Chapter 1 Homecoming #5
Claire’s chest tightened. The label in Mamma’s handwriting stared up at her:
for when the world tips sideways
Emma’s smile wobbled. “She really did think of everything.”
“She didn’t think of keeping receipts,” Julia muttered, reaching for a knife. “Or quarterly projections. Or the concept of retirement.”
“Don’t ruin it,” Emma said. “We’re in a sacred space. There are rules about blaspheming in the presence of emergency cake.”
Claire moved to the drawer beside the stove and opened it automatically.
The wooden spoon with the worn handle sat exactly where it always had.
The candy thermometer, the crooked whisk, the stack of folded dish towels—everything waited as though Mamma might burst through the door at any second, cheeks pink from the cold, complaining about the price of fresh cod.
Her fingers tightened around the drawer edge.
Julia slid a mug toward her. “Sit. Drink. Then we can talk about budgets and business plans and whether we’re all temporarily insane.”
Claire wrapped her hands around the coffee, letting the warmth seep into her palms. She sank onto the stool at the small island as Emma began peeling back the foil on the cake, humming some tuneless thing under her breath.
“Do you remember the last time she made one of these?” Emma asked.
“Before Dad’s surgery,” Julia answered quietly.
Claire nodded. “She said if the news was good, we’d celebrate. And if it was bad…” Her voice fell away, the memory filling in the rest.
“We’d celebrate that we still had each other,” Emma finished softly.
Silence settled over them like a blanket.
Claire stared at the cake, a simple chocolate round with slightly uneven frosting. It was not fancy. It was not something a professional bakery would brag about. But it was theirs.
Emma sliced generous pieces and slid them onto dessert plates patterned with tiny blue stars. She pushed one toward Claire, another toward Julia, and kept the largest for herself.
“To Mamma,” Emma said, lifting her fork.
“To Mamma,” Julia echoed.
Claire’s throat tightened. “To Mamma,” she whispered.
The first bite tasted like childhood and Christmas Eve and the night before big tests when Mamma insisted that sugar helped the brain “remember the good stuff.”
The second bite tasted like loss.
Emma chewed mournfully. “He was right, you know.”
“Who?” Julia asked.
“Dalton. The inn is in trouble. And this cake is probably too old to eat.”
Julia glanced at the cake. “Cake doesn’t go bad. It just… evolves.”
Emma snorted. “That’s not how food safety works.”
Claire let the gentle bickering wash over her.
She didn’t have to answer questions or make plans.
She could just sit in the kitchen where her life had unfolded in a series of small, ordinary scenes: homework at the island, prom photos snapped in the doorway, late-night talks with Mamma over decaf tea.
“Okay,” Julia said, setting her fork down and reengaging business mode. “We need a realistic picture of what we’re dealing with. I can go through the books, talk to the bank, and negotiate with vendors. That’s my piece.”
“I can redesign the website,” Emma said, licking frosting from her thumb. “Mamma never understood online booking. We still have that contact form that looks like it was built in 2002.”
“And you?” Julia turned to Claire, eyes sharp and searching. “What’s your piece?”
Claire stared at the swirl of frosting on her plate.
In Seattle, she knew exactly what her piece was. She was the one who could look at a line of numbers and a building plan and see a future. She was the one clients called when they wanted their office to feel less like a box and more like something people wanted to walk into every morning.
Here, she was a girl who left. A daughter who didn’t make it back in time. A sister who had built an entire life around the idea that if she did everything right, she wouldn’t have to feel this kind of ache.
Her fingers reached instinctively for her pocket, brushing against the folded envelope. Mamma’s letter. The words hummed in her like a second heartbeat.
If there is even the smallest yes, give it a year.
“I can make a plan,” she said finally. “Not just to plug holes for a season. A real plan. To reimagine the rooms, update the common areas without losing the charm, create packages around the festival and the boat parade, and… whatever else this town does for fun these days.”
“Still mostly bake sales and fishing derbies,” Emma said. “We did add a yoga-on-the-dock thing last summer, but that ended when Mrs. Kline fell in.”
“She fell in because she refused to take off her gigantic straw hat,” Julia said. “It acted like a sail.”
Emma waved a hand. “Details.”
Claire smiled despite herself. “We can start with the festival. The Starfall is our biggest draw. Dalton’s right about one thing—we have a story. We just haven’t told it very well.”
“You’re really saying ‘we,’” Julia said quietly.
Claire froze. The word had slipped out without her noticing.
She stared at her sisters. Julia’s posture was still defensive, but her eyes had softened. Emma’s gaze shone with hope so bright it made Claire’s chest ache.
“I’m saying,” Claire answered slowly, “that I’ll stay for now. Throughout the year, Mamma asked for. We’ll see if the inn can turn around.”
Emma let out a strangled sound that might have been a cheer if she weren’t trying not to cry. She flung herself across the island, nearly knocking over her coffee, and crushed Claire in a hug.
“You won’t regret it,” she said into her shoulder.
“I might,” Claire said, voice muffled. “But at least if I do, I’ll have cake.”
Julia’s smile was small but real. “You’re sure?”
“No,” Claire said. “But Mamma asked. And… there is a piece of me here. I can’t pretend there isn’t.”
Something eased in Julia’s shoulders, a loosening Claire hadn’t even realized she was watching for.
“Okay then,” Julia said. “One year. We’re in this together. All in.”
Emma pulled back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “We’re like a… meteor strike team.”
“That’s not a thing,” Julia said.
“It is now,” Emma replied. “We can make T-shirts.”
“You’re not putting that on a T-shirt,” Julia said, but her lips twitched.
Claire let the moment settle. It wasn’t a grand vow. No one had sworn blood oaths or signed contracts in gold ink. But it felt bigger than anything that could fit in Dalton’s folders.
Three sisters.
One year.
One inn dangling between past and future.
And above them, a sky that would soon begin to fall.
A timer beeped from the oven, startling all three of them.
“Leftover rolls,” Emma explained, hopping up to turn them. “I forgot I put them in. We’ll call it destiny. Carbs always show up when you need them.”
Julia shuddered. “Spoken like someone who has never had to wear a suit during trial week.”
Claire pushed back her stool and stood, stretching her stiff shoulders. “I should get my bag from the car. Figure out where I’m staying.”
“Your room,” Emma said instantly.
Claire hesitated. “I don’t even know if it’s still—”
“It’s still yours,” Julia said. “We kept it. Guests love the bay rooms; they don’t care about the little one over the kitchen.”
“The smallest room in the house,” Claire said. “With the best view.”
“The one you claimed when you were twelve because you said you could hear the stars from there,” Emma added.
“I said I could hear the water,” Claire protested.
“You said the stars echoed in the water,” Emma insisted. “Direct quote.”
Claire shook her head, but a smile tugged at her mouth. “Fine. I’ll bring my stuff in. Then we can start talking about what the next few weeks look like.”