1. Margot #2
I press my hand to the wall and exhale like I’ve just run a marathon.
And honestly? I kind of have.
I’m halfway down the stairs, taking them slower than usual, trying to let my breath catch up to my body, when I hear it.
Click.
The unmistakable creak of a doorknob I’ve come to dread.
Room 8.
My stomach dips. I don’t even have to look. I already know. It’s Amy— Amee —Wainwright. She always corrects people with, “It’s spelled A-M-E-E. Not Amy. Names matter.”
Ana and I have also dubbed her the Professional Complainer. It’s week two of her month-long stay, and I’ve heard more colorful complaints from her than I have from every other guest combined since the New Year.
So far, the list includes “The pillows are too fluffy,” “The tea tastes like memory,” “The laundry water smells too clean,” “The room is too quiet to sleep,” and my personal favorite, “This curtain rod feels unstable, and it’s affecting my emotional health.”
I can’t help but wonder what the problem is this time.
I plaster on a smile, summoning every ounce of strength I have left. “Good morning, Amee. Everything all right?”
She pauses halfway through adjusting the belt on her robe, eyes gleaming with the kind of energy that usually precedes a five-minute monologue about drafty windows or lemon zest that’s “too forward.”
Instead, she tilts her head and says, “Nothing at all. I just think you look splendid this morning.”
I blink. My brain short-circuits a little.
“Oh… thank you?”
She smiles and floats down the stairs like she’s walking a runway, her slippers completely silent against the wood.
I stare after her, half expecting her to turn around and say, “Actually, I changed my mind about the tea. It tasted like abandonment today.” But she doesn’t. She disappears into the hallway toward the dining room, leaving me standing there, stunned.
I exhale. Deeply. Heavily.
What a morning.
I finally reach the bottom step, still reeling from Amee’s uncharacteristic non-complaint, when I hear Ana groan from the parlor.
“Waffles, no. Not again—Waffles, drop it.”
A sharp yip, a low growl, and another shout. I turn the corner and there he is: Waffles, the most entitled dog in all of Everfield, proudly parading across the rug with one of our velvet throw pillows in his mouth like it’s a royal prize.
“Waffles!” I bark, hands on my hips.
He stops. Looks at me. And I swear on Aunt Edie’s herb garden that dog smirks.
Waffles is a large golden retriever mix with suspiciously good posture and the ego of a retired duke.
He belongs—technically—to the Olsons down the road, but he’s adopted the Key & Kettle as his personal kingdom, only returning home every few days, begrudgingly.
He shows up when he pleases, lounges where he pleases, accepts offerings of bacon with minimal gratitude, and leaves only when summoned by a bribe or divine intervention.
“He came in during breakfast,” Ana says, hands in the air. “One of the guests fed him sausage, and he’s been acting like he owns the place ever since.”
“Because he does think he owns the place,” I mutter, marching over. “Waffles, drop the pillow.”
He backs away a step, tail wagging slowly. Calculating.
“I’m not playing with you today,” I warn. “Give it.”
With a sigh worthy of Shakespeare, he releases the pillow. I scoop it up—drool-covered and half-flattened—and glare at him.
“You are a menace.”
He trots off toward the fireplace like I just complimented him.
Ana shakes her head, clearly trying not to laugh. “You know, we could just put up a ‘No Dogs Allowed’ sign.”
“He’d eat it,” I say, dropping the pillow in the laundry basket by the door. “And you know the guests would refuse. They love him.”
They really do.
Waffles is usually the first to greet anyone who walks into the inn, and they immediately fall in love with him.
The two-faced traitor is a terror to us, but charming to all the guests.
He appears in all their vacation photos, and they all leave treats for him during check-outs.
I’m sure that’s another reason he’s arrogant. He knows we run this place together.
Waffles curls up in his usual spot by the hearth, nose tucked under one paw, pretending none of this happened. Just another peaceful morning in his kingdom.
I finally sit.
Curled up in one of the deep armchairs near the front desk, I hold my coffee like it’s sacred.
It’s the first sip I’ve had all morning—strong, black, blessedly hot.
For a second, everything else fades. No busted pipes.
No irritated guests. No Waffles shedding fur on antique rugs or Aunt Edie trying to sneak her way into the laundry room.
Just coffee, heat, and a little pocket of quiet.
My phone buzzes on the armrest. It’s a text from Mia, a close friend back in Bardstown, Kentucky, telling me all about her proposal. She’s now engaged to Jack Calloway, a popular Hollywood celebrity who is madly in love with her and worships the ground she walks on.
Good for Mia. She’s always been the matchmaker. I’m happy to see her getting her happily-ever-after.
We text back and forth for a bit until she asks,
Do you miss Bardstown?
I stare at the message for a second, thumb hovering.
Then I set the phone down and exhale slowly, staring out the tall window that overlooks the porch.
