how many months have passed. He looks down, lines bracketing his mouth as he frowns and places his hands on his knees. I study his posture for a moment and get the sense that his words weren’t merely a courtesy, but that he really is sorry for my loss. I wonder if he’s had loss in his life, too. One that has cut deeply, still hurts. I touch his hand, and his gaze jerks to mine. “I appreciate your condolences, Nate,” I say. “Thank you.”
“I never met her,” he begins quietly. “But her stories live on. She was an amazing woman, from what I hear.”
I smile as tears form in my eyes, and the emptiness in my heart expands. “She was.”
“Did you know your grandfather well?”
“Not really. I was young when he died at sea. I have a few memories, but not a lot.”
A beat pulses between us then he glances around the room. He spreads his arms. “This is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m living here, Kira.” He glances down, points to the floor with his index finger. “Right here, in your grandmother’s B&B.”
I sit up a little straighter. Have my two near-death experiences today affected my hearing? “I’m sorry. I thought you said you were living here.”
“That’s exactly what I said. And I’m not the only one. Lots of seasonal fishermen have rooms here, as well.”
I jump from my chair. “Like squatters? Are you telling me this place is full of squatters?”
His lips quirk. “No, we’re not squatters.” He stands up with me, dips his head. “You haven’t been in the dining room yet, have you?”
“No,” I say and turn toward it. “When I arrived, I threw the food in the oven, which I clearly don’t know how to use, considering all I ever do is nuke food, and went straight to the shower.” What I don’t tell him is, after entering and seeing all things Gram, I needed a moment to pull myself together. My heart will need a soft blanket wrapped around it before I take it on a painful trip down memory lane.
“You need to take a look,” he says quietly, almost gently.
He puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me into the living room. My breath catches, and my heart swells as I glance at the big oak table where Gram and I had tea parties with neighbors and friends. There was so much laughter back then. The tightness is a painful reminder of how much I loved and how much I lost. Gram was the epitome of family, and this is the only place I ever had a sense of home and hearth. Growing up in British Columbia with two research professors, I was used to evening meals spent talking to them over their laptops. I’d eventually stopped bothering.
Gram’s essence surrounds me and memories bombard me, interrupted when Nate takes my shoulders and turns me so I see the old-fashioned cash register and humongous old pickles jars full of cash. Rawness scrapes at my insides, and a manic laugh full of happiness and sorrow rips from my throat. Oh, Gram you sure loved your pickles. After we finished a jar, she would fill the bottles with spices and eggs. I didn’t much care for pickled eggs, but Gram made them, so I ate them. It made her happy, which made me happy.
But why are the jars filled with money? I wait for a switch to click, to shine some light on the situation. It doesn’t.
“I don’t get it,” I push past my tight throat.
“This place is still a B&B,” Nate explains.
I turn back to him. What the hell? “How, who runs it?”
“Well, that’s the hard part to explain. No one runs it, yet everyone runs it.”
Still no switch clicking. I narrow my eyes, check his pupils. “Ah, are you sure you’re not the one with a concussion?”
His lips quirk. “Positive.” He pulls a dining room chair out for me, and I drop into it. My wobbly knees are grateful.
“Here’s how they explained it to me,” he says, settling himself into one