Mom grumbles under her breath. “That’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet it’s true,” I say.
“The sooner we sell it the better. I was wondering why the cost of utilities hadn’t gone down.”
Gram left Mom money to take care of the place, but never told her she was going to keep it running. Interesting. Maybe she held out hope that one day my mother would want to return to her roots and take over where Gram left off. I never understood why she disliked the small fishing village so much.
“I contacted a realtor today.”
“Good. Try to get a fair price, but don’t price it too high or it won’t move fast. When will it be assessed?”
“The realtor is coming by tomorrow.” More papers rustle, and it’s clear I only have half her attention. That’s nothing unusual. “Did you know that I found a bunch of letters at the studio? From some law firm wanting to buy the place.”
“The studio is yours, and I can’t tell you what to do with it, but if I were you, I’d sell it.”
“Mom—” I begin, about to have the same conversation with her that I’ve had a hundred times before. Selling it is not what Gram wanted, and I’d never go against her wishes. Ever.
“Your grandmother was too sentimental,” she says, cutting me off.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as we rehash this for the umpteenth time. What is it that Einstein said about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Yeah, that’s insanity, and so is arguing with my mother. She’ll never see things my way, and I’ll never see them hers.
“I’ll let you know what the realtor says,” I tell her, and then we end the call.
I’m off the cottage access lane and back on the main road by the time we hang up. The snow begins to fall a bit heavier, and I turn on my wipers and drive to the car return place in town. Once I finish up, I walk along the water and hug myself tighter. I might have to dig one of Gram’s coats out, even if it is going to be three sizes too big.
My hair and clothes are wet from the big fluffy flakes by the time I reach the B&B. There are fresh tire tracks in the snow, but whoever came home has left already. I kick off my shoes, peel off my wet sweater, and shove the lawyer’s letters into my desk drawer. A noise sounds from upstairs, and I straighten.
“Hello,” I say and listen carefully. There were no cars in the driveway, just fresh tracks, so I don’t think anyone is back unless they walked here from the shore like I did. I steal a glance at the clock. It’s three in the afternoon, and they’d all likely still be at work, right? I move to the end of the banister and listen again. I hear another big bang, and I back up.
“Anyone there?”
When I don’t get an answer, I take a few small steps away from the stairs.
“Probably mice.”
Hopefully Nate can take care of that when he gets back. I’m about to close the front closet door—Gram hated it open—but stop abruptly. How did this white coat get here? It definitely wasn’t here earlier. Gram only ever wore dark colors, so it can’t be hers. A small laugh bubbles up inside me along with a memory. Gram said white clothes were a canvas for an artist—meaning every time she wore white, she spilled something on it. Eventually she only bought dark colors.
Well, wouldn’t you know. It’s exactly my size.
As I slip my arms into it, I spot another pickle jar on the credenza, a couple of tens in it. Have they really taken up a coat fund for me? I don’t know whether to smile or shout. I can buy my own coat. Cripes, I’ve been taking care