Perfection was impossible with a house that was over a hundred years old. She knew this. But still, how much more work would it have been for the painters to have replaced the damaged trim piece rather than to just slap a couple coats of paint onto it? Especially when she’d been willing to pay to have it made right?

Bodie asked, “You’ve had someone inspect the foundation?”

“Structurally, the house is sound.” Or so said the architect she’d consulted prior to her embarking on her dream of turning Hamilton House into a B & B. The gentleman was a local, a friend of her father’s, and hadn’t charged her a penny even though she’d tried to pay him.

She’d needed all the help she could get since she didn’t know anything about foundations, architecture, electrical wiring, or plumbing. She just knew she loved this house, had loved visiting her aunt Jean every afternoon when she’d gotten out of school and staying with her during summer breaks while her father was at work. Aunt Jean had taught her so many things—how to cook, to sew, to quilt—and had encouraged her love of reading, her love of serving others.

Oh, how she missed Aunt Jean.

“I’ve gotten a lot done over the past year, including an unbelievable amount of paperwork to make sure I have all the right permits and licenses. I’ve been able to do that end of things myself. On the physical repairs, I’ve worked on what I can, but it needs a lot more. Much more than I can afford to give, really.” The sooner she got it up and running, the better. “My goal is to have the downstairs looking sharp by Christmas, which will be”—hopefully, and depending upon him—“the grand opening of Hamilton House Bed and Breakfast.”

She loved saying the name out loud. It made her dream seem more real. Aunt Jean’s dream.

“As the bed and breakfast takes off, I’ll do renovations to the upstairs rooms and get them rent-ready.”

Renovations that would include replacing furniture her aunt had sold off over the years for financial reasons. Sarah had found a ledger in which her aunt had kept records of each piece and who she’d sold it to. An antique store in Louisville had purchased most of the pieces initially, but over the last few years her aunt had sold only to an entry marked as “B.”

Sarah’s heart ached at the permanent loss of the lovely antique pieces her aunt had once owned. Antiques Sarah had treasured and that had been a part of her childhood. Pretending she was mistress of the house, she would go from room to room imagining that she was hosting elaborate dinner parties and balls. She could vividly recall the grandeur of each room—the lavish decor, the tapestries on the walls, the rich woods of the sturdy furniture.

Once upon a time, Hamilton House, as she’d dubbed it as a child, had been a gorgeous home that could’ve been snatched straight out of a movie. Unfortunately, Roy Hamilton had gone to serve in the Vietnam War and had never come back. He’d left his teen bride in his family home with his elderly parents, a well-to-do couple who’d lived with Aunt Jean until their passing. He’d left his young widow well-off financially by 1960s standards, to the point where she’d never had to work. But neither one of them could have predicted the twists and turns of the financial market, or how that would impact Jean’s situation. As the years had passed, so had the money, apparently.