Unforgettable (Page 54)

As I walk back to the B&B, I remember the letter she wrote me, telling me to follow my heart. My life was so different then, back in New York City. I was so caught up in following the path I thought was right for me. I couldn’t see another version of life, but she did. She knew what I needed better than I did myself. And now here I am, right where she knew I’d belong.

I feel a wistful ache. It’s a clear night, the stars bright in the sky, and the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore. The only thing that would make it better is if Nana was right here with me to share in the celebration and joy.

But maybe she is, somehow.

I’m comforted by the thought. Whenever I walk down these streets she knew so well, or pull down her old recipe books, I know there’s a part of her watching over me; a memory that lives on, in every satisfied guest or batch of famous cinnamon rolls. As I turn up the pathway to the house, and unlock the front door, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude that she brought me here—and that I can stay, continuing her legacy.

Then I open the door, and step straight into a torrent of cold water.

The house is completely flooded.

21.

Rose Cottage is ruined.

By the time I wade upstairs and find the burst pipe in one of the guest bedrooms, it’s already way too late. I’ve been out all day: campaigning with Dad, attending the big meeting, and celebrating at the bar all night. If I had been here sooner, maybe I could have stopped the damage, but after twelve hours of cold water gushing out into the house, the place is well and truly flooded. Worst of all, the ceiling in the living room gave way under the weight of water, crushing the couch in a litter of plaster, debris, and splintered joists.

“I see it in these older houses all the time,” the emergency plumber says sympathetically. He’s just shut off the water main, and helped me turn off the power too. “The pipes get frozen every winter, and expand in the spring, year after year. The metal corrodes, and, well, here you have it.”

He looks around. The entire ground floor is under three inches of water, and it’s still trickling down the stairs. “I can call in an industrial hose, get the rest of this water suctioned out of here, but it’ll take a few days. And cost you,” he adds.

“Fine,” I reply, too exhausted to protest. I’ve been up all night trying to bail it out by hand, and salvage whatever furniture I can from the water. “Whenever you can make it.”

I’ve barely had time to process his words—or emergency call-out bill—when the Petersons call me aside. “We’ll be heading out now, sweetheart,” Nancy tells me. Luckily, their room wasn’t flooded too badly, and their luggage was untouched. But of course, there’s no way I can keep guests here without power or proper plumbing. I’ve already cancelled the families who were arriving this weekend, and now the Petersons are heading home early.

I shake my head. “I’m just sorry you had to cut your trip short.”

“That’s OK, we had a wonderful time.” She gives me a warm hug. “We hope you get this mess sorted out soon.”

“Me too.” I force a smile. “I’m sure it’ll be fine!”

I help them load up their car, and watch them drive away. My head is spinning with all the things I have to do to get the B&B back running again. New plumbing, replacing the ruined furniture, rebuilding the ceiling and floors…! I’ve already drained my savings to make the cosmetic upgrades; I was banking on a full summer season to break even. I can’t afford any of this, not in a million years. Nana had insurance, sure, but I have no idea how much of the damage they’ll cover, or how long it’ll take.

I’m totally and completely screwed.

I force myself to go inside and take stock of the damage. Upstairs is completely flooded: every guest room under inches of water; the antique rugs and carpet all ruined. There’s a weird smell too, like the water that came gushing out the busted pipes wasn’t all too clean.

I gulp. Just like the plumber warned me, the wet boards are spongey underfoot. Water’s been soaking through all day, and downstairs, the dining area and kitchen has huge wet patches on the ceiling and soaking down the walls.

And then there’s the massive hole in the living room ceiling.

It looks like a tornado’s torn through: all Nana’s photos smashed, and her hand-stitched quilts in a wet, dirty pile. I was just lucky nothing else came crashing down, but I can’t find it in me to feel relieved when I’m faced with such devastation. The hours I spent repainting, the new furnishings I picked out so carefully—it’s all for nothing now.

Totally ruined.

Tears come, hot and pained in the corner of my eyes, but I can’t cry yet. If I do, I don’t think I’ll ever stop. Instead, I grab a couple of trash bags and start picking up the broken pieces of plaster and wood, focusing on the task in front of me, and not the massive uncertainty and fear looming just out of reach.

What do I do now?

If only I’d seen the dripping faucet as the warning sign it truly was. These pipes must be ancient by now, but I didn’t think twice about needing a proper plumber in, or someone to check the building. I just assumed everything would be OK. How naive could I be?

I wanted so badly to preserve Rose Cottage, but now it’s damaged beyond all repair.

I failed her. I took my grandmother’s amazing gift, and I ruined it.