“Cade, I need you to double-check the bathrooms. Make sure they’re spotless,” Mom says as I finish dusting the parlor. She leans over the reception desk, eyeing the room I just cleaned as if she could spot a speck of dust from this far away.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, knowing ten hours ago—the last time I’d gone through each guest room—everything was perfect.

“Mikayla, don’t nag the boy,” Nana says, coming through our apartment door. She sends me a sympathetic smile, then turns to Mom. “Give him a few minutes to have a snack. From the second he got home, he’s been working. There’s plenty of time, and if necessary I can scrub a toilet.” The lilt of her Polish accent thickens with irritation. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

“Ma, of course not. But no one in this family can make your pies, so let us worry about everything else.”

“Ach. That’s my point. You worry too much.”

Nana’s so right, but I keep my mouth shut.

The brewing argument is my cue to escape. As I reach our apartment door, Nana steps in my way, takes my hands, and turns them over in hers. “Nice strong hands, perfect for kneading dough. Maybe it’s time for me to pass on all my baking secrets to you, hmm?” She narrows her eyes at Mom. “Before I become too old to do anything around here.”

I gently squeeze her hands. “You’re not old, Nana. Besides, we need you. Our best reviews always mention your cooking.”

“Humph.” She lowers her voice, but it’s still loud enough for Mom to hear. “I put aside some rogaliki in our secret place so your dad won’t eat them all. Now give me a kiss and go enjoy your treat.”

“Thanks, Nana.”

I make my way into our small kitchen, take the pasta box out of the cupboard, and head into my room. Kicking my door shut, I set the box on my nightstand, which Grandpa and I made from repurposed wooden crates.

The smells of powdered sugar and strawberry jam fill the air, making my stomach growl and my mouth water in anticipation. I plunge my hand through the pasta box flaps and draw out a piece. The small crescent-shaped pastry melts in my mouth. I eat one after another until the box is empty. Setting it aside, I pick up The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, a novel I promised Logan I’d read. Eventually.

The book reminds me of the first time Logan came bouncing through the inn’s double-arched doors, drenched from a downpour. Her dad, Professor March, scowled at the puddles as they walked to the reception desk to check in. I smiled, welcomed them. Logan smiled back, and said, “I’m so sorry we’re dripping all over the floor. If you get me a rag, I’ll clean it up.” I refused, told her it wasn’t a problem.

The next day, she wouldn’t let me make her bed or give her fresh towels or vacuum the carpet. Before I could move to the next room, she asked if she could tag along. Her dad was at an interview for the Dean of Mathematics position at SUNY-Lakeside. While I did my chores, she asked me questions about the inn, Riviere, and my family. She was good company, and with her dad’s extensive interviews, Logan had plenty of time to hang out with me as I cleaned rooms. By the third day, she was restocking the bathrooms and mini-refrigerators and emptying trash with me.

That afternoon, she came around the reception desk, leaned against our closed apartment door, and started talking again. This time, it was her love for all thing history, particularly English history. She rattled off English authors she loved, like Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, and J. K. Rowling. One part of me was impressed. None of the twelve- or thirteen-year-old girls in my grade were quite like her—bright, spunky, ballsy, interesting, worldly. Half the things she talked about were new to me. I liked listening to her, but the other part of me wondered when she would pause so I could tell her she didn’t belong behind the counter.

When she did take a breath, her eyes grew wide, and I thought that she finally realized she’d crossed that invisible barrier between guests and innkeepers. But no. Not Logan.

She pivoted around, taking everything in. “You’re so lucky to live here. It’s beautiful.”

“We don’t exactly live here,” I said. “We live in the old servant quarters.” I pointed to our apartment door, then swept my arm in front of me. “The rest is for guests.” I had hoped she’d get the hint. She didn’t. Not even close. She hopped up and sat on the desk!

A minute later, she followed me into the parlor. As I straightened magazines, she brushed her fingertips over the leather chairs, the stone fireplace, the wood coffee table, and even the stained-glass lamp, as if taking it in by sight wasn’t enough. She went to the bookshelves, ran a finger over the spines, scanning the titles. She removed Anne Brontë’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.

“Have you read it?” She said it with so much hope, I was tempted to lie. I shook my head. “You must!” She tucked it under her arm. “Of all the Brontë sisters’ novels, it’s my favorite.”

I learned a valuable lesson about Logan that day. My mumbled yeah was interpreted as “Yes, Logan, I’d love to read The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.” Twice a year since, thanks to her calendar app, she asks how far I’ve gotten.

