Jackpot.

I put some coffee on to brew, dig out a pack of cookies from the pantry, and settle in. There’s a ton of paperwork, and before long, I’ve got a headache trying to make sense of it all. As far as I can tell, the mortgage on this place is paid off, with Nana’s main expenses being utility costs, food for the guests, and the wages of the girls she had cleaning and helping with laundry. Her rates were reasonable, and from the looks of the appointment book, most of the summers were booked solid, with guests tapering off in late September, and not checking in until May and the summer season.

I sit back, thoughtful. This place is far too big for me to just rattle around by myself. And Nana always said, the best part about being here was getting to share the stories of all the people passing through, and help make their vacations into wonderful memories.

Would it be so hard to keep the B&B running?

The thought lingers in my mind. I have the house here, all I would need to do is provide a breakfast every day, and advice and vacation tips for the guests. Kayla said they had cancelled everyone who was due to come this summer, but in the front of the appointment book, I find the list of names.

I call the first one on the list, Mrs. Peterson in Connecticut. I quickly explain that I’m Nancy’s granddaughter, and that I’m considering reopening Rose Cottage. “Do you think you’d be interested in staying here, if the rooms were available again?” I ask.

“Oh yes!” She exclaims, “We’ve been staying there every summer for the last five years, it’s the perfect vacation spot for us. But will it be the same though?” she adds, sounding worried. “We just love her breakfasts, and those little homey touches. She would make this incredible apple cake…” Her voice trails off wistfully, then she laughs. “It sounds odd, I know, but we look forward to it all year long!”

“Me too,” I smile. “But she taught me to bake it herself. I promise, everything will be just the way you remember.”

“Then sign us up,” Mrs Peterson declares. “You know, we’ve been looking for somewhere else, but nothing’s quite the same. It’s a real special place.”

“Yes,” I smile, looking around. “It is.”

I call the rest of the list in turn, telling them about the reopening, and reassuring everyone that the cinnamon rolls will be back on the menu. About half the guests have already changed their plans, or booked someplace else, but soon there are enough names listed on the makeshift calendar to make me feel like this is the right move. Everybody loves their time here so much, I know that Nana would want them to keep on enjoying the B&B, even without her.

By the time I’ve called everyone, it’s past 7:00 p.m., and my stomach is rumbling. The pantry and fridge have been cleared out, so I pull on a cardigan and walk into town to grab some dinner. As I stroll along the beach road, watching the ocean waves roll in, feeling the sunlight on my skin, it seems like I’m in a dream. Just twelve hours ago, I was stuck under bright fluorescent lights in an office building twenty stories high, dressed up in an uncomfortable pant-suit and heels. Now I kick a pebble down the sandy road, so light I feel like I could float away.

But what about everything you left behind? a critical voice reminds me. Your family, your career, everything you’ve spent your life working for. Wasted—and for what? A harebrained scheme you’ll regret in a couple of days. What do you even know about running a B&B?

For a moment, the sun seems to dim behind a cloud. I shiver, caught up in the whispers of doubt. Then the cloud passes, and everything looks bright again.

I can do this, I tell myself firmly. I’ve spent my life thinking logically, and it made me miserable. Now I’m just going to follow my instincts for a while, and see where they take me.

Like to the diner, for a real home-style meal. My mouth is already watering at the thought of butter-whipped mashed potatoes as I push open the front doors. They’ve barely changed a thing since Nana owned it: there are still black-and-white checkerboard tiles on the floors and cracked red vinyl booths. The front counter display of pies is already empty, and the jukebox is playing old 1960s girl-group songs. Tonight, the diner is busy with people and chatter: families still toting beach bags from their day on the sand, and a few couples sharing milkshakes on a date.

“Hey!” Kayla greets me, wearing a mint green waitress uniform. “You’re back!”

“I’m back!” I agree, smiling. “I was meaning to find you, actually. Are you still available to come help out at the B&B? I’m going to be reopening.”

“That’s great! But I already picked up a bunch of extra shifts here.” Kayla’s face falls. “I’m sorry. I might be able to squeeze a couple of mornings in, just for the summer?”

“That would be perfect, anything would help,” I tell her.

“Sure, I’ll check my schedule and let you know.” Kayla smiles. “Anything to help my college savings. Sit anywhere you like,” she adds. “I’ll get you a menu.”

“No need,” I grin. “Bring me the Thanksgiving special, all the trimmings.”

“Coming right up!”

I look around for a free table, and my eye falls on the group in the big corner booth. They’re about my age, laughing over a spread of food. And there in the middle, is Ash.

My heart stops.

He’s lounging back, dark-haired and devastatingly handsome. He looks smarter than the rest of them, cleanly shaven in a button-down shirt. There are two other guys, and two girls—one of them sitting right beside him. She says something, and he laughs, shoving good-naturedly at her with his elbow.