“I’m not opening this place. I’m selling it.” When she was selling it remained to be seen, but she was selling it.

Pearl blinked. “But I thought…” She closed her mouth, seeming to think better of what she’d been going to say. Some more blinking happened. “Eve, will you excuse me?”

“Of course.” Eve looked around for S—No. She looked around for her parents.

She’d thought earlier that the whole town had come to Lucille’s wake, but that wasn’t entirely correct. The whole town had come except for Sawyer Collins. Not that she cared.

Not that she wanted him here.

She wanted her parents. Because theirs were the opinions she cared about, more than the lawyers’, more than the town busybodies’.

She got her wish, but not for another hour. Not until she’d accepted casseroles and carrot cakes and fended off opinions about plumbing and parking.

She collapsed onto a stool at the big island in the kitchen as her mom portioned the remaining food into freezer bags.

It was strange having them here. Her dad was Lucille’s nephew and the person who had always taken care of her affairs, since Lucille didn’t have kids. But he’d been in his twenties when Lucille bought the inn. And Eve’s parents worked a lot—which was why they’d sent Eve here in the summers. So they’d never really spent time here aside from the odd weekend visit.

Having them here was like having them in her home. Except not. Because this wasn’t her home. Her home was a tiny apartment in Toronto.

Her dad laid a hand on her shoulder. “How are you doing?”

For the second time in as many days, Eve burst into tears.

She was just so overwhelmed.

They hugged her, one from each side, and let her cry. Eventually she calmed down and told them the story of the will. What it said. What the fancy Toronto lawyer said.

“Sweetie,” her mom said, “you know we’re behind you, whatever you want to do.” She looked at Eve’s dad. “Maybe we can loan you the money for the lawyer, and you can pay us back when you sell the inn.”

“No way.” It was a generous offer, but she was not taking their money. Her parents weren’t at risk of being out on the street or anything, but they didn’t have extra money rolling around. They had worked hard their whole lives—they still did. Her mom was a seamstress, and her dad was a security guard at a condo building.

“I once looked at Lucille’s will,” her dad said, “and there was nothing in it about you except a minor bequest.”

“But that was probably fifteen years ago,” her mom said. “Eve was just a kid then.”

“The lawyer here says she redid it nine years ago,” Eve said.