29. Margot
MARGOT
I grip the steering wheel with one hand and glance over at Thea, who’s slouched in the passenger seat like I just dragged her to a dentist appointment.
“You kidnapped me,” she mutters.
I smirk. “You got in the car willingly.”
“I was under emotional duress.”
“No, you weren’t,” I laugh.
She groans and tilts her head back dramatically. “I have work to finish.”
“You’ll survive a two-hour break.” I keep my tone light, but I mean it. “Besides, when was the last time we had lunch together—just us?”
She doesn’t answer. I glance at her again. That’s answer enough.
Exactly.
Ever since I found those photo albums in the basement, something’s been tugging at me.
Those pictures of Aunt Edie, my mom, my dad, all of them—so happy, so present.
They did everything together. Sunday picnics.
Random road trips. Silly traditions. And somewhere between growing up and growing busy, I let that kind of ease slip through my fingers. I want it back.
And maybe—I don’t know—maybe I want to feel like a sister again, not just the emergency contact on Key Hazel gets the spicy shrimp tacos and sweet potato mash; Thea takes the same as mine.
The waitress nods, scribbles, and disappears with a promise: “Be out in fifteen.”
Hazel stretches, propping her chin on her hand. “Okay. Let’s catch up. No talk about work, no talk about the inn, no adulting allowed. Deal?”
I smile, leaning back. “Deal. I’ll go first.”
They both look at me expectantly, and I grin. “So… I found this photo album in the basement.”
Their eyes widen in sync.
“What photo album?” Hazel demands.
“A family album. There’s Dad as a teenager. Mom, too. And Aunt Edie. The memories in the album will make you cry.”
“You have to show it to us,” Thea says at the same time. “Why have we never seen it?”
Hazel scoffs. “Me, I’m just surprised you saw proof that Aunt Edie was a teenager. I thought she was just born as an adult.”
I shrug, laughing. “I know! I think Mom and Aunt Edie just… kind of forgot about it. I haven’t even told them yet. I plan to have the pictures cleaned up and framed. I thought we could hang some of them up in the reception.”
Hazel places a hand over her heart. “That is such a wonderful idea.”
“It’s going to be gorgeous,” Thea adds, her eyes a little dreamy. “I love old photos. They make time feel bendable.”
Hazel perks up. “Okay, my turn. I started that mural downtown—you know the one the art council approved?”
I nod. “How’s it going?”
“Slow,” she says with a dramatic sigh. “But it’s coming together. I think it might actually look… not terrible.”
Thea snorts. “Why do you never admit you’re a great artist? We all know that mural will be stunning!”
“Thank you,” Hazel says, mock-bowing. “There’s always room for improvement.”
Laughing, I turn to Thea, who shrugs. “I’ve got nothing. I just work. But honestly… I’m glad I’m here. This is nice.”
A softness settles in my chest. “Yeah. It is.”
Hazel lights up suddenly. “Wait! Let’s video call Juniper.”
Thea’s face breaks into a grin. “Yes. Do it.”
Hazel pulls out her phone. “Brace yourselves. If she doesn’t pick up, I’m leaving a dramatic voicemail.”
We all lean in as she taps the screen and starts the call. Juniper picks up immediately. The moment our faces appear, she lets out a scream. “What the—are you all together?! Is this a crisis? Why is Thea out in the sun? What is happening?”
We burst out laughing. Thea flips her off playfully, and Hazel grins.
“It’s a hangout,” Hazel says. “Margot’s idea, believe it or not.”
Juniper’s jaw drops. “No way.” Then her face softens, and she pouts a little. “Ugh. I miss you guys. I can’t wait to graduate and come home. Even with friends around, it still gets lonely sometimes.”
My heart tugs. “We miss you too, Juni.”
Hazel nods. “Seriously. This table’s too calm without your terrible music.”
“Hey! Guys, I’m twenty-one. My playlists are fire,” Juniper says, indignant. “You all just have old souls.”
We laugh again, and for a moment, the world feels perfect—like nothing’s broken, like we’re all exactly where we’re meant to be.
We joke a little more—until the waitress approaches our table with our food.
“Okay, okay,” I say, laughing. “We have to eat.”
