Even if it means losing everything anyway?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "The bank won't care about your family history or how much dedication you have, Ms. O'Malley. They care about numbers. And right now, the numbers aren't in your favor."
I jutted my chin defiantly. "They will be."
A movement near my feet caught my attention—Henrietta had appeared from around the porch corner, drawn perhaps by the sound of raised voices. She strutted between us, head bobbing with each step, then stopped to investigate Logan Westbrook's highly polished leather shoes.
"What the—" He startled as Henrietta began pecking insistently at his left shoe, apparently fascinated by her own reflection in its gleaming surface.
"That's Henrietta," I informed him, making no move to intervene. "She's our quality control officer. Clearly, she finds something lacking in your presentation."
He took a step back, but Henrietta followed, determined in her assault on his footwear. "Could you perhaps call off your attack chicken?"
The absurdity of watching a man who probably made more in a month than I had in the past year being terrorized by a middle-aged hen was too much. A laugh escaped me before I could suppress it.
"Henrietta," I finally called, "that's enough inspection for today."
To my surprise, the chicken abandoned her target and strutted back to my side, clucking softly as if delivering her assessment: unimpressive, lacking substance, nope—not worth our time .
"Smart bird," I remarked. "She knows an outsider when she sees one."
Logan brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve, attempting to reclaim his dignity. "Charming. Is livestock harassment part of your business model for saving the farm?"
"If necessary." I smiled sweetly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Westbrook, we have actual work to do. Work that doesn't involve bullying elderly women into selling their homes."
His jaw tightened. "I don't bully anyone, Ms. O'Malley. I present opportunities. What people do with those opportunities is their choice."
"Well, here's our choice: No. N-O. Not interested. Not now, not ever." I gestured toward his sleek car parked in our driveway. "Feel free to take your 'opportunity' elsewhere."
For a moment, he just looked at me, his expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, a corner of his mouth twitched upward. "You know, most people would at least read the offer before rejecting it."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he agreed, tucking the envelope back into his jacket. "You're certainly not."
The way he said it—not as an insult but almost as a grudging observation—momentarily threw me off balance. I felt a strange flutter in my chest that I immediately attributed to righteous indignation.
"I'll be in town for a while, Ms. O'Malley," he continued, stepping back. "When reality sets in, my offer will still be on the table."
"Don't hold your breath," I retorted, channeling Gram's phrase from yesterday. "The only thing setting in around here is our resolve to succeed."
"We'll see." He nodded politely, then turned to go. At the bottom of the porch steps, he paused. "By the way, what exactly is your plan for saving this place? I'm curious."
"That's for me to know and you to find out when we've succeeded," I replied, unwilling to reveal our café plans to someone who would undoubtedly try to undermine them.
He studied me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable sensation of being assessed, measured, cataloged. "Then I look forward to it, Ms. O'Malley. More than you might expect."
With that enigmatic statement, he returned to his car, the hem of his expensive coat fluttering in the spring breeze. I watched him drive away, Henrietta still squawking indignantly at my feet.
"Don't worry, girl," I murmured, bending to stroke her warm feathers. "We're not going to let that man anywhere near our home."
But as I turned back toward the barn, where Piper and Carter waited to continue our renovations, I couldn't shake the unsettling awareness that Logan Westbrook wasn't what I'd expected. He wasn't a cartoon villain twirling a mustache. He was intelligent, persistent, and—most dangerous of all—convinced he was offering us salvation.
Well, I didn't need his kind of salvation—or anyone else’s for that matter. I’d save the farm, this family legacy, and my own battered heart, all by myself.
Squaring my shoulders, I headed back to the barn. We had a café to build, a farm to save, and a determined corporate realtor—who was unfortunately too handsome for his own good—to prove wrong. Three weeks until Easter. It wasn't much time, but with faith, hard work, and maybe a small miracle, it would be enough.
It had to be.