Chapter 5
The morning arrived gray and bitter, with the kind of cold that settled into bones and stayed there.
Kate had been up since four, reconciling bank statements in the office while the inn slept around her.
The numbers hadn't improved with repetition; she was still short for the mortgage payment, still behind on utilities, still pretending that somehow March would be better than February.
Pop was having a good morning. She found him in the kitchen at six, fully dressed and making scrambled eggs, humming an old tune she recognized from her childhood. These moments of clarity were precious now, rare enough that she held her breath, afraid to disturb them.
“Morning, Katie-girl,” he said without turning around. “Want some eggs?”
“Sure, Pop.”
She sat at the kitchen table, the same one they'd eaten at her whole life, and watched him move through the familiar motions. His hands were steady today, his movements sure. This was the father she remembered, competent, caring, present.
“That Ben fellow stopped by yesterday,” Pop said, sliding eggs onto two plates. “Good man. Knows his way around a hammer.”
“He's fixing the roof.”
“I know what he's fixing.” Pop gave her a look she hadn't seen in months, knowing, slightly amused. “Also knows his way around my daughter.”
“Pop…”
“I'm old, Katie, not blind. Man doesn't show up at dawn to plow snow just for the business. Didn’t you go to school with him? I think I remember his family.”
Kate felt heat rise in her cheeks. She focused on her eggs, perfectly cooked, the way Pop had made them for thirty years. She didn’t answer her father about Ben or his family, instead saying, “He's just being neighborly.”
“Your mother was neighborly with me once. Brought me soup when I had the flu.” Pop smiled at the memory. “Course, she was also sweet on me, even if she wouldn't admit it for months.”
Through the window, Kate could see Ben's truck pulling into the driveway, right on time.
Seven-thirty, just like he'd promised. He got out and walked to the back to get lumber, his breath clouding in the cold air.
Even from here, she could see the careful way he handled the materials, treating them with respect.
“Speak of the devil,” Pop said, following her gaze. “You going to sit there mooning or go help the man?”
“I wasn't mooning.”
“Sure you weren't.” Pop's eyes were bright with something she hadn't seen in too long, mischief, life, the father who used to tease her about boys when she was sixteen and mortified by everything.
Kate grabbed her parka and went out, the cold hitting her and stinging. Ben was unloading two-by-fours from his truck bed, each piece already cut to size.
“Morning,” he said, glancing up with a smile that did something to her stomach she didn't want to examine. “Got an early start at the lumber yard. Figured we'd want to make use of the good weather.”
“This is good weather?”
“Not actively snowing counts as good in March.” He handed her one end of a board. “Feel like helping?”
They worked without talking, carrying materials to the side of the inn where he'd set up sawhorses and a work station.
Kate liked this, the simple rhythm of physical work, the way their movements synchronized without need for words.
Ben had a way of making everything seem manageable, breaking big problems into smaller, solvable pieces.
“Your dad seems good today,” he said, nodding toward the kitchen window where Pop was visible, washing dishes.
“He is. Some days are like this, like he's completely himself.”
“Must be hard. The other days.”
“It's all hard.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it. “Sorry. I don't mean to…”
“Don't apologize. Truth isn't something to be sorry for.” He set down his end of the board and looked in her eyes. “You're doing an amazing thing here. Taking care of him, keeping the inn going. Most people wouldn't even try.”
“Most people are smarter than me.”
“Or less loyal.”
The word hung between them, loyal. It was what she was, maybe all she was. Loyal to Pop, to the inn, to her mother's memory. But where did loyalty become stubbornness? Where did devotion become self-destruction?
Dani's rental car pulled up before Kate could follow that thought. Her sister emerged looking like something from a magazine again, camel coat, leather gloves, sunglasses despite the gray day. Her long blonde hair fell in large curls.
“Morning,” Dani called, picking her way across the snow in impractical boots. “Katie, we need to talk.”
“I'm working.”
“This is important.” Dani glanced at Ben. “Family stuff.”
Ben took the hint. “I'll be on the roof if you need me.”
After he'd climbed the ladder, Dani pulled Kate aside. “Tom's coming up.”
“What? When?”
“Today. He'll be here by lunch. And James is driving up from Boston tonight.”
Kate's stomach dropped. When all the siblings gathered, it meant something serious. “You called them?”
“They called me. They're worried about Pop. About you. About everything.”
