Chapter 9
Kate arrived at Ben's barn at six-thirty in the morning, telling herself she was up early anyway, that this wasn't anything special.
The barn sat behind his house on the outskirts of town, a classic New England structure he'd converted into a workshop.
Light spilled from the open doors, along with the sound of sandpaper on wood.
She found him working on one of her mother's chairs, the ones supposedly taken to the dump.
“You saved them,” she breathed.
“Intercepted them, more like.” He straightened, dusting his hands on his jeans. “Told the crew I'd take them for restoration. They didn't care as long as they got paid.”
Both chairs sat in his workshop, worn but solid. He'd already started sanding one, revealing the good bones beneath decades of wear.
“Why?” Kate asked.
“Because you looked like someone had ripped out a piece of your heart when you saw them gone.” He ran his hand along the chair's arm. “And because they're worth saving. Good craftsmanship. Made to last.”
Kate touched the other chair, remembering her mother sitting here, Pop telling stories, guests gathering around on snowy evenings. “Lillian will be furious.”
“Lillian doesn't have to know. We'll restore them, put them back when they're done. Call it a compromise.”
“We?”
“If you want to help. Fair warning, I'm a taskmaster with sandpaper.”
Kate laughed. “I’d love to help. Hand over the sandpaper.”
They worked side by side as the morning light grew stronger. Ben showed her how to work with the grain, when to be gentle and when to apply pressure. His hands covered hers, guiding the sandpaper, and Kate felt herself stiffen.
“You're tense,” he said quietly, his breath warm against her ear.
“I'm fine.” She pulled her hands away, maybe more abruptly than necessary.
“You're holding the sandpaper like it might escape.” He reached for her hands again. “Here, relax…”
“I said I'm fine.” Kate stepped back, creating distance. Who did he think he was, telling her how she felt? They'd known each other what, two weeks? Three? Did he think because they’d been in the same grade at school, they were somehow soulmates?
Ben raised his hands in surrender. “Okay. Sorry.”
They worked in awkward silence for a few minutes before Kate couldn't stand it anymore. “I should get back.”
“Kate.” The way he said her name, like he knew her, like he understood something about her, made her jaw clench. “You don't have to run every time.”
“I'm not running. I have responsibilities.” She set down the sandpaper harder than necessary. “Not everyone can just spend their morning playing with furniture.”
His face shuttered slightly. “Right. Of course.”
Kate left feeling angry at herself and at him. He didn't know her. He thought he did, thought she was some damaged woman who needed saving, probably. Just like every other man who thought they could fix things with their hands and their patient smiles.
She ran out of the barn and into her car, driving off much faster than the road allowed.
Back at the inn, she found Lillian in the dining room with an interior designer, fabric samples spread across the table.
“Good morning, Katherine,” Lillian said coolly. Yesterday's vulnerability was gone, replaced by professional distance. “This is Martin. He'll be handling the redesign.”
“What redesign?”
“The guest rooms. They need updating if we're going to charge competitive rates.”
Kate looked at the samples, all grays and whites, modern and impersonal. “Our guests like the traditional feel.”
“The guests tolerate it because the rates are low.” Lillian picked up a swatch of ivory fabric. “We need to appeal to a higher-end market.”
“This isn't the Ritz. It's a family inn.”
“Which is precisely why it's failing.”
Martin, sensing tension, excused himself to measure the windows. Lillian and Kate faced each other across the table.
“I wasn't aware we'd discussed redecorating,” Kate said.
“We didn't need to. It's obvious to anyone with eyes.”
“Is it?”
“Katherine, I'm trying to help.”
“By erasing everything that makes this place ours?”
“By making it profitable. Sentiment doesn't pay bills.”
“You sound like my mother never existed here.”
Something flickered in Lillian's eyes. “Your mother is exactly why I'm doing this. She loved this place, but she also understood that love isn't always enough. Sometimes you need practical solutions.”
Before Kate could respond, Amy appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Whitfield? Your doctor's office called here, looking for you. They need to confirm your appointment.”
"Which appointment?" Lillian asked sharply.
"Today at two. They said it's for your treatment."
Lillian's face went carefully blank. "I'll call them back." She gathered her things quickly, but Kate noticed how she moved, slowly, deliberately, gripping the table edge like it was holding her upright. "Martin will continue measuring. Try not to scare him off, Katherine."
After she left, Kate stood alone in the empty dining room, irritation burning in her chest. Of course Lillian had given the inn's number as her contact.