Early fall has officially arrived in Everfield.
The trees are turning burnt gold and syrupy orange, and the morning light makes the wildflowers glow.
It’s beautiful. I should be able to enjoy it.
But Mia’s question settles like a weight.
Do I miss Bardstown?
I think about it.
I don’t miss the job—that frantic, always-on PR life where I was constantly solving someone else’s problems, smoothing out someone else’s brand crisis.
I don’t miss the corporate parties where I was expected to smile and network and quietly disappear after making everything look effortless.
But I do miss the idea of what Bardstown could’ve been.
It’s such a fun town. Wineries, music, book festivals, food events.
Every other weekend, there was something happening—live jazz on cobbled streets, bourbon tastings with firepits, community movie nights.
But I barely touched any of it. I was always working behind the curtain.
Or holed up in my office. I wasn’t in the group photos. I was the one taking them.
Except with Mia.
Mia never let me fade into the background.
When she found out I liked books, she made it her life’s mission to drag me into her book club with Aunt Dotty. I resisted. I didn’t have time. I had deadlines. But Mia didn’t care. She’d show up at my door with banana bread and a worn-out paperback until I gave in.
And once I joined, I realized what I’d been missing.
That book club became the one place where I didn’t have to be perfect. We met once a week, usually never talked about the book, and just… connected. We laughed. We overshared. We showed up messy and tired and honest. It was the only time I felt like I actually belonged somewhere in Bardstown.
So yes.
I miss that.
I miss her. And Aunt Dotty’s hugs. And the soft, warm quiet of those evenings when nobody needed anything from me.
I pick up my phone and type out a response.
Yeah. I do.
Then I add:
I miss book club. I miss you. I miss banana bread that somehow always tasted like peace. I miss Aunt Dotty, too.
I hit send and lean back, coffee cup resting against my chest.
The thing is—I thought moving here would be different. Slower. Simpler. But some days, it feels like I just traded one type of burnout for another. The inn never sleeps. There’s always something going wrong. I barely get through a single cup of coffee before I’m called away.
As stressful as this life is, I’d do it all over again.
No hesitation. No regrets.
Because I’m not doing this for me—I’m doing it for family.
After Aunt Edie’s heart attack three months ago, it was clear she couldn’t keep running the inn the way she used to.
Not without help. She won’t admit it—she never would—but her body made the call for her.
Fifty-six isn’t old, not really, but after decades of managing every key, kettle, and guest complaint in this place, her body said, “Enough.” She needed to rest.
But Edie doesn’t rest. She lingers. She inspects. She hovers by the linen closet and makes comments about thread counts. She still drinks her tar-black coffee in the garden like nothing ever happened. Like her heart didn’t almost stop.
Someone had to take over.
Jo—my mom, Edie’s older sister—is sixty next year and a retired elementary school teacher. She used to handle spelling bees and PTA meetings, not linen orders and wine pairings. She offered to help, bless her, but this place isn’t hers. She knows it. I know it. We all know it.
My sisters?
Let’s just say the options were… limited.
Hazel, the second-born, is twenty-four and allergic to responsibility.
She lives in town above a bookstore that also somehow sells clay and yarn and used vinyls.
She’s got paint in her hair more often than not and a heart full of rebellion.
When Aunt Edie floated the idea of her taking over the inn, Hazel tilted her head, sipped her turmeric chai, and said, “Maybe we should just sell it. It’s like, older than even you, Auntie. ”
That was the end of that conversation.
Thea was next. My little introvert genius. She lives here—in the inn, technically—but good luck spotting her. Her apartment is tucked down in the garden-level unit, converted from what was once a cellar into a sleek, cold fortress of solitude.
She has her own Wi-Fi and food storage, so she hardly comes up. She also doesn’t believe in small talk or overhead lighting. When Aunt Edie asked her to consider managing the inn, she literally said, “I’ll think about it,” and then locked her door.
It’s been three months.
Legend says she’s still thinking.
And then there’s Juniper.
My baby.
She’s away at college, but she’s got this light in her that I’ve never seen in anyone else.
Soft-spoken but strong. Empathetic to a fault.
If she were home, she would’ve said yes in a heartbeat, no questions asked, probably with a plate of cookies in hand.
But no one even brought it up to her. We all knew better.
Which left me.
The oldest. The fixer. The one who’s always been good at holding things together while pretending she’s not falling apart.
Aunt Edie called. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t look for a way out.
I resigned from my job, packed my entire life into boxes, and moved back to Everfield to run this inn—the same inn that’s been in our family since the fifties. The one with the creaky porch, the brass room keys, the scone recipe Edie swears is magic.
I didn’t come back for rest.
I came back because this place matters.
Because it’s ours.
Because when everything else is shifting and uncertain, the Key & Kettle is still here.
And as long as I have a say in it, it’s not going anywhere.