The Choices I've Made (By the Bay #1)

Chapter Two: Molly

"Ah, well, I'm sure they're proud of you all the same. You're a good girl," she said plainly, making me feel like the tiny young thing she'd described moments earlier rather than a grown woman of nearly thirty.

We said our good-byes, and I headed back to the house. Although it was still relatively quiet on the island, I did have a few guests lingering about the property, and I wanted to get a head start on breakfast in the morning.

Pulling up to the house gave me a sense of peace. I might have had an odd sort of childhood, meeting new strangers week after week, but this place, with its weathered gray cedar siding and bright red door, would always be home.

Grabbing the produce from the back of my worn pickup, I headed for the back door, hoping to give my guests time to enjoy their lazy day without me getting in the way.

Being an innkeeper was a tricky business. Too much interaction with those staying in the house, and they felt awkward and out of place. Too little, and...well, pretty much the same outcome. It was a balancing act. One I'd perfected in the year since my parents' retirement. Not that it stopped them from coming by the house every now and then to check up on things.

And by now and then, I really meant, every day.

Every single day.

Why couldn't they just have retired to Florida like normal parents and bothered my younger sister for a change?

It had become an ongoing joke between us but one I knew would sting if they ever really did leave. As much as it annoyed me to see their two little gray heads poking about, I knew I'd be lost without them. And, as I rounded the corner into the large kitchen bright with the afternoon sun, I shook my head at my predictable intruders.

"Back so soon?" I said, noticing my mom was already elbow deep in bread dough.

Flour covered the marble countertops as she made it entirely by hand. It was a sight I'd seen hundreds of times in my life.

"Your dad wanted a scone and I knew you'd have some left over from breakfast." She shrugged, barely glancing in my direction, as she continued to work on the dough, kneading it with care, as she'd done for decades.

I could see the changes, the need for her and my father's retirement. Mom was slower now as she placed the dough in a clear bowl to rise. There was determination where it had once been second nature. Her hands looked smaller, frailer.

Yet she still showed up, wanting to carry on the tasks she'd reluctantly passed on to me. Neither of them had wanted to move on, and it had taken years of convincing them that I was ready.

But my time was finally here.

I smiled, knowing she was lying through her teeth about my father needing a scone, as I caught a glimpse of him through the window, dangling on the hammock. His eyes were closed, mouth hanging open, as he enjoyed his afternoon nap.

"A scone, huh?" I replied, setting down several jars of jam and the bag of tomatoes I'd bought.

"Yes," she sighed dramatically as she placed the dough in the industrial-sized refrigerator.

"You know, they have amazing scones at the coffee shop down the road from your cottage, right? And, last time I checked, I don't seem to recall bread dough as a necessary ingredient."

She could hear the obvious laughter in my tone and turned around quickly, dirty hands and all.

"Okay, fine," she admitted. "I wanted to come over and visit, and maybe bake up a loaf of bread. Is it so wrong of me to want to see my eldest daughter? I mean, soon, you're going to have Dean around here to help with all these things."