Chapter 7 The Shape of Tomorrow #2
“That’s easy enough,” Claire said. “We talk about Wish Weekend. About bringing locals back in. About honoring what the inn has been and who it could be now.”
Julia studied her. “You sound ready.”
“I’m not,” Claire said honestly. “But I can pretend for twenty minutes.”
Julia smiled a little at that, then sobered. “You know they’ll probably want you on camera, right? Not me. Not Emma. You.”
Claire felt the familiar tightening in her chest. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the one who came up with Wish Weekend’s branding,” Julia said. “You’re the one the committee has mentioned by name in the emails. You’re the one who keeps turning panic into story.”
Claire looked down at her hands. A thin dusting of flour from Emma’s muffins still clung to one knuckle. “I’m not sure that qualifies me as the face of anything.”
“Maybe not,” Julia said. “But like it or not, you’ve become the anchor. People are responding to your vision. We can’t hide that just because it makes you uncomfortable.”
There was no accusation in her tone, just calm truth. Claire exhaled slowly.
“Then I’ll do it,” she said. “For the inn.”
Julia nudged her shoulder. “For you too.”
Emma burst into the doorway a moment later, holding up two mugs. “Tea? Coffee? Emotional support beverage?”
“Tea,” Claire said.
“Coffee,” Julia answered.
Emma handed them over and leaned against the doorframe. “So, about this letter that showed up this morning…”
Claire groaned softly. “You two and your radar.”
“You stuck it in your pocket like it was buzzing,” Emma said. “I could feel the tension from across the room.”
“It’s from Portland,” Claire said. “I’m guessing it’s connected to the email I got yesterday.”
“Old job or old life?” Emma asked.
“Both,” Claire said. “Probably.”
“Are you going to open it before or after the call?” Julia asked.
“After,” Claire said firmly. “I don’t need more variables before we talk to the committee.”
“That’s fair,” Julia replied.
Emma tapped the doorframe with her fingers. “Whatever it says, you don’t have to decide anything right now,” she said. “You already made one big decision when you came back here. You’re allowed to live in that for a while.”
Claire felt an unexpected lump in her throat. “When did you get so wise?”
“Somewhere between batch two and batch three of the muffins,” Emma said. “The lemon glaze unlocked something.”
They all laughed, and the tension eased a notch.
At ten minutes to three, Julia logged into the Zoom call from the office while Claire paced once around the lobby to burn off some excess nerves.
Emma fluffed pillows and straightened a stack of brochures, even though the committee wouldn’t see those.
Walker passed by the front door with a coil of extension cord over one shoulder and gave Claire a quick, encouraging nod as he headed toward the shed to check the porch lighting.
In the office, the festival logo filled the laptop screen before resolving into the smiling face of a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and warm eyes. Behind her, a Starfall Bay banner hung on the wall.
“Hi, Claire, Julia,” she said. “I’m Renee, chair of the festival committee. And this is Mark, our media coordinator.”
A second window popped up, showing a younger man in glasses wearing a headset, with the background blurred.
“It’s good to finally talk in real time,” Renee continued. “We’ve been hearing lovely things about what you’re doing at the Bayview.”
“Thank you,” Claire said, surprised to hear how steady her own voice sounded. “We’re honored you’d even consider featuring us.”
Renee smiled. “The inn has been at the heart of this place for a long time. It’s nice to see it stepping forward again.”
They reviewed logistics: the filming date, the kind of footage the crew wanted, and the approximate schedule. Mark asked questions about lighting in the living room, guest consent forms, and whether they could capture a brief clip of wish-writing at the chest if guests agreed.
“Your Wish Weekend idea fits so well with this year’s theme,” he said. “We’re highlighting traditions that connect past and future. The chest is a beautiful symbol of that.”
“It’s always been important to our family,” Claire said. “It feels right to let it belong to the community again, not just to us.”
Renee nodded. “That’s exactly the kind of story we want people to hear.”
They shifted to the topic of the on-camera interview. Renee asked if Claire would be comfortable answering a few questions about why she came back home and what the inn meant to her.
Julia glanced sideways, offering silent support.
“I can do that,” Claire said. “I just ask that we keep it conversational. Nothing too… scripted.”
“We prefer conversational,” Mark said. “We want people to see you as you are, not as some polished spokesperson.”
Claire relaxed a fraction. “Then that will be easy enough.”
