Roy cut her a sharp look and nodded, putting his hands behind his back. “We need the passageways clear and to code, that’s all.”
Instead of pushing, Emily simply kissed her father on the cheek and went onto the next thing on her checklist. She would ask him about it later, though the worry lingered as she left to tackle the next to-do.
***
Daniel opened the door for the first arrival, and Emily recognized the guest at once, though she hadn’t seen him in years. Mr. Kapowski, the inn’s very first paying customer, now sported a silver ponytail and a bright-blue polo advertising an active-adult cruise line. A windbreaker was slung over his arm.
He stepped inside and bellowed, “Hope you’ve got more eggs than last time, or I’m out.”
Emily moved to embrace him. “And mushrooms. And tomatoes. I’ve learned from my mistakes.” The inside joke was a reference to the disastrous breakfast that Emily had made him on his first visit, and she grinned.
“The years have made you wise,” he said, but the dig was affectionate, and he hugged her tight, smelling faintly of aftershave.
He produced a small, flat-wrapped package from his jacket pocket when they parted. “For you. Maude at the historical society dug it up for me.”
Inside was a hand-drawn building plan for the house, framed, the lines faded but the script legible: 1900, with annotations about servants’ quarters and “water closet expansion.” Emily ran a finger over the paper, oddly touched.
“Thank you,” she said, feeing her eyes mist.
“It belongs here,” Kapowski said, and moved on to greet Daniel with a bear hug that nearly knocked him into the wall. He was lucky to hold onto Charlotte, who shrieked with laughter and grabbed Mr. Kapowski’s sleeve in delight.
The next wave of arrivals came in a steady trickle: a couple from pop star Roman Westbrook’s music festival crowd, bearing Roman’s regrets that he couldn’t make it (though Emily had gotten his email, as well), Ben and Madison, the influencer blonde bouncing with excitement as she dragged her affectionately suffering husband with her, and practically every contractor and electrician to have ever worked on the house. Emily welcomed each with real warmth, and a gratefulness that grew with each arrival.
Mayor Hansen showed up in a golf outfit, despite never having played a hole in his life, and made a beeline for the appetizer table. Emily watched as he downed six small quiche bites in under a minute, then retreated to the porch to check out the music setup. Bailey and Chantelle, dressed in coordinated sundresses, tumbled down the main staircase.
By late afternoon, the lawn had filled, and the party—her party—began to take on a life of its own. Every staff member she had, front of house, kitchen, maid service, reception, were all there as guests, too. Emily cycled between the parlor, back porch, backyard, and kitchen, refilling buffet dishes and dispensers of lemonade.
Daniel found her in the butler’s pantry, arms elbow-deep in a crate of backup glassware. “It’s going well,” he said.
She blew a stray hair from her face. “You sure?”
“People are smiling. I saw Madison cry already—good tears, I think.”
Emily smiled, thinking of her friend’s often-overflowing emotions. “You’re keeping score?”
“Only the important stuff.” He bumped her shoulder with his. “You should come out and see it.”
She hesitated, then wiped her hands on a nearby towel and followed him through the kitchen to the back door, where they looked out over the back lawn. The afternoon light had mellowed, giving everything a honeyed glow, and the guests on the back lawn looked, for a rare instant, like characters from an illustrated storybook—varied and odd, but somehow belonging together.
She caught sight of Mr. Kapowski, holding court at a folding table, holding Charlotte on his lap, telling some long-winded tale while gesturing with a breadstick that the baby kept trying to grab. At the next table, Bailey and Chantelle oversaw the lawn game scorecards, looking self-important. Patricia and Cassie walked Mogsy and Rain, who sniffed everyone they passed in hopes of a dropped treat or two.
For a second, Emily let herself stop moving, just to watch. This, she realized, was the point—not the flawless execution, but the way people filled this place with stories and laughter, layering new memories over the old. The house felt both lighter and sturdier, as if it’s very bones had been reinforced by all this joy.
Daniel, sensing her mood, squeezed her hand. “You did good,” he said.
Emily squeezed back. “We did,” she corrected.
He raised his eyebrows, conceding the point, and they stood together in the late sun, listening as the inn—their inn—sang with life.
But the party was only just beginning. The first warning was the scent—heady, floral, and so persistent it seemed to overpower everything else around.
Emily heard a single, booming voice. “Mydarlings!Theenergyin this gathering is simplyluminous.”
Madame Zelda had arrived. It wasn’t a surprise, per se, since she’d been invited, but it was always anexperience.
Emily turned in time to catch Zelda’s grand entrance. She swept through the kitchen doors from the main house, behind Emily and Daniel, like a cruise liner gliding into port, emerald caftan billowing and studded with constellations of gold thread. Her jewelry—bracelets, rings, a breastplate necklace that looked fit for a jousting tournament—clinked with every step.
Zelda’s perfume swept fully over Emily as the woman embraced her. It was like someone had distilled the contents of an apothecary, doused it in bourbon, and set it on fire. Emily’s eyes watered as Zelda managed, as always, to pull her in without so much as a lipstick smudge, squeezing Emily’s shoulders with surprising strength.
