Aimee set the butter and powdered sugar on the table. No syrup on French toast in this house—a little quirk Aunt Bev had taught them that they’d both carried through to adulthood.
Jen changed the subject. “Oh, I have other good news.” And she told Aimee all about Bobbie and the craft convention now set for March. Jen had called Bobbie on her way back from New York to tell her everything, and Jen could have sworn the older woman had gotten a little choked up. The thing was a go, and Jen couldn’t have been more excited for her and for Gleann.
Aimee’s spatula, piled with three slices of French toast, stopped halfway to Jen’s plate. “All those people coming for it will need places to stay.”
Jen grinned. “Exactly. They’ll need lots of things. I was going to talk to Sue about it later, after our games meeting. Lodging, food, transportation—”
“Let me do it.”
The French toast plopped onto Jen’s plate and she looked up from it into her sister’s face.
“I want to do that,” Aimee said. “I want to talk to Mayor Sue about bringing in or starting those kinds of businesses.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts,’ Jen. I’ll be here long after you’re gone. I’m the one who could see that kind of thing through. I’m the one who wants to open up more B&Bs.”
Jen felt horrible for thinking it, but . . . Aimee? A business owner of something other than the Thistle, which had been practically gift wrapped for her? “You do?”
Aimee straightened. “I do. I want to own something that’s mine, that I created. I know how to run one B&B. I want to create another from my own vision.”
Jen had never seen her sister look so sure, so confident. She opened her mouth but shock prevented anything from coming out.
Aimee rolled her eyes and sat. “I know that look. The one that thinks I can’t do anything for myself.”
“Please forgive me,” Jen said, keeping calm and maintaining direct eye contact, “but experience is proof.”
“I told you I’d prove it to you, that what happened with the burst pipe and Owen wasn’t really me. That I’ve changed, that I’m a different person. This is it. My chance. Give it to me.”
Jen sat back and folded her napkin. Folded it again. “Honestly, it’s not my thing to grant or take away. I just thought that I could—”
“What? Do everything?”
Now Aimee was starting to sound like Mom. “Wait a minute. You called me here, remember?”
Aimee’s voice gentled, her eyes closing for a long blink. “I did. For the games. I know it’s in your nature; I should have seen this. But you swoop in, pick out all these other peripheral things that you think need fixing, and then take them on yourself, because you think you have all the answers.”
“Maybe I like to help. Maybe I like to see good things grow out of bad things, or out of other good things.”
The sigh Aimee let out was large enough for two people, and she lifted glistening eyes and a sad smile to the ceiling. “I know you do. I know you do.”
Was that . . . envy?
Jen started to pick at her French toast. Aunt Bev’s recipe, but somehow better because Aimee had made it, here in the kitchen that was now her own.
“Shouldn’t you be focusing on keeping the Thistle up and running,” Jen asked, “before even thinking about opening up something else?”
Aimee gave the kitchen a sweeping, loving look. “I have dreams now, too, you know.”
They ate in silence for a bit, their forks clattering on the porcelain, as Jen turned over and over in her mind all the ideas she’d had during that long drive up from New York. All the potential changes that could be made to make the town more conducive for events and tourism and marketing . . .
“I know things,” Jen said, unable to keep silent. “I know people. Let me—”
“Thank you.” Aimee set down her fork rather deliberately. “And I will probably take you up on that, too.”
Jen couldn’t deny the itch that burned just underneath her skin, that feeling of starting something and not seeing it through. Not applying her ideas, not giving input. It was like leaving dirty dishes in the sink from now until the end of time, and it made her dig her fingernails into her palms.
Then Aimee’s kind hand curled over hers. And suddenly Jen felt it: that feeling of being cared for, of being mothered. Of actually being the younger sister, and not having to act like the older one. This wasn’t a gradual role reversal over the course of years, but a turn on a dime, one that had her tripping over her own choices and actions.
“You can’t take on everything,” Aimee said. “I know you like to tell yourself that, but you can’t.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I actually have no doubt that if I hadn’t said anything today, you would’ve found a way to live and work in New York and also take on Gleann’s transformation single-handedly.”
Jen just sat there because she couldn’t deny that truth. The thought of working with Gleann to turn it around to attract potential events, and then assist in putting on those events . . . it was incredibly exciting. And it shocked the hell out of her because it was something she’d never before considered. In her mind, bigger had always been better.
Aimee released her hand and rose. “You’re my biggest influence, Jen. You always have been. You teach me, even when you aren’t here, even when you don’t know it. You saved my life.”
Holy shit.
“But don’t you get it?” Aimee continued. “Everything you’ve ever done is to get out from under Mom’s shadow. Hers is dark and horrible, and I totally get that. But you throw a shadow over me, too, sis. It’s a good shadow—it’s always protected and directed me—but it’s time I cast it aside.”
Chapter
18
The bed in the 738 Maple house was way more comfortable than the one in 740. Leith should have tested each of them out before he’d dropped his bags in Mildred’s Old Lady Museum. Or maybe this mattress was better simply because Jen was curled up next to him in it.
On cue, her eyes cracked open. Since the sun was just coming through the window, they were a sparkling, sleepy green. The color reminded him of dew on early morning grass as he arrived on site for a day’s hard work. He could get used to waking up like this.
“Hey,” she said, stretching. The sheet slipped just enough to show the outer curve of her breast. He tried not to touch and failed.
Arriving back in Gleann late last night, he hadn’t even bothered pulling his truck into 740. He’d seen Jen’s kitchen light on, her silhouette pacing behind the curtains, and swerved right into 738’s driveway. She’d actually locked the door and he’d had to knock, but when she opened the door, the metal window blinds slapping against the wood, he’d immediately been on her. Pushed her against the bad wallpaper and kissed away all her excuses about having a million things to do. Turned out that he got rid of those pretty easily.
“What do you have to do today?” he asked, pulling the sheet down to give himself free access to her perfect nipple. It tasted just as amazing as it had last night, only for some reason her high-pitched sigh sounded even better.
“Everything.” She pushed at his head. “Someone distracted me last night and I’m behind.”
He came up on an elbow above her. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” She craned her neck to look at the clock, which showed six thirty, and winced. “I’ve got to get going. Tell me about Connecticut while I get ready.”
He was struck momentarily speechless as she slid from the bed and bent over for her robe. Throwing his bare legs over the side of the bed, he pulled the sheet over his lap. “It was great. Put a deposit on a new storage facility and signed a lease for an apartment until I can find a house I love, made nice progress in the Carriage assessment and planning. Still need the official sign-off and contract, but that’ll come this weekend when I go back.”