Chapter 4 Under Northern Skies
Rain clouds gathered loosely over Starfall Bay as the morning settled in, the kind of soft gray that promised a drizzle long before the first drop fell.
Claire Hastings could feel it in the quiet air when she carried her notebook downstairs, her boots tapping gently against the old cedar steps.
She reached the bottom floor to find the kitchen already humming to life.
Emma stood at the counter, whisking pancake batter, flour smudged on her cheek like an accidental badge of artistry.
Behind her, sizzling bacon perfumed the air, and the faint sound of Julie Andrews humming—Emma’s stress soundtrack—floated from her phone speaker.
A tiny bottle of edible glitter stood proudly beside the mixing bowl.
“Please tell me that glitter is not going on breakfast,” Claire said, entering with a raised brow.
Emma grinned at her smugly. “Not in the breakfast. On top of the pancakes. Just a sprinkle. Just enough to say ‘magical meteor morning.’”
Claire laughed softly because trying to dim Emma’s enthusiasm was like trying to quiet the sky. “If guests leave here glowing in the dark, we’re refunding their stay.”
“Only if they complain,” Emma said, flipping a pancake with dramatic flair.
Claire poured herself a cup of coffee and glanced into the lobby where warm lamplight glowed over the worn but welcoming furniture. The inn always seemed to exhale during early mornings, as though it rested between breaths, deciding who it was going to be that day.
Julia entered the kitchen next, dressed in fitted jeans and a blazer—her standard “lawyer on leave” compromise. She reached for the coffee without a word, her hair still damp from the shower.
“You’re up early,” Claire said.
“I had a dream someone handed me a stack of unpaid invoices,” Julia replied. “Turns out it wasn’t a dream. It was this.” She held up her tablet with color-coded spreadsheets.
“Morning optimism at its finest,” Claire teased.
Before Julia could reply, footsteps sounded at the back door. Walker stepped inside, brushing the cold from his shoulders. Rain droplets clung to his jacket like they had chased him in from the yard.
“Morning,” he said simply.
Claire felt the faintest flutter of awareness—annoying and persistent—before she managed to bury it under professionalism. “You’re early.”
“Thought you’d want to start the roof assessment before the rain hits.” He nodded toward the window. “Sky’s changing.”
Emma slid him a mug of cocoa. “Here. You look like someone who needs warmth.”
Walker accepted it with quiet amusement, then focused on Claire. “Ready when you are.”
She grabbed her notebook, feeling steadier with a task in hand. “Let’s start outside before the weather turns.”
The four of them stepped into the side yard, which carried the scent of cedar and sea salt.
The inn’s age showed itself boldly here.
Shingles lifted like unruly cowlicks in several spots, and the west corner sagged by a degree that Claire hoped was an illusion.
Distant gulls called overhead, and the wind gently combed through the fir trees bordering the property.
Walker studied the roofline thoughtfully. “Not catastrophic. But definitely worn. We’ll need a temporary patch today and then full repairs once we hire a contractor.”
Claire scribbled notes. “How urgent?”
“Before the next real storm,” Walker said. “This afternoon’s shower should be fine, but the next big wind? Probably not.”
Julia checked the budgeting app on her tablet. “Roofing contractors around here run steep. I’ll call around and compare.”
“Steep we can handle,” Emma said, crouching beside a garden bed. “Roof caving into a honeymoon suite, we cannot.”
Claire examined the garden alongside her. The hydrangeas, once Mamma’s pride, drooped with neglect, their leaves edged in brown. “We’ll fix these, too. Eventually.”
“It’s sad,” Emma murmured. “Everything she took care of is fading.”
Claire put a hand over her sister’s. “Not fading. Waiting.”
They walked toward the dock, where saltwater mist drifted lightly across the planks. Claire had spent half her childhood here—dangling legs off the edge, watching seals bob in the distance, listening to Mamma tell stories about wishes that traveled on meteor trails.
Walker moved ahead to test a few boards. “These need replacing. Not all of them, but the weathered ones are risky.”
Julia noted each replacement cost. “Add lumber. And outdoor sealant. And hardware.”
Claire crouched beside one of the loose planks. “We can stagger repairs so the expense doesn’t hit all at once.”
Walker gave her a warm look. “Smart. You always plan in layers.”
Claire’s stomach did a small, unwelcome flip. “It’s better than panicking in layers.”
He laughed under his breath. “True.”