Juniper groans dramatically. “No! You can’t just abandon me like this.”
“We’ll call you later,” Hazel promises.
“But take pictures!” Juniper demands. “Of yourselves. Of the food. Of the vibes. I want proof this happened.”
“We will,” I say.
“Pinky swear,” she replies, holding her finger up to the screen.
We all hook our pinkies toward the phone like idiots, and then Hazel ends the call.
The waitress sets our trays on the table and gives us a polite smile. “Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you,” I say as she walks away.
I glance at Hazel and Thea. “Okay. Someone take a picture before we destroy this.”
Hazel already has her phone out. “Say ‘Juniper’s missing out!’”
We laugh as she snaps the photo, and then we dig in.
“Excuse me.”
I’ve not even had one bite when I hear the voice behind me. I turn, napkin still in hand.
A young man stands there, maybe mid-thirties, dressed casual but sharp—button-down shirt, dark jeans, a messenger bag slung across his chest. He’s smiling, but there’s a hesitation behind it.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, glancing between the three of us. “Are you Margot Hartwell? The owner of Key & Kettle Inn?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yes?”
His smile brightens. “Great. I’m Raymond. Raymond Cole. I’m a journalist for Scoop . I stumbled on the inn online a few weeks ago—beautiful place, by the way—and I’ve been hoping to do a feature. Something small. A spotlight on family-owned businesses with heart.”
Hazel arches a brow. Thea tilts her head just slightly. I already feel the walls going up.
“Thank you,” I say, keeping my tone polite. “But I’m not really interested in interviews right now.”
His smile falters, just a little. “I get it. Totally. No pressure.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a card, setting it gently on the edge of the table. “I’m staying at the Maple Row Hotel till Tuesday. If you change your mind, just give me a call.”
I nod once, and he takes the cue, offering a quick “Enjoy your meal” before turning and walking out.
As soon as he’s gone, Hazel leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Well, well. Look at you, Miss Media Magnet.”
I groan and reach for my fork. “Don’t even start.”
We have no more interruptions after that—just good food, easy laughter, and that soft, comforting energy that only happens when it’s just the three of us. The meal is wonderful, warm and filling, and we talk about everything: art, tech, books, family, the inn, our childhood.
Somewhere between dessert and the bill, the conversation drifts to Cal, and I tell my sisters the truth.
“I like Cal,” I say quietly. “A lot. And… I trust him.”
The words hang there for a beat. Then?—
Hazel lets out a squeal so loud that the couple at the next table turns to look.
Thea clutches her chest like she’s just been handed breaking news. “Oh my gosh.”
“I knew it!” Hazel crows, smacking the table. “I knew there was something in the air!”
I’m blushing, hard. “You two are embarrassing.”
“We’re supportive,” Hazel corrects. “Loudly supportive.”
We settle the bill and leave the café around eight. Hazel hugs us both outside the café, her apartment just a few blocks down.
“Text me when you get home,” she says, then turns to Thea. “And you—don’t return to the basement.”
Thea rolls her eyes but hugs her tight. I watch them, my heart full.
Then Thea and I head to the car, still laughing as we unlock the doors and climb in.
We joke all the way home, teasing each other like we’re teenagers again.
By the time we pull into the drive, Thea is already yawning.
She doesn’t bother coming in—just waves sleepily and veers off toward her side of the house.
I step inside the inn and it’s quiet, but there’s a warm glow coming from the kitchen.
Cal’s there, leaning against the counter, a mug of tea in hand. He looks up when I walk in and smiles. That slow, easy smile that gets me every time. He looks so ridiculously handsome I could cry.
“Did you have a good time with your sisters?” he asks.
“I did.” I grin back, setting my keys in the bowl by the door. Something about him standing there—calm, steady, here—makes me want to throw my arms around him and never let go.
“Why are you here sipping tea alone?”
He sets the mug down and straightens, walking over until he’s standing right in front of me. His eyes are soft, but there’s something intense in them too—something that makes my stomach flip.
“I was waiting for you.”
My heart stutters. “Why?”
He takes my hand, fingers warm against mine, and his voice is just above a whisper.
“Margot Hartwell, will you go out on a date with me tomorrow?”