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Now organized into pairs, Megan and Kate got to work. Since Kate had already vacuumed and mopped the common area floors and oiled the banisters and furniture, they could turn their attention to the two guest rooms upstairs, focusing on cleaning and making notes for decor.
Clara and Sarah set about the windows with a secondary task to head up the laundry cycles.
Amelia worked independently on the upstairs bathrooms, blasting music out of her phone like an obstinate teenager. Typical Amelia.
Kate told Megan she also wanted help with establishing a check-in desk of some sort. Last on her list was to tackle the kitchen, but Megan convinced her that she was biting off more than she—or any of them—could chew in one weekend.
As they set about stripping the bed and collecting old trinkets from around the room and boxing them up, Megan asked Kate what her timeline was.
“What do you mean?” Kate replied.
Megan tugged the bed skirt loose from its wedge between the box spring and mattress. “When are you going to start advertising? When are you going to open for business?”
Kate sighed. “Well, I’m listing my Apple Tree Hill house in a week or two. Once that’s on the market, I’d like to get everything moved here, to the basement or attic for now, I suppose. Then, I’ll be able to focus all of my energy on the Inn.”
“Plus, you need to call Matt, right?” Megan pointed out, tossing the wadded white lace-trimmed bedding into the hallway.
Blinking, Kate’s face flushed. “Or whoever can help, yes.”
“Why not Matt?” Megan pushed. Matt Fiorillo was Kate’s high school boyfriend. They’d reconnected in the wake of the funeral and over the drama with Clara from a week ago, but Megan could tell things were still tepid, at best. She wondered why. If Megan was skillful at one thing in life, it was identifying a good match. Her sister and the Birch Harbor house-flipper were a good match. They had that origin story that so few couples have. High school sweethearts. Grave drama. Dire straits. Distance. And then, a second-chance meeting, years later.
“I mean I’ll call him, but he might not want to help. Maybe he’s too busy.” Kate left the room with the banker’s box tucked under her arm. Megan followed her.
“You’re afraid,” Megan trilled as they strode down the hall, Megan with a pile of musty-smelling bedding resting in her arms.
They passed Amelia and her loud music and descended the stairs, veering through to the lower staircase that would take them into the basement.
Once they were down there and Megan was stuffing her wad of whites into the empty washing machine, Kate shelved the box of doodads and faced Megan, crossing her arms severely over her chest.
Megan poured detergent and fabric softener into the little drawers, punched them closed, and set the machine. Ignoring Kate’s pout, she commented, “I thought Clara and Sarah were running laundry.”
“They are,” Kate replied, her eyes narrowing on Megan.
“Then let’s get back upstairs and vacuum the mattress or whatever neurotic thing you do when you clean.” There it was. Megan crossed a line.
Kate audibly sucked in a breath then unleashed on Megan. “You think I’m afraid to call Matt. I’ve been talking to Matt all week! I’m not afraid to talk to him. If anyone in this house is afraid of something, it’s you.” She jabbed a finger at Megan. A distinct shift in tone unmoored Megan from her stance on the cold concrete floor.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Megan held up her hands in an innocent plea. “I didn’t mean to set you off. What are you talking about?” she shot back.
“Megan, look at you. You have a good husband, and you’re pulling the plug. And why? Because he never pushed you to get a career? Because he was focused on his own? News flash, sis, we are all focused on ourselves.” She shook her head and uncrossed her arms, raising them helplessly. “I don’t understand you. None of us do. Brian is a good guy. Why end it?”
Megan’s throat closed up immediately. Her heart started to burn in her chest. She felt the instant urge to chew up half a bottle of Tums. Megan was not about to open this conversation. Not in the middle of a girls’ weekend with her sisters during what ought to be a fun project. A healing project. “Are you serious?” she asked, searching for a way to end the line of questioning.
“Yes, I’m serious. You’re here pointing a finger at me, suggesting I am afraid of initiating... something with Matt Fiorillo. Meanwhile, you’re leaving your own marriage. So, what is it with you, Megan? Do you believe in love or not?”
Blinking back the threat of tears, Megan was desperate to push past Kate and storm upstairs and out through the front doors. Never to look back.
But she was better than that.
“Of course I believe in love,” she admitted at last, her face crumbling and her body slumping into relief and defeat. Then, as she felt Kate’s arms wrap around her, Megan added, breathlessly, “I still love Brian.”
“Then why are you leaving him?” Kate whispered back.
Megan swallowed the lump in her throat and quelled her crying long enough to find an answer. “I don’t know anymore.”