Chapter 2 The Weight of the Year
Morning arrived softly over Starfall Bay, the kind of morning that didn’t rush to be anything.
Light eased over the tops of the fir trees before slipping down toward the water, turning the bay into a smooth sheet of pale silver.
Claire Hastings stood at her small dresser, pulling her hair into a loose knot, the knots in her stomach tightening with each tug.
She hadn’t slept much. Every time she closed her eyes, Mamma’s letter whispered through the dark.
If there is even the smallest yes, give it a year.
The room she’d claimed at twelve felt both familiar and foreign.
The slanted ceiling still dipped in the corner, the wooden floor still creaked in the exact spot she used to avoid on school mornings, and the dormer window still framed the bay like a painting.
But she wasn’t a child anymore. Coming home felt heavier now, threaded with responsibility and loss and possibility all bound together.
Downstairs, pans clattered—Emma. Another quiet sound, the steady murmur of someone talking to a guest—Julia. Claire slipped on her sweater, grabbed her notebook from the desk, and headed down.
The lobby buzzed with life. A couple in matching hiking jackets checked out, thanking Julia for “the best view in Washington, hands down.” A little girl with a stuffed otter waved shyly at Claire as she followed her parents toward the door.
Julia glanced up from her laptop. “Morning. I’ve pulled the last four years of financials and sorted them into twelve categories.”
“Good morning to you, too,” Claire said dryly.
“I made coffee,” Julia added, softer this time. “Black. Your favorite.”
Claire poured a cup, grateful for the warmth. “Where’s Emma?”
“In the kitchen doing… something.”
A puff of flour drifted from the swinging door.
“Something dangerous,” Julia added.
Claire stepped into the kitchen and found Emma bent over an enormous mixing bowl, sparkles of edible glitter clinging to her hair and sweatshirt.
“What are you doing?” Claire asked, setting her notebook on the counter.
“Creating the Bayview’s new signature cookie,” Emma said proudly. “Starfall Crinkles.”
“Crinkles,” Claire repeated. “With glitter?”
“Edible glitter,” Emma corrected. “It represents the meteor shower.”
Claire choked back a laugh. “Did Mamma ever let you use glitter in here?”
“No.” Emma froze. “But she’s not—” She stopped herself abruptly.
Claire touched her arm. “She wouldn’t mind the cookies.”
“She would mind the glitter,” Julia said, entering with her laptop tucked under her arm. “Remember the Glitter Pancake Incident of 2013?”
“No one died,” Emma defended.
“There was an advisory from the doctor,” Julia reminded her.
“It was a very minor advisory.”
Claire pulled herself up onto a stool at the island. “Actually… a signature treat isn’t a bad idea. Something guests remember. Something they take pictures of.”
Emma gasped. “Instagrammable!”
“You’re not putting glitter on the website,” Julia groaned. “We’re trying to avoid bankruptcy, not trigger a lawsuit.”
But Claire only smiled. The chaos, the teasing—this was familiar. This was home.
Julia set her laptop down. “We need a plan. Immediate priorities: stabilize cash flow, reduce expenses, and leverage the Starfall Festival.”
Claire opened her notebook. “I’ll walk the property today. Make a list of repairs. Then start sketching small updates we can do quickly.”
“I’ll pull the numbers,” Julia said. “We need to know what we can actually spend.”
“I’ll make more cookies,” Emma offered.
Julia sighed. “Not helpful.”
“It’s extremely helpful.”
Before Claire could intervene, someone knocked on the back door.
“Probably the seafood guy,” Emma said, bounding over.
She opened the door.
It wasn’t the seafood guy.
It was Walker.
He stood on the stoop, holding a thermos and a coil of rope, morning light catching on his jacket. “Morning,” he said, his gaze landing naturally, inevitably, on Claire.
Her pulse flickered annoyingly.
“I brought coffee,” he said. “The good stuff.”
Emma pulled him inside. “You’re just in time. I need more taste testers.”
Walker looked around the glitter-covered kitchen. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you fear joy,” Emma replied.
Claire watched him set the thermos down. Something about him here—in this kitchen, in this house—felt too natural, like he’d always existed in the edges of her life, whether she wanted him there or not.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.
“You didn’t,” Claire said. “We were just planning.”
Walker’s gaze softened. “Looks like you’re diving right in.”
“I’m trying.”
“You will,” he said simply.
They took the coffee and stepped outside to walk the property. The side yard was damp from last night’s mist, the air cool enough to bite at her cheeks. Walker pointed out the sagging shingles on the west corner, the peeling paint near the kitchen window, and the dock boards that needed replacing.
“Mamma patched what she could,” he said quietly. “She stretched this place further than most could have.”
Claire wrote everything down, her notebook filling faster than she liked.
“You’re annoyed,” Walker observed.
“I’m aware.”
“At her?”
“No.” She hesitated. “Yes. Maybe. She should’ve told us.”
“She didn’t want you to worry.”
“I know. And I hate that.”
Walker didn’t say anything, but his silence made room for her to keep going.
“She thought she was protecting us,” Claire said. “But now we’re cleaning up what we didn’t see coming.”
“She trusted you’d come home when it mattered.”
Claire stopped walking. “Did she say that?”
“She didn’t have to,” he said.
They reached the dock. The boards creaked underfoot, water slapping gently at the pilings.
“Roof’s a priority,” Walker said. “Dock too. Windows in rooms three and five.”
“I’ll get estimates.”
He glanced at her notebook. “You’re making three lists, aren’t you?”
“Four,” she admitted.
Walker. smiled. “Figured.”
They continued toward the shed where the Starfall Chest waited—half-buried under dust, carved with stars and waves. Claire lifted the lid and found the letters—hundreds of them—left behind by guests over the years.
For the night, I almost gave up.
For the wish I never said out loud.
For the hope that saved me.
“This is it,” she whispered. “This is the story.”
Walker nodded. “Told you. People don’t just come here for the view.”
They stood together, dust swirling in the beam of light from the single bulb overhead.
Claire rested a hand on the chest. “We bring it back this year. Build the festival around it.”
“There she is,” Walker murmured.
“Who?”
“The Claire who always found a story in everything.”
Heat crept up her neck. “One idea doesn’t fix a mortgage.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it’s a start.”
She closed the chest gently. The weight of the year pressed at her, but for the first time, she felt her footing shift into steadier ground.
From inside the inn, Emma’s voice called, “Claire! Walker! Cookie emergency!”
Walker smirked. “Saved by sugar.”
They stepped out into the soft afternoon light, the inn rising behind them like an old friend waiting to see what they would do next.
The path ahead was long, complicated, maybe impossible.
But today had given them something real:
A beginning.
A purpose.
A story worth saving.
Claire headed back toward the kitchen, her notebook tucked under her arm, the answer inside her growing steadier with each step.
Yes, she thought, there is a piece of me here.
And maybe—just maybe—this time she was ready to see what it could become.