And then there was the possibility of her partnership within Bauer Events. The very real chance she could be sent to London. More distance, more time away.

Yet she and Leith were adults, not kids with a world of unknown spread out at their feet. They were more grounded now, more passionate and reasonable. Maybe it would work. So she’d agreed to try, and told him so, and prayed that it would be enough.

The Thistle’s front door opened and Ainsley bounced out, wearing a two-piece bathing suit covered in sequins over her flat chest. Denim shorts just barely covered her bottom and her flip-flops had even more sparkles on them. A beach towel swung over her shoulders.

“Hey, Aunt Jen.”

“And where are you going, Sparkly McGee?”

“T and Lacey are working at the pool and I wanted to go say hi.”

The local pool was still open? Ten years ago it had been nothing more than a concrete hole in the ground, and Jen doubted it had changed much in her absence. She pictured T and Lacey snapping gum behind the stainless steel counter of the snack stand.

It worried her that Ainsley was going to go see Owen and Melissa’s girls when it sounded like she’d invited herself. It worried her that her niece was attaching herself to older girls whose connection to her could very well snap at any moment.

Jen tousled a wave of Ainsley’s dark blond hair. “What happened to Bryan and his slingshot?”

Ainsley made a thoroughly confused face. “I’m not bringing Bryan to the pool.”

Jen smiled, though it felt forced. “How silly of me.”

Ainsley walked down the sidewalk, doing a little dance and snapping her fingers to some song Jen couldn’t hear.

“You’re back in town,” came Aimee’s voice from the front steps. “Looks like I’ll win that bet.”

Jen turned to her sister. “What bet?”

Aimee crossed her arms and wore an inscrutable expression. “Whether or not you’d come back again from New York. I knew you would. Vera wasn’t so sure.”

Jen pulled the gate shut and latched it behind her. “The trip to the city was worth it. Everything’s falling into place for the games.”

“Come on in and tell me about it.”

As they entered the kitchen, which was filled with the sweet scent of vanilla French toast batter, Jen told Aimee about Shea Montgomery’s whiskey tent and how Duncan had called earlier this morning to tell her more about the group of heavy athletes he’d rounded up at the last minute to compete this weekend. None of them were pros, but Jen didn’t care. There would be enthusiastic bodies on the field, throwing heavy weights around, and that’s all that mattered.

“There was a rumor that Chris’s band wasn’t going to play?” Aimee dipped slabs of white bread into the egg batter and set them to sizzling on the hot skillet.

Jen frowned. “Where’d you hear that? I may have teased him a bit, but I’m not about to turn them down. I love their sound, they’re local, Chris seems really excited. Man, he can play that fiddle, can’t he?”

Aimee shrugged. “It’s just what I heard. There was that fight over at their house a few months back, and then Chris moved out. The sheriff said there was trouble at his bandmates’ place two nights back; I thought maybe they’d broken up. Guess not, though.”

Jen vowed to look into it.

She turned in her chair and realized what was different about the Thistle. The plastic work drapes in the front sitting room had been taken down, and the new drywall was up and taped. The furniture was covered, the room ready for the paint cans stationed around the perimeter to be opened. The place would be finished by that weekend, just in time for the Scottish Society president to stay here.

“Wow,” Jen said, impressed. “Owen works fast.”

Aimee’s voice pitched low. “Only when he has to.”

Jen winced and turned back around, but said nothing. Sex had never been something the sisters talked about, not even in playful terms. Maybe because it had been such a big deal because of Frank’s constant cheating. Maybe because it had gotten Aimee into such trouble when she was younger.

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.”