“What? Get a few tchotchkes? Piece of cake. The wall colors are all picked out. What’s hard about finding a few ceramic cats, some glass candy dishes, and a basket or two for magazines? Then you’ll only need a bunch of paintings for the walls. The kind of stuff that looks like the island.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds, but . . .” and right then an idea popped into her head. “You’re brilliant, Earl. But let’s not just make it look like the island . . . Let’s make it be the island.” She jumped up, dashed into her bedroom, then returned with the tote bag she’d brought to the festival meeting. Fumbling through the contents, she found the sheet of paper she wanted.

Earl watched her as he chewed on the roll.

“Twelve,” she said with a broad smile.

His spikey gray eyebrows elevated. “Care to elaborate?”

“Artists. Twelve artists are registered for this year’s artisan festivals. Maybe they’ll be willing to donate a couple of their favorite pieces to the Inn. We could offer them for sale, and rotate them around the guest rooms and the common areas. We’ll be promoting the Vineyard and hopefully generating business for the artists, while we get to adorn our walls with authentic island creations. In our ads and on social media we can say the Inn is decorated in ‘Vineyard natural.’” As she said the last words, she raised her arms and stretched them apart in elongated air quotes. “What do you think?”

“I think your game of ping-pong has a winner.”

“It will save us lots of money, Earl. We’ll be able to cut a good chunk out of the decorating budget.”

“Now you’re talking. Because Lord knows, we’re pretty much out of cash.”

She wondered how bad the finances had become, then she chose to trust that Earl and Kevin knew what they were doing. After all, she’d only ever been an elementary school teacher. What did she know about the cost of building? “Maybe Donna would like to help.”

“Donna?”

“My mother. Birth mother.”

Earl nodded. “Right. I keep forgetting her name. Kevin always calls her ‘Mom.’”

“That’s understandable.”

Earl scratched his day-old beard. “Do you think you ever will? Call her ‘Mom’?”

Annie laughed because she didn’t know what to say. Then she leaped out of the chair, cried “Coffee!” and scooted to the stove where the pot had finished its dutiful, old-school percolating.

* * *