“So you're staging what, an intervention?”
“A family meeting. We need to discuss Pop's care, the inn, Lillian's offer.”
Kate sighed. “There's nothing to discuss.”
Dani pulled off her sunglasses, and Kate could see the frustration in her eyes. “There's everything to discuss. Pop's getting worse, don't deny it. The inn is failing. You're drowning. And there's a solution sitting right there, but you're too proud to take it.”
“It's not about pride.”
“Isn't it?” Dani's voice rose. “What else would you call it? You'd rather lose everything than accept help from her?”
Above them, Kate could hear Ben working, the rhythmic sound of hammer on nails. She wondered what he thought of all this family drama playing out beneath him.
“I need to help with breakfast,” Kate said, turning away.
“You can't keep running from this.”
“Watch me.”
But Dani was right, and Kate knew it. She couldn't run, not with Tom and James coming, not with Pop getting worse, not with the bank breathing down her neck. The walls were closing in, and all her stubbornness couldn't hold them back.
Inside, she found Rosa in the dining room, serving the couple in Room 7, the Mitchells from Connecticut, here for their anniversary. They looked happy, comfortable, holding hands over their coffee cups. The wife laughed at something her husband said, the sound bright in the quiet morning.
“Good morning. How is your day so far?” Mrs. Mitchell asked, noticing Kate.
“Perfect,” Kate lied, smiling. “How are the eggs?”
“Wonderful. This place is so charming. So authentic.”
Authentic. Another word for falling apart, Kate thought, but kept smiling. “We try to maintain the historic character.”
“Well, you're doing beautifully. We'll definitely be back.”
Kate doubted the inn would still be here for them to come back to, but she nodded and retreated to the kitchen. Marcy was there, prepping for lunch, her movements efficient and calm.
“Your sister's wound tight this morning,” Marcy observed.
“My brothers are coming.”
“Ah.” Marcy didn't need more explanation. “Want me to make something special for dinner?”
“No point pretending this is a celebration.”
“Family gatherings are always worth marking, even the difficult ones.” Marcy paused in her chopping. “Family is family, even when they're being impossible.”
Kate thought of her mother, trying to bridge the gap with Lillian, writing letters that were never answered. Had Elizabeth felt this same weight, this pressure to hold everything together while also being pulled apart? How much she wished her mother was here so she could ask.
Kate thought about getting in some ice-fishing before her brothers arrived, but her frustration with their intrusion meant there would be no relaxing today.
Tom arrived at one o'clock in his BMW, still in his lawyer suit under a black cashmere coat, phone pressed to his ear. He finished his call before coming in, taking time to survey the inn's exterior with an expression Kate couldn't read.
“Katie,” he said, hugging her briefly. He smelled like expensive cologne and success, everything she wasn't.
“You didn't need to come.”
“Clearly I did. And it’s nice to see you, too.” He looked around the lobby, taking in the water stains, the worn carpet, the general air of decline. “It's worse than I thought.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“I'm not here to make you feel better. I'm here to talk sense.” He pulled off his coat, hung it carefully on the rack. “Where's Pop?”
“Napping. He had a good morning, tired himself out.”
“And a good morning means?”
“He knew who I was. Made breakfast. Acted like himself.”
Tom's expression softened slightly. “How often does that happen now?”
“Less and less.”
They stood in the lobby, brother and sister, separated by more than the miles between Kennebunkport and Boston. Tom had escaped, made something of himself, built a life that didn't include failing inns and a father who forgot your name. Kate couldn't blame him, but she couldn't forgive him either.
“Show me the books,” Tom said, shifting into lawyer mode.
They spent the next hour in the office, Tom going through financials with the methodical attention that made him good at his job. His face grew more serious with each page.
“Kate, this is unsustainable.”
“I know.”
“No, I don't think you do.” He pulled out his phone, showed her something he'd calculated. “At this rate, you'll default on the mortgage within two months. Three if you're lucky.”
“The summer season…”
“Won't save you. Even at full capacity, which you haven't achieved in three years, you're too far behind.” He leaned back in the chair. “You need Lillian's money.”
“I need a lot of things.”
Before Tom could respond, they heard James's voice in the lobby, his Boston accent stronger than ever. “Anyone home?”
James looked like what he was, a tech executive who ran marathons and juice-cleansed. He hugged Kate, holding on a moment longer than Tom had.
“You look tired,” he said.