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“Welcome home!”
Kate opened her eyes and unhooked her arm from Clara’s. She smiled and clasped her hands together. “Oh, Amelia,” Kate squealed. Kate Hannigan never squealed. Here she was, though. In her childhood home with her sisters and her niece, and she was squealing. “How precious is this?” she cried, striding to the kitchen island. “Are we... celebrating?” Kate asked Amelia.
“Yes, we’re celebrating. We’re home. We’re moving in. We’re opening a business. It’s a housewarming party and a business meeting and whatever we want it to be. I figured I’d pull out all the stops.” Amelia wriggled her eyebrows at Kate, who laughed at her younger sister’s typical exorbitance.
“Mimosas and chocolate and daffodils? You’ve spoiled us.” Kate rounded the island and slipped an arm around Amelia’s waist, tugging her into a hug.
Megan and Sarah stepped into the kitchen after Kate. Sarah raised an eyebrow pointedly at the champagne. “Can I—?”
“No,” Megan answered as quickly as Sarah formed the question and then pretended to pinch her daughter’s cheek as she grabbed the bottle and started to work on removing the foil. “Amelia, I’m impressed, and I’m grateful. I think this is just what we needed.”
Kate looked at Amelia, who beamed in reply and rocked onto her heels as she tucked her hands into her jeans pockets. Kate felt a sisterly pride creep in. She sneaked a look at Clara, who was lifting a bloom to her nose. “These are so fresh, Amelia. Did you get them at the Lakeside Market?”
Amelia wagged a finger. “Nope. I mean, I went there for the grub and drinks, but I made a special trip to White Birch Floral for these babies.” Amelia ran a hand gently up the full bouquet, bouncing the blooms along her fingers. Kate winced a little.
“Sparing no expense, I see,” Megan murmured just before a loud pop scared them all half to death.
Kate caught Sarah roll her eyes (in true teenage fashion) before the girl plucked a slice of watermelon and perched on a stool. Kate pressed a hand to her chest. “I hate loud corks,” she declared and then selected a flute and tipped it toward Megan who wasted no time in filling four of the five glasses. The fifth glass she filled with pure orange juice and passed to her daughter.
“I’d like to make a toast,” Kate announced, raising her pale-yellow drink. A breeze curled in from the kitchen window behind them, sending a chill up Kate’s spine. She smiled.
The others followed Kate’s gesture, even Sarah with her chaste glass of OJ.
Kate cleared her voice, preparing for the cascade of tinkling. Pressing her champagne flute above the center of the island, she announced, “To the Heirloom Inn.”
***
An hour later, after listening with rapt horror as Sarah recounted various tales of high school terror (with Clara nodding along in somber confirmation), the women had polished off the last of the cheese and watermelon. A few rounds of limp deli meat clung to the sides of their plastic tray. Every last glass was empty, but the champagne bottle still held a dignified amount of liquid.
Kate’s stomach lurched from overindulging. She let out a long sigh. “All right. I suppose it’s time to get down to business.” Kate clapped her hands on her thighs and rose, reaching for plates and carrying them dutifully toward the white porcelain sink. Its apron splayed over the front like a modern farmhouse, although that was never Nora’s intent. She’d hoped to one day upgrade to stainless steel everywhere in the kitchen. But other things came first. Bigger projects. All this meant that the poor woman died happy. Happy or smug. That’s how Kate felt when fashion or decor rounded the eras, plopping back in style decades later. Smug. Acid wash jeans were in style when I was younger than you, she’d told one of her sons’ girlfriends when she spied a high-rise pair the prior summer. She thought it might mark her as some surprising combination of wise and hip. Instead, she sounded like an old fart.
Oh well.
Kate wasn’t concerned about appearing trendy. She was not a trendy sort of person. But she did consider herself stylish. Even acquaintances and strangers had sometimes remarked on Kate’s ability to pull off simple, chic “looks.” This always made her smile. Kate had never been as classically beautiful as Amelia or Megan. And surely she wasn’t cute like Clara.
With a stout build and a long Roman nose, Kate was more tomboy than fashion model. But even so, she was selective with accessorizing. Unlike her mother, whose knuckles clacked with gaudy jewels and whose chest shone with oversized gems, Kate preferred the less-is-more theory. A few clever basics were enough to transform her from a homely, broad-shouldered empty-nester into a respectable modern woman. With a sleek blonde A-line bob cutting crisply across the very tips of her shoulders and smart-looking tortoise-shell glasses, all it took was a swipe of red lipstick and a starched white button-down to turn her into something more than a widowed mother and a part-time realtor. And, with her latest project underway, Kate felt that she was emerging into a new, grand phase. The one that came after raising children and playing subordinate to her husband and the few bosses she’d known. Now, Kate Hannigan was a small-town business owner. An innkeeper.