I literally whistle as I work, dancing around as I cook to the ’80s station that Alexa is softly playing. A half hour later, I emerge to check the coffee again, and the entire living room is filled with guests, a mix of men and women of all ages, all of whom are working on their laptops even though it’s a holiday weekend. Their faces are etched in exhaustion and stress.

I think I’ve already forgotten my former life. While I now have a job that also consumes me—I mean, I can’t even leave my office—it no longer feels like work. Even the darkest days have been tinged in excitement and light.

“More coffee?” I ask.

“Thank you,” they say, barely looking up from their laptops.

I fill their cups and, a little before 8:30, I bring Alexa into the dining room and tell her to play classical music, despite last week’s run-through guests who objected, I guess, to the sound of violins.

I begin to line the buffet with chafing dishes and then bring out the food, setting explanatory nameplates before each dish: the two casseroles, the coffee cakes, fresh fruit, a pot of steel cut oatmeal, a variety of cereals, along with bacon and sausage. I place wheat, white and rye bread near a toaster, along with a variety of jams and jellies made by a local orchard and pie pantry.

I retreat back into the kitchen—other innkeepers have instructed me to let guests find their own flow—and place the remaining casseroles in the oven to bake. I crack the kitchen door and watch the guests gather for breakfast.

It’s a bit like watching students on the first day of school claim their places in the lunchroom. Some guests—like Mark and Mildred, who is already dressed and in full makeup, feathered red hat atop her head—are the first in line and first to sit at the expansive dining room table.

Other guests hold back, eyeing the crowd and the space. Some continue to sip coffee in the living room, while a few remain asleep upstairs.

“Good morning! What’s your name? Where are you from?” Mildred asks every guest who passes.

Everyone responds politely, some joining Mildred and Mark at the table. Others, I notice, are not your typical B and B patrons: they take their food and find a quiet spot elsewhere, while some whisper that they want to eat in the turret.

Many couples do not speak as they eat. Some read the newspaper or a book while their spouse stares at a cell phone. Some couples plan their itinerary for the day, writing down timelines and activities.

What a fascinating social dynamic, I think, spying on my own guests.

I step out of the kitchen to refresh the food.

“Have a seat,” a middle-aged woman named Bev says.

“Oh, thank you, but I can’t,” I say. “Too much to do.”