Page 1 of The Sugar Maple Inn

One

Grace

Some Sundays you chase your dreams. Other Sundays your dreams get hijacked by unreliable servers and last-minute catering emergencies.

Grace was having the second kind of Sunday.

“Grace, honey, where are the extra napkins?” her mother Mabel called from across the kitchen of Blossoms & Brew. Grace knew that tone. It carried a distinctive note of “we’re understaffed, over-committed and about to serve lunch to people who think patience is an optional extra.”

“Linen closet, top shelf. Same as always,” Grace called back, balancing a tray of maple-glazed butternut squash tartlets while tying her apron.

“Don’t sass me, young lady. You’re lucky, you know. These people tip more in an afternoon than most folks see in a month.”

“Oh yes, very lucky,” Grace shot back. “Three hours of serving tiny food to people who probably think ‘rustic charm’ is something you order online with next-day delivery.”

Her mother gave her a withering look.

Grace wished she’d just said no when Mabel called that morning, voice vibrating with stress because their usual weekend server had mysteriously vanished. She should have claimed she was busy, which, technically, she was since that loan application form was still glaring at her from her kitchen table, half-finished and judgmental.

But family was family, even when that meant sacrificing her one weekend off in a month to serve at a rich-boy soiree.

“Remember, these are important people, Grace,” Mabel said. “The kind who remember good service.”

“Yes, I remember, you’ve only told me ten million times.”

“And keep that attitude of yours in check out there,” Mabel continued, trying to tidy up Grace’s pink-tipped hair as Grace batted her hand away.

“I always do!”

Her mother gave her another look. “Honey, you once told that businessman from Elmsworth Falls his tie looked like roadkill.” Mabel put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “I mean it, Grace, behave. Promise me?”

Grace sighed. “I promise.”

“Good. Now get out there, they’re waiting.”

Grace took a deep breath then headed out of the kitchen, weaving through the café. Blossoms & Brew was closed to the public that afternoon for the private networking event, the event host covering their usual Sunday-afternoon takings…and then some. The café had thrown itself completely into autumn mode. Pumpkins everywhere: fat orange ones on the windowsills, white heirlooms clustered by the door, tiny decorative gourds scattered across every available surface like someone had shaken them from a bag. Mason jars wrapped in burlap held pillar candles that flickered on every table, their flames dancing behind glass. Cinnamon-scented pinecones filled a wooden bowl by the register. But it all felt strange without its regular crowd. No chess players in the window nook, no knitting circle taking up the big table. Just vintage teacups catching the light from tall windows, the worn wooden counter she’d wiped down a thousand times, that ancient map of Solace Lake her mother insisted was “charming” even though half the marks were coffee stains.

Grace pushed through the side door and into the courtyard. It was a cozy patchwork of brick and wood, a firepit blazing even in the afternoon light, woodsmoke curling up past the deck railing where corn stalks tied with plaid ribbon framed the entrance. The tall tables scattered across the decking had been dressed for the season too, with small pumpkins clustered at their centers, surrounded by acorns and crimson leaves.

As Grace stepped onto the wooden planks, wind instantly gusted around her, the strands of hair her mother had smoothed off her face escaping, those crimson leaves lifting in the air.

Good start, good start.

She peered at distant clouds. Looked like rain was threatening. But despite this, Solace Springs in October really was quite something to behold. The cherry trees around the café blazed gold and red, their leaves dancing down toward the wooden decking in the wind. In the middle of Solace Lake, Maple Island was flaunting itself, those maple trees a riot of saffron and scarlet. Rising from all that fall perfection was the stone and ivy tower of the inn that occupied the island’s center.

Grace let herself stare for a moment, the familiar ache settling deep in her ribs.

Soon, she promised herself. Real soon.

Grace had been obsessing over The Maple Inn ever since the Blackwells put it up for sale three months ago. She could see it all: cozy guest rooms with handmade quilts, a dining room serving maple syrup pancakes made from scratch, rocking chairs on the wraparound porch where visitors could watch the sunrise over the water.

It would take every penny of her savings and a loan that made her break out in cold sweats. But it would be hers. Or, more accurately, theirs because it would be a legacy for her son, Zach, too. It was time to stop serving her mother’s dreams and start creating her own.

But how was that possible when the time she carved out to do just that was hijacked all the time? Story of her life, really.

Her phone buzzed. She pulled it from her apron pocket, smiling when she saw it was a Reddit message from WildTrailGuide:

If it feels like punishment, you’re finally learning something worth knowing. Find the angle, turn it to your advantage. You need that garden center, right?