Chapter Three An Uninvited Guest
Lydia
The Snowdrop Inn was quiet this morning.
There were no new arrivals or departures scheduled for today.
Guests had their morning breakfast and coffee.
Some were chatting quietly in the reception room, but most were either on their way to do something exciting in Maple Ridge or had returned to their rooms.
I stood near the front desk with my clipboard braced against the counter, trying to look like a woman who could solve problems through neat lists and steady decisions.
The lobby smelled like cinnamon and sawdust. Jane had baked something that smelled of chocolate, which meant she was either feeling generous or trying to prevent the rest of us from snapping at each other. Both were possible.
I hoped it was her double fudge brownies.
Light from the front windows fell across the floorboards in pale rectangles, catching dust that never fully settled.
Somewhere upstairs, my father was shifting something heavy with the careful patience of a man who refused to acknowledge his age.
I could hear it scraping across the floorboards.
My mother’s voice floated from the hallway, soft and purposeful, giving instructions to someone I couldn’t see.
I looked at my CHRISTMAS PARADE list that I had written. I needed a theme, signage, lights, garland, a trailer, and a vehicle.
I circled the word vehicle once. Then again. The float was not a float until it could move.
I had spent most of last night imagining the Snowdrop Inn float rolling down Maple Ridge’s main street like it belonged there.
Pine branches. Warm lights. A big sign that read SNOWDROP INN REOPENED in letters you could see from the sidewalk.
Something classic enough to look intentional, not desperate.
Something charming enough that people would talk about it later without laughing.
I could do this. I could take one visible task and execute it properly. I could hand my family something they didn’t have to double-check. I could be the sister who made a plan and followed through.
The front door opened with a creak, and optimism left the building.
Collin stepped inside.. His coat was pressed within an inch of its life. His scarf was knotted too tightly. His shoes were polished to a shine that could reflect almost as well as a mirror. His haircut was from a barber who severely disliked him and it showed.
He paused just inside the threshold, surveying the lobby with the faintly pleased expression of a man who believed his presence improved the room.
“Cousin Lydia,” he said warmly, as he expected me to welcome him.
I stared at him for half a beat longer than polite society recommended. I didn’t pretend to like him. “Collin.”
His smile wobbled. “Cousin Lydia. How very good to see you.”
I looked at our guest schedule and saw he wasn’t there. “I did not realize you were coming.”
“One does not always announce such visits,” he said importantly. “Family business is best attended to promptly.”
“Family business?” I asked.
Mom appeared from the hall as if she had been summoned by the word family. Surprise crossed her face, then smoothed into brightness that looked a little forced.
“Collin. You are early." She wiped her hands on her apron, a sure sign she was nervous.
“I thought it best,” he said, removing his gloves with deliberation. “An investment should be checked on regularly, after all.”
Investment. The word landed with weight. I looked between Collin and Mom, confused.
Dad came into view from the stairwell, smiling broadly. “Collins. Good to see you.”
Jane followed from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Her smile was pleasant. Her eyes were not.
Collin looked pleased to have an audience.
“So this is it,” he said, moving forward. “The Snowdrop Inn. Quite the undertaking. Very ambitious.”
“It has been a lot of work,” my mother said quickly. “But we are making excellent progress.”
“I can see that,” he replied, nodding as if progress were something he personally approved of. “Naturally, I wished to ensure my contribution was being put to good use.”
Jane’s head tilted slightly. I tightened my grip on the clipboard.
“Contribution?” I echoed, keeping my voice light. “I did not realize you had contributed.”
“Oh, yes,” Collin said. “I provided a portion of the purchase funds. A family arrangement.”
My father cleared his throat. “It was the most flexible option available at the time.”
“You mean the mortgage,” I said, because surely this was a misunderstanding and we were all about to laugh.
“Not precisely,” Collin replied, chuckling. “Banks are so impersonal. I prefer arrangements that keep things within the family.”
The lobby felt suddenly colder.
He drifted toward the sitting room, and in the absence of better options, we followed him. The room was still mostly empty, because furniture ranked below plumbing on our priority list. Collin chose the only decent chair and sat as though the inn belonged to him and this was his staff meeting.
“I structured it as a loan with equity consideration,” he said, clasping his hands in his lap. “You repay as profits allow. Until then, I receive a percentage proportional to what remains outstanding.”
“A percentage,” Jane repeated, softly.
“Yes,” Collin said. “A most reasonable structure. One that benefits all parties.”
My stomach tightened. I looked at my parents.
“You took a loan from him,” I said quietly.
My mother’s smile did not move. “We did what we had to do to purchase the inn.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Jane asked. Her voice was gentle, but it carried.
My father’s shoulders lowered a fraction. “We did not want you to worry.”
“We work here. We live here,” I said before I could stop myself. “Lucy is going to throw a fit when she finds out.”
My mother’s eyes flickered to mine. “Lydia.”
“I’m not trying to start a fight,” I said, forcing calm. “I’m trying to understand what this means. If he gets a percentage of profits, that affects everything. Repairs. Staffing. The pace of reopening.”
Collin smiled as if he were enjoying a pleasant lecture. “Quite right. A wise approach. One must protect the investment.”
There was that word again. Investment, not family. Not support, but investment.
“And if something goes wrong,” I asked, “if we can’t make a payment?”
“Oh, I am sure that will not happen,” he said, breezy. “But in the unlikely event of default, ownership would transfer accordingly.”
Jane went very still, clutching the towel in her hands until her knuckles were white.