The call lasted just under half an hour. When it ended, and the screen blinked back to the desktop, Claire let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“You did well,” Julia said. “You sounded thoughtful. Grounded.”
“I didn’t ramble?”
“Not even once.”
Emma knocked lightly on the doorframe. “How’d it go?”
Julia answered. “We are officially on the schedule. The crew arrives on Wednesday at ten. They want Claire to talk about new beginnings and old traditions. Also, they loved the chest.”
“Of course they did,” Emma said. “It’s like a movie prop that already comes with feelings.”
Claire leaned back in the chair, letting her shoulders drop. “One step closer.”
“To what?” Emma asked.
Claire hesitated, then answered honestly. “To figure out if this life fits.”
Emma’s expression softened. “You’re allowed to take your time.”
After they left her alone in the office for a few minutes, the silence wrapped around Claire like a familiar coat. The noise from the lobby filtered in faintly. The printer clicked once and fell quiet. Somewhere outside, a car door shut and someone laughed.
She reached into her sweater pocket and pulled out the envelope.
The Portland address stared back at her. This time, she didn’t look away.
She slid her finger under the flap and broke the seal.
The letter inside was handwritten, the ink a deep blue. As she unfolded it, the first thing she saw was her name at the top, written in the looping style of someone who refused to surrender to email entirely.
It was from her former mentor at the agency.
He wrote about missing their brainstorming sessions, about how the office felt duller without her color-coded mood boards and relentless questions about whether a campaign actually had heart.
He told her the client she’d been closest to had specifically asked how she was doing.
He said that if she ever wanted freelance work from a distance, they’d be interested.
And then there was one line that caught her breath.
You were always the one who understood that stories had to feel like home, or no one would stay with them.
She read that line three times.
The letter didn’t pressure her. It didn’t make promises. It simply opened another door and told her she’d be welcome there if she ever chose to walk through it.
Claire folded the page carefully and sat very still.
She thought of the lobby, humming with guests. Of the Starfall Chest filled with folded cards. Of Walker on the roof, tightening a shingle so the inn would hold a little longer. Of her sisters, each anchoring a corner of this new life with snacks and spreadsheets and unshakable loyalty.
She also thought of the part of her that still lit up at the idea of campaigns and clients and polished hotel lobbies in far-off cities.
Two paths. Both real. Both holding pieces of who she was.
She slipped the letter back into its envelope and tucked it into the drawer of the desk instead of her pocket.
For later.
For after Wish Weekend and the festival and the year she’d promised.
For a version of herself who might be ready to choose.
Right now, she had rooms to prepare, guests to welcome, and a new kind of story to tell under these northern skies. The agency could wait. The inn could not.
Claire stood, smoothed her sweater, and stepped back into the hallway, letting the scent of cinnamon, tea, and fresh hope guide her toward the noise of her family and the future taking shape—one decision, one wish, one day at a time.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded in a way that reminded Claire how quickly the rhythms of the inn could sweep her up when she let them.
After the Zoom call, she and Julia headed to the dining room to spread out the printed filming schedule.
At the same time, Emma fluttered between them, bringing tea refills, snack samples, and more energy than two people combined.
“We should walk through the camera path,” Julia said, sliding the top sheet toward Claire. “Just to make sure we know exactly what the crew will see when they arrive.”
Claire nodded. “Lobby first, then living room, then porch. They’ll want natural light in all three.”
“And we’ll need to check outlets,” Julia added. “Mark mentioned they may plug in extra soft lights.”
“Got it,” Claire said.
Emma set down a plate of scones and leaned over the schedule. “And don’t forget the hallway by the stairs. If they film any candid shots, they might catch the old wallpaper.”
Claire winced. “Right. The blue-and-gold pattern that hasn’t been updated since the early 2000s.”
“It’s retro,” Emma said optimistically.
“It’s tragic,” Julia corrected.
Claire considered it. “We can hang framed prints along that wall, just enough to break up the pattern. It’ll give the camera something warm to focus on.”
Julia scribbled a note. “I’ll dig through the storage closet for frames.”
Emma brightened. “And I’ll take pictures around town! The lighthouse, the pier, the trail. We’ll create a ‘Starfall Bay’ gallery wall.”
“It’ll look intentional,” Claire said. “Not like we’re covering flaws.”
“Exactly,” Julia said. “We’re highlighting charm.”