It was another way to insert herself into their lives, to make herself indispensable, to ensure they'd know about her appointments and worry about her health.
Classic Lillian manipulation, using even illness as a tool for control.
Except... Kate had seen that careful grip on the table. The way Lillian had paused at the door, gathering strength before walking to her car. Whatever was wrong, it wasn't nothing.
Kate found Amy in the kitchen with Pop, who was having one of his increasingly rare good mornings, helping measure flour for cookies.
"Just like Elizabeth used to make," he said, his hands shaking as he leveled the measuring cup.
"Amy," Kate said quietly, waiting until Pop was focused on the flour. "Has Lillian seemed unwell to you?"
Amy's face was thoughtful, careful. "She hides it well, but yes. Yesterday after your argument, she had to sit in her car for ten minutes before driving away. Just sitting there, eyes closed. I watched from the window."
The guilt twisted in Kate's stomach like something alive, but she pushed it down hard.
Lillian being sick didn't erase the foreclosure notice.
It didn't undo years of criticism and control.
It didn't give her the right to take over their lives, even if—especially if—she was trying to fix things before. ..
Kate stopped that thought. She wouldn't feel sorry for Lillian. She couldn't afford to.
“Where's Dani?” she asked.
“She went to Portland. Something about meeting with suppliers.”
More decisions being made without her. Kate felt control slipping away like sand through her fingers.
Martin spent the morning measuring every room, making notes in a leather-bound book, occasionally making small sounds of disapproval. Kate followed him like a shadow, which clearly made him nervous.
“The bones are good,” he admitted in Room 5. “But these quilts have to go.”
“My mother made those quilts.”
“Oh.” He looked at the quilt with new eyes. “Well, perhaps we could frame one? As art?”
“They're not art. They're bedding. They're meant to keep people warm.”
Martin made another note. Kate could imagine it: Owner's daughter—difficult, sentimental, resistant to change.
That afternoon, Kate reconciled invoices when Donna Warner came in with her book club, followed by Marie Brennan and three other longtime locals.
“Kate, dear,” Donna said with false sweetness. “We were just wondering if the rumors are true. Is Lillian Whitfield really taking over the inn?”
“No one's taking over anything.”
“But she's financing everything? After all these years?” Donna leaned in conspiratorially. “Your poor mother would be rolling in her grave.”
“My mother wanted the inn to survive,” Kate said evenly.
“Of course, dear. But at what cost? We've been coming here for Mrs. Porter’s book club for years. Will we still be welcome when it's all fancy and modern?”
Marie Brennan chimed in, “The Harbor Hotel already caters to the wealthy summer people. Whaler’s Landing was always for real Mainers.”
“It still is.”
“Is it? With that fancy designer measuring windows? With Amy Atkinson… who's she, anyway? Not from here.”
Kate's temper flared. “Amy is taking excellent care of my father.”
“Your father doesn't need a stranger. He needs his family.”
“Sometimes family needs help,” Kate said through gritted teeth.
“Well, I suppose that’s a good thing. Your father is a good man. He should get all the help he can,” Marie said.
“Of course it’s not easy to get good help,” Donna replied. “I’m sure she’s qualified.”
Kate waited for the other shoe to drop.
“It’s just that sometimes a family needs to stand on their own feet,” Donna continued. “That's what your mother did. Never took a dime from anyone.”
“Look how that turned out,” Kate snapped.
The women gasped collectively. Donna's face flushed. “Well. I see Whitfield money comes with Whitfield manners.”
They swept out, leaving Kate shaking with anger and regret. She'd just alienated customers they couldn't afford to lose, but she was so tired of everyone having an opinion about her choices.
“Katie!” Pop's voice, panicked from upstairs. “Katie, where are you?”
She ran, finding him in the hallway with Amy, who looked apologetic.
“He woke from his nap confused,” Amy explained. “He's been asking for you.”
Pop grabbed Kate's hands. “They're changing everything. The furniture, the walls. Soon they'll change us too.”
“No, Pop. No one's changing us.”
“Promise?”
Kate looked at his frightened eyes. “I promise.”
She got Pop settled, then escaped to the kitchen, where Marcy was prepping dinner.
“Heard you sent the book club running,” Marcy said.
“You heard already?”
“Marie Brennan called her sister, who called me. Said you've gotten too big for your britches now that you have Whitfield money.”
“Great.” Kate slumped in a chair. “Just great.”
Her phone buzzed. Ben: Everything okay? You left in a hurry.