13. Margot #2
On the table are bowls of fruit and jam, stacks of pancakes teetering like golden towers, a tray of bacon that’s already missing half its contents, and steaming mugs of coffee.
As Cal sits beside me, Mom beams at him like she just got nominated for an award. She slides a plate stacked with pancakes toward him. “Here, Cal. Have as many pancakes as you want. Margot says you love them.”
I resist the urge to bang my forehead on the table.
Across from me, Cal’s lips curve into the smuggest smile I’ve seen yet. Then—of course—he winks at me.
“Thank you, Jo.”
I groan under my breath and shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth before anyone sees me blush.
The table is alive with overlapping conversations.
Hazel’s talking about a mural she’s been commissioned to do at the bookstore downtown.
Thea is explaining to Aunt Edie what an API is, which is both unnecessary and hilarious.
Dad makes a pun about stacked pancakes that makes Mom roll her eyes and threaten to cut his bacon rations.
Meanwhile, Cal fits in like he’s been coming to breakfast here every Sunday for the past five years. He listens, laughs at the right moments, even offers to pass syrup.
As for me, I find myself watching him way too much. Watching the way he listens with his whole face. The way he thanks Mom after every plate she passes him. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs.
It’s… unsettling. But also kind of wonderful.
I don’t know what this is, or what it’s turning into.
But sitting beside him, tangled in the warmth and noise of the family who knows every version of me, I can’t help but feel like—for the first time in a long time—I’m not the only one carrying the weight of everything.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m allowed to let someone carry it with me.
Even if it’s just for breakfast.
Soon, Cal is carrying the conversation like he’s always belonged here, asking questions, listening, making everyone laugh—even Thea, who usually keeps to herself and considers our random family breakfasts a necessary evil.
I don’t know how he does it. Somehow, Cal manages to charm my entire family in less than forty-five minutes.
After breakfast, Cal stands and grabs a couple of plates, ready to clean up.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Mom says, swatting him lightly with a dishtowel. “Guests don’t do dishes in this house.”
Cal grins and is about to protest when Dad cuts in.
“You want to be helpful?” Dad stands with a stretch. “There’s a busted section of the garden fence that needs looking at.”
Cal lights up. “Now that, I can do.”
They disappear out the back door, and I’m left to clear the table. I stack a few plates, still smiling at their exchange, but the moment I look up, I feel it.
Aunt Edie. Mom. Hazel. Even Thea, who was just biting into a leftover pancake, is watching me with the same look.
That look.
All of them. Staring. Matching smirks like I’m some episode of a show they’ve been binging, and this is the juicy part.
“What?” I ask, voice sharp with denial.
They say nothing. Mom just raises her brows. Hazel’s mouth curls like she’s biting back a laugh. Aunt Edie looks smug.
Nope. Not today.
I spin on my heel and walk straight into the kitchen like I’m fleeing the scene of a crime. My cheeks burn the entire way.
I’m stalling, washing plates I don’t need to be washing, when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn to see Aunt Edie and swallow a groan.
Please. I hope she’s not coming over to talk about Cal.
She approaches quietly, and I hold my breath as she stops a few feet away from me. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just rests her hand gently on my shoulder.
“I’m proud of you, Margot.”
That stops me. My hands still in the water.
“I know it’s not been easy, stepping into all this. But you’ve done it with grace. And I see you.” Her voice softens. “We all do.”
I blink hard. Too hard. My eyes immediately water, and I try to hold back a sudden bout of tears.
“Ugh. Stupid soap suds.” I scrub at my eyes with my wrist. “You’d think I’ve washed enough dishes in my life to be immune by now.”
“Of course.” She smiles and walks away as slowly as she came in.
By the time I’m leaving the house, Cal and Dad are still in the backyard—shoulders bent over something I can’t see, tools clinking, both of them laughing like old friends.
It’s strange and sweet how natural it feels.
I call out a goodbye. Neither of them hears me at first, so I just wave and head out.
When I get back to the inn, I find Ana at the front desk flipping through the reservation ledger. “Hey,” I say.
She glances up. “You’re back. How was breakfast?”
“Predictably chaotic.”
She smiles. “Sounds like home.”
I nod and keep walking, pushing through the office door and settling at my desk. I open my laptop, fingers hovering above the keyboard. There’s work to do and bills to pay.
I click open my email and start skimming through the clutter—newsletters, booking confirmations, a florist receipt I forgot to delete.
Then I see it.
A credit alert. Time-stamped last night. I frown and click it open, leaning forward as I read.
It’s not from a guest. Not from a vendor. No familiar name attached.
Just a note: Anonymous contribution to the beautiful job you’re doing with the inn. Everfield is lucky to have you.
I gasp.
It’s not a small sum either.
I stare at the screen, heart thudding. My fingers hover over the keyboard, like if I move too fast, the whole thing will vanish. A part of me wants to cry—but not out of panic this time.
Out of… relief. Out of the strange warmth curling through my chest.
I blink the tears away, forcing myself to breathe. Who in town could even afford this kind of sum?
No name. No hint. Just… generosity. Quiet, deliberate, and kind.
I press a hand to my chest. My throat tightens.
Maybe it doesn’t matter who sent it. Maybe what matters is that someone sees. That someone appreciates how hard I’m trying—how much I’m giving to keep this place alive. Not just for me. For Aunt Edie. For my family. For Everfield.
The screen blurs.
And this time, I can’t stop the tears.