My mother reached out as if to touch my arm, then stopped herself. “It will be fine. We have a plan.”
“What is the plan?” I asked.
My father’s expression was weary in a way that made my anger wobble. “Reopen, book rooms, build the business, and pay down the loan as quickly as we can.”
It was not a plan so much as a hope.
Collin stood and began wandering the room with his hands clasped behind his back. It was the posture of a man inspecting property. He paused by the paint swatches taped to the wall.
“These colors are cheerful,” he said. “Perhaps too cheerful. Taste can be a liability when one is aiming for refinement.”
Jane smiled. It was a beautiful, polite smile that suggested she had been taught restraint by saints. “We are aiming for warmth.”
“Of course,” Collin said, laughing as if she had made a joke. “Warmth is important. One must simply ensure it is a tasteful warmth.”
I stared at his haircut and felt a brief, inappropriate desire to explain the concept of taste to him.
My father tried to redirect. “We have been addressing structural issues first.”
Collin nodded gravely. “Quite right. One must protect the investment.”
The word investment felt like a knife pressed on my ribs.
Jane stepped closer to me while Collin drifted toward the hall, already asking whether the second floor would be ready before Christmas because he required accommodations that suited him.
“They knew we would object,” Jane murmured, low enough that it would not carry.
“We would have asked questions,” I murmured back. “We would have tried to find a way, any way other than this.”
Jane’s gaze softened. “We still can. Later.”
“You get to tell Jane,” I murmured, absconding from that conversation.
“Coward,” Jane muttered to me.
Collin’s voice floated back from the hall. “Mr. Bennet. I would like to discuss the projected profit schedule at your earliest convenience.”
Dad’s smile tightened. “Certainly.”
As Mom turned to follow Collins and Dad, she glanced back at us, and for a moment she looked older, tired, and worried..
That was the moment my anger shifted into something more complicated. My parents had not taken a loan from Collin because they were foolish. They had done it because they believed in this place and in us. They had done it because dreams are expensive and banks do not loan money to sentiment.
I didn’t forgive the secrecy even if I understood the impulse.Still, understanding didn’t make Collin any less irritating.
I escaped to the small office we had claimed as temporary headquarters because I needed a door between me and my cousin’s voice.
The office still smelled faintly of old paper and fresh paint.
A stack of renovation receipts sat in a neat pile on the desk.
I stared at them for a beat, then forced myself to look back at my list.
If the inn succeeded, the loan became a footnote. If the inn did not succeed, it became a disaster.
I flipped to a new page and focused on something I could control.
The float.
The float was supposed to be my visible contribution. A way to tell Maple Ridge that the Snowdrop Inn was in business again. A way to bring interest and bookings, eventually. A way to build momentum.
All of that depended on one unromantic reality that a float needed a vehicle.
I picked up my phone and started calling.
The first rental place was polite but firm. “We do not allow parade use. Insurance will not cover it.”
“I can add signage,” I offered. “Cross-promotion. We will highlight your business.”
“I appreciate that,” she said kindly. “But no.”
I thanked her and tried another place farther out. Same answer.
The third call was shorter. The man on the phone did not even pretend to consider it. “No parades,” he said. “No.”
Borrowing was the obvious answer. It was also the most uncomfortable.
I scrolled through my contacts slowly, and the truth settled in.
Most of my relationships in Maple Ridge were polite.
Friendly and not favor-level. I could chat with people in the grocery store.
I could wave at them from across the street.
I couldn’t ask them to hand me their truck for a parade and trust I would return it unharmed.
My stomach tightened again, the same feeling as earlier, just repackaged. The float was suddenly not a fun idea. It was a public test, and I could already hear the polite laughter if it failed.
Jane knocked lightly before stepping inside.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“No,” I said, and hated how flat my voice sounded. “No one wants their vehicles in the parade.”
Jane’s eyes moved to my page. “Everyone said no.”
“Yes.”
She leaned against the desk, thinking. “What about local businesses? The hardware store. The lumber yard.”
“I don’t know anyone well enough to ask,” I said, and the words came out sharper than I intended.
“You do not have to know them forever,” she said. “You have to ask once.”
“I hate asking,” I admitted, and the confession felt like pulling off a bandage.
“I know,” she said simply.
I stared at my list again, at the word VEHICLE circled twice, and felt the familiar urge to retreat into embarrassment before anyone could witness it. That was the old pattern. Get excited. Hit resistance. Collapse inward. And decide it was safer not to try.
I didn’t want to be that person anymore. Surely I could pull off one float for a parade?
From the hallway, Collin’s voice drifted faintly. “If one cannot execute properly, it’s better not to attempt at all.”
Jane’s eyes narrowed in the direction of the sound. “He talks as if he is the mayor.”
“He talks as if he owns the building,” I muttered.
Jane sighed. “He does not. Not really.”
“Not yet,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t.
Jane’s expression softened. “Lydia. We will be fine.”
I wanted to believe that. I also wanted to stop relying on belief as a business plan.
Jane reached out and squeezed my hand. “Let’s take the next step. We ask. We keep it simple. We accept no if it is no and we move on.”
I nodded.
After she left, I looked at my list one more time.
I did not have the answer yet. I did not have the truck. I did not even have a promising lead.
What I did have was determination, and a very clear picture of what it would feel like to back down. It would feel like confirming the version of myself everyone still expected.
If the Snowdrop Inn was going to stand, then so was I. Even if it took swallowing my pride and asking for help I would rather avoid .
I opened the office door and stepped back into the inn’s noise, my clipboard tucked under my arm like armor.