The front door creaked open with a gust of pine-scented air, and I straightened, pasting on my most welcoming smile, which wasn’t tired or forced. The Honey Leaf Lodge didn’t check anyone in with anything less thanmildly aggressive warmth.
A woman in her forties stepped inside, dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel and wearing the expression of someone who’d been stuck behind a very chatty seatmate on her flight.
“Hi there!” I said, even as my ankles wept. “Welcome to the Honey Leaf Lodge. You must be Carla March?”
She blinked like she wasn’t sure where she was, then nodded slowly. “Sorry, I’m late. There was a delay, and then the rental car place gave me something that smelled like beef jerky, and I hit a pothole the size of a Smart car—”
“Say no more,” I said, already reaching for the room key and her welcome folder. “You’re here, you’re safe, and if you give me three minutes, I’ll bring you a hot towel, a cup of tea, and possibly a legally binding hug.”
She gave me a tired smile. “That… sounds perfect.”
I handed her the room key and did the rundown as quickly as I could without sounding like an auctioneer.
“Room six, second floor, faces the lake. There’s lavender on the pillows, local honey on the nightstand, and probably a goatlooking at you through the window if you open it at the wrong time of day. If anything’s missing, we replace it. If anything squeaks, we oil it. If anything bites—”
“It’s probably the chicken,” Carla said dryly.
I blinked. “You heard about Henrietta?”
“There was a thread on the travel forum. She has fans.”
I stared. “She’s achicken.”
“An influencer chicken,” Carla said, already wheeling her bag toward the stairs. “Don’t fight it.”
I stood there in stunned silence for a moment after she left, unsure whether to laugh or take a nap standing up.
Henrietta. Internet fame.
Of course.
The sound of a metal mixing bowl clattering to the ground shook me out of my daze.
“Everything okay in there?” I called out to the kitchen.
“No!” came Violet’s cheerful response.
“Yes!” Sienna added at the same time.
“We're fine!” Mom shouted. “Mostly! Where's the oregano?”
I sighed and walked toward the kitchen.
The scene inside was, as expected,slightly apocalyptic.
Violet stood at the stove, trying to wrangle a sauce that was bubbling like it had thoughts of its own. Sienna was balancing a bowl in one arm and using her elbow to open a drawer. And Mom had jam on her apron, a wooden spoon in her hand, and the intense look of a general orchestrating a meal-based battle.
“Smells amazing,” I said, because I figured they deserved a morale boost. “What are we burning, I mean,serving, tonight?”
“Lemon thyme chicken,” Mom replied. “With creamy garlic pasta and those little rolls you like.”
“The ones with the sea salt?” I perked up.
“If we don’t overbake them,” Violet muttered.
Violet rarely overbaked anything. She was our in-house blogger, covering all things food, and her recipes were truly divine.
Sienna dumped a handful of herbs into a pan with dramatic flair. “We’re aiming for rustic. Rustic allows for chaos.”