Okay, I fully admit, a year ago I thought I’d get away with watching the BBC miniseries, but Logan wasn’t having it. “Nice try, Crawford. But the series decimated Helen’s strength of character and it failed to mirror the authenticity of Anne Brontë’s revolutionary feminist novel.” She waved the book at me. “Read it, then we can talk about it.”

I pick up my pen, open my copy to the bookmarked page, and begin to read.

Two minutes later, my flip phone buzzes with a text. I hate texting on this thing. It’s a tedious pain in the ass, but it’s all our budget could afford.

LOGAN: Well? What did your mom say?

ME: Haven’t asked

LOGAN: It’s important.

ME: I know. Gtg

It’s been over a month since we had guests stay at the inn. Our upstate New York town during winter doesn’t attract many vacationers. This wedding party is a big deal. I never should have promised Logan I’d meet her before school tomorrow to speak with Mr. Bartley. But what choice do we have? There’s no way I’m going to present arguments in favor of murdering Jews. If we can’t convince him to change the assignment, I’ll take an F.

I glance at the photo sitting on my dresser in a frame Grandpa made. It’s of the two of us outside the inn. His arm is over my shoulder and he’s smiling at the camera. I’m looking up at him.

Nana always says that I’m the spitting image of Grandpa and that we’re a lot alike. Would I have had the courage to hide a Jewish boy, help him escape, when I was twelve?

A sharp rap on my door makes me jump.

“Cade?”

“One sec, Mom.” I brush the crumbs off my shirt and scramble to open the door.

She shifts a laundry basket in her arms, bracing it on her hip. “Would you fold these? I need to cancel and reorder items for the Stoke bridal shower next month. I swear Mrs. Stoke is going to drive me to drink with all her changes.”

I take the laundry basket from her and set it on my bed.

“Thank you.” She breathes a sigh of relief. “One more thing. I checked the weather report. Another foot of snow is expected overnight. It’s supposed to stop by six a.m., so hopefully it won’t delay the wedding guests.” Her voice is tight with worry. “I’ll need you to clear the parking lot and the sidewalks before school tomorrow.”

Inwardly, I groan. “Can’t Dad do it? I’m meeting Logan early. We have to talk with Mr. Bartley about an assignment.”

She slumps against the doorjamb. “He strained his back at work today. If he gets laid up and isn’t able to finish the dry-walling job, we’re going to be in trouble. We’re lucky he has the work. I’d do it myself, but I’ll be up all night sewing the curtains for Mrs. Hager’s living room.”

Resigned, I give my standard answer. “I’ll take care of it.” I pick up my alarm clock and set it for 4:00 a.m.—two hours earlier than on days we have no guests. If I’m going to meet Logan at school on time, I’ll need every minute. I look up. “Anything else?”

She hesitates, and just when she’s about to say something, a loud ting from the reception desk bell gets our attention. Her face lights up with her guest smile. She dashes toward the lobby. A few beats later, I hear her guest voice. “Welcome! How can we help you?”

“Our flight’s been canceled. Instead of drivin’ in this mess, we were wonderin’ if you had a couple rooms available with king-size beds?”

“We sure do. Where you folks from?”

Texas, I peg.

“Houston,” the woman says.

I smirk. Grandpa would be proud, I think, and it squeezes my heart. Guessing where a person was from based on their accent was our thing. He was the master. Until I was eight, I was in awe of his accuracy. Then I realized our reservations listed guests’ addresses. When I called him on it, he nailed every walk-in’s place of origin for a month. He loved entertaining guests by doing impressions of actors, presidents, and cartoon characters. Compared to Nana, he barely had a Polish accent. Only when he spoke Polish or shared his childhood stories did Grandpa speak with a heavy lilt.

The conversation at our reception desk regains my attention. “We’ll do whatever we can to make your stay comfortable,” Mom says. “What time do you expect to check out?”

“We’ll have to leave by six to make our flight.”

In a blink, my morning plans evaporate. Not only does Mom promise we’ll have a basket with Nana’s cinnamon rolls ready for their early departure, but our guests choose our two best suites with fireplaces and Jacuzzis. By 6:05 a.m. I’ll be turning the rooms over so they’ll be ready for when the wedding party’s out-of-town guests check in by ten.

I grab my phone and text Logan. “Sorry. Can’t meet before school.”

Without waiting for a response, I power off my phone, then head to the lobby to offer to carry the guests’ luggage to their rooms and kindle fires in their fireplaces.