They finished the dock assessment and moved toward the shed by the back fence—where the Starfall Chest waited.
Even from outside, Claire recognized the shape, its corners softened by age and memory.
The chest had been part of the festival long before the festival became a regional event.
Guests used to leave letters or wishes inside it, tucked safely under the cedar roof until the Starfall night.
Walker opened the shed door, and dust swirled in the beam of sunlight. The chest stood quietly in its corner. Claire approached it, brushing a thin layer of dust from the lid.
“Do you think we should bring it inside this week?” she asked.
“Yes,” Walker said. “People need to see it. And you should decide where it goes.”
Claire lifted the lid. Inside lay dozens—maybe hundreds—of folded notes left by visitors over the years. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. Wishes and hopes written in strangers’ hands. Words carried forward.
She closed the lid gently. “We’ll feature it in the living room.”
Julia nodded. “A centerpiece. A symbol.”
“And a reminder,” Claire added softly, “that this place matters.”
Emma linked her arm through Claire’s. “That’s your designer instinct talking.”
Claire smiled. “It’s talking a lot lately.”
Rain clouds thickened overhead, darkening the sky. The air cooled noticeably, urging them to finish before the drizzle turned into something more determined.
“Okay,” Claire said briskly. “Next section: the lantern hooks along the path.”
They headed back toward the walkway lined with small solar lanterns, most flickering weakly or not at all. Claire tapped one of them, and it blinked in response, then faded.
Emma knelt beside it. “This one’s named Gerald. He’s extremely tired.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “Lanterns don’t need names.”
“Everything needs names,” Emma said. “Gerald just told me he needs a vacation.”
Claire hid a grin. Only Emma could turn solar fixtures into a cast of characters.
Walker crouched beside them. “Half of these need battery replacements. The others need total replacement.”
Claire added it to her list. “We’ll keep the ones we can fix. Replace the rest.”
They continued their inspection—checking the fence, the garden path, the porch steps, and the weathered sign at the entrance. Each area presented its own list of repairs and possibilities. By the time they inspected the final lantern, the first cool drop of rain landed on Claire’s cheek.
“That’s our cue,” she said.
They hurried toward the inn as the drizzle grew heavier, laughter spilling between them as the skies opened in earnest. The building’s warm glow felt like a safe harbor when they stepped inside, brushing rain from their jackets.
Claire paused, looking around the lobby as droplets trailed down the windows. Despite the weather, the inn felt warm and steady—a place worth rescuing, worth loving, worth rebuilding.
She closed her notebook with a firm click and nodded once, the decision already shaping itself into resolve.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s move inside. We still have a lot to do.”
Rain pattered lightly against the windows as the four of them stepped inside, the storm outside settling into a steady rhythm that softened the edges of the afternoon.
The wind rustled through the fir trees, and the inn felt warmer by comparison, its old wood creaking quietly as it adjusted to the change in weather.
Claire shook a few droplets from her hair and led the way toward the living room, where they’d regroup for indoor tasks.
Emma ducked into the kitchen to refill her cocoa, humming something cheerful despite the rain. Walker followed Claire and Julia into the living room, setting his tool bag by the mantel with a soft thud.
“Okay,” Claire said, flipping to a new page in her notebook. “Indoor repairs and improvements. We need a plan that focuses on what we can actually do today.”
Julia took a seat on the arm of one of the sofas and opened her budgeting tablet. “Priority one is safety—windows, loose boards, electrical. Priority two is appearance. Anything cosmetic can wait a little, but if we want the festival committee to feel confident, the common areas need a refresh.”
“Agreed,” Claire said. “The living room is the biggest space and the most visible. If we can make it look intentional instead of… accumulated over 25 years—”
“Hey!” Emma called from the kitchen. “Accumulation is a design ethos.”
“No, it’s clutter,” Julia called back.
“A cozy collage!” Emma countered.
Claire smiled despite herself. “We’ll edit the collage.”
She looked around the living room, trying to see it the way a guest or festival committee member might.
The sofas weren’t awful, but they faced away from the windows, blocking the best view.
The armchairs were scattered, and the sideboard by the doorway was placed as if someone had given up halfway through moving it.
A tall floor lamp leaned slightly forward, giving off the impression it might topple onto someone taking an innocent stroll.
“First step,” Claire said. “Let’s rearrange the room so it feels cohesive.”
Walker studied the layout. “Those two sofas—if we turn them to face each other, the fireplace becomes the focal point.”