Page 17 of A Good Egg

I paced before the harbor-view window, watching fishing boats return in the golden light of late afternoon. Pink-tinged clouds reflected on the water's surface, creating a tranquility that contrasted sharply with my inner turmoil.

"They're... resilient," I replied, choosing my words carefully. "The granddaughter is spearheading a renovation of the old barn into a café. She believes it can generate enough revenue to satisfy the bank."

Victor's derisive laugh crackled through the phone. "A café? In a barn? That's what's standing between us and a multi-million dollar development?"

"It's more organized than it sounds," I admitted, recalling my recent visit to The Little Red Hen. The memory of Maisie's flashing eyes and passionate defense lingered uncomfortably."They have local support. The town seems invested in their success."

"Since when do you care about local sentiment?" Victor's voice sharpened with suspicion. "You've never let community resistance affect a deal before. Remember that historic theater in Providence? The family-owned grocery in Hartford?"

My stomach tightened at the comparison. Those had been different—failing businesses holding prime real estate, their owners ready to retire. This was... I wasn't sure what this was anymore.

"The situations aren't equivalent," I countered. "The O'Malleys have deep roots in Starlight Bay, and the granddaughter is remarkably determined."

"Determined?" Victor seized on my phrasing. "Are we talking about business or something else, Logan? Because it sounds like you might be developing a personal interest in this situation."

"That's absurd," I replied too quickly. "I'm simply reporting the challenges to acquiring the property."

"Then overcome them," he snapped. "That's what I pay you for. If direct purchase isn't working, look for vulnerabilities. Construction permits, health department approvals, equipment financing—anything this amateur restaurateur might have overlooked. Create obstacles, make her stumble."

"You want me to actively sabotage their business venture?" The request made me pause, a line I hadn't anticipated crossing.

"I want you to ensure our development proceeds as planned," Victor clarified smoothly. "How you accomplish that is your concern. Just remember, the partnership committeemeets the Tuesday after Easter. Your future with Sheffield & Associates hangs in the balance."

The call ended, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth. I'd always prided myself on aggressive but ethical business practices. Finding advantage in market conditions was one thing; deliberately creating failure was another entirely. Yet the partnership I'd chased for five years now hinged on securing this property by any means necessary.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, cradling my head in my hands. When had this straightforward acquisition become so complicated? The answer surfaced immediately: the moment I'd met Maisie O'Malley.

My mind drifted to memories of my parents' divorce, the ugliness of it still sharp after two decades. "Sentimental value doesn't hold up in court,” I remembered overhearing one of the lawyers say.

I'd learned that lesson well, building my career on cool rationality rather than emotional attachment. Property was an asset, nothing more—a principle that had served me flawlessly until now. Until Starlight Bay. Until the O'Malley farm with its apple orchard, its weathered red barn, and its inhabitants who refused to see reason.

Restless, I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs. The Starlight Inn's common room was empty except for the elderly proprietor, who glanced up from her needlework as I passed.

"Headed out to enjoy our spring evening, Mr. Westbrook?" she inquired with the friendly nosiness typical of small-town innkeepers.

"Just getting some air," I replied noncommittally.

"If you're looking for a nice walk, the path along Orchard Lane is lovely this time of year. The wild plum trees are just starting to bloom."

Orchard Lane—the road to the O'Malley farm. I wondered if her suggestion was coincidental or deliberate.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, stepping out into the evening.

The air carried the complex scent of spring in a coastal town—salt water, emerging blossoms, and rich earth. Starlight Bay's main street bustled with early evening activity, storefronts illuminated against the deepening blue sky. The holiday decorations had multiplied since my arrival—pastel garlands strung between lamp posts, shop windows featuring rabbits and chicks, a banner announcing the upcoming Easter festival.

I found myself drawn toward Orchard Lane almost involuntarily, my rental car navigating the now-familiar route without conscious direction. I told myself it was merely professional diligence—assessing the competition, gathering more data. But the hollow feeling in my chest suggested more complicated motives.

The O'Malley farmhouse stood dark except for a light in what I assumed was the kitchen. No sign of Nora's silhouette. The driveway held a truck—likely belonging to the handyman I'd seen working on the renovations. But light spilled from the barn's windows, warm and inviting against the twilight.

I parked some distance away and approached on foot, telling myself I would just take a quick peek at their progress before heading back to town.

The barn's side door stood slightly ajar, voices and music drifting through the gap. I edged closer, peering through the narrow opening. The interior had been transformed since myconfrontation with Maisie days earlier. The walls glowed with fresh yellow paint, like captured sunshine. Pendant lights hung from the exposed beams, casting a warm glow over the evolving space.

Maisie stood on a ladder, carefully applying paint to a high section of wall, her hair pulled into a mass of red curls springing from the knot on top of her head. She wore faded jeans with paint-splattered knees and a green flannel shirt with rolled sleeves, revealing slender arms toned by farm work. Piper danced around the floor below, arranging checkered tablecloths on several rustic wooden tables that hadn't been there during my last visit.

"I still can't believe you found these at the flea market," Maisie called down to her friend. "Eight matching farm tables for that price is a miracle."

"The vendor was closing his antique store," Piper replied, smoothing a cloth with practiced hands. "Called it divine intervention when I mentioned it was for The Little Red Hen. Said his mother used to visit your grandparents' farm to go apple-picking as a girl."

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