Page 21 of A Good Egg

"We're not losing anything," I declared, standing to pour us both coffee. "The café opens Easter weekend. Starlight Bay is already buzzing about it, Piper's social media campaign is generating reservations, and Carter says we'll pass the final inspection next week."

Gram's expression remained skeptical. "And if it's not enough? If we can't make the payment in time?"

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, a comforting counterpoint to the anxiety filling my chest. Through the window, I could see Henrietta strutting importantly across the yard, pausing occasionally to inspect something only she found fascinating.

"Then we'll figure something out," I promised, setting a steaming mug before her. "O'Malleys don't give up, remember? You taught me that."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Using my own wisdom against me, are you?"

"Only when necessary." I joined her at the table, warming my hands around my mug. "Besides, we have a long line of stubborn Irish farmers watching over us. They wouldn't let us fail."

"Your grandfather would be proud of you, Maisie Grace," Gram said softly. "He always said you had the heart of an O'Malley, even if you were off chasing city dreams for a while."

It was true—I’d spent years convinced I was building something real with Brad, only to discover the foundation was nothing but quicksand. Now, with The Little Red Hen, I was attempting to construct something far more substantial—yet unfortunately, equally vulnerable to forces beyond my control.

"I'm where I'm supposed to be now," I told her, pushing my ominous thoughts aside. "And we're going to save this farm, one omelet at a time."

After breakfast, I headed out to the barn, relishing the salty morning air without a trace of smog or other noxious substance.

Carter was already there, inspecting the newly installed ventilation system. He straightened as I entered, wiping his large hands on a rag.

"Morning," he greeted me. "Just finishing up the last of the major repairs. Your restaurant can officially function without violating seven different building codes."

"Carter, you're a miracle worker." I beamed, surveying his handiwork. "I can't believe how much you've accomplished in such a short time."

He shrugged, though his eyes twinkled with pride. "Called in some favors. Turns out lots of folks around here don’t want to see your sweet grandma lose her farm."

The community's support had been overwhelming—from the expedited permits (thanks to Mayor Reeves, who was in Gram’s weekly canasta group) to the discounted kitchen equipment (courtesy of a restaurant supply company owned by Carter's nephew). It seemed everyone in Starlight Bay had contributed something to The Little Red Hen's creation.

"We still have so much to do," I sighed, consulting the dwindling timeline on my phone. "Menu testing, staff training, final decorations..."

"One step at a time," Carter advised, packing up his tools. "Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was any decent eatery."

"Rome had more than twelve days before the bank foreclosed," I muttered.

"True enough." He clasped my shoulder briefly. "But Rome didn't have you running the show, either."

After he left, I spent the morning arranging the vintage-style shelving behind the counter, visualizing how we'd display our canned preserves and baked goods. The colorful tablecloths brightened the space, complemented by mason jars I'd filled with pussy willows and early spring flowers. Rustic accents—most donated by townspeople who'd apparently been collecting chicken knickknacks for decades—adorned the walls and countertops. Despite the looming pressure, I smiled.

Piper arrived around noon with sandwiches and an update on our social media campaign. "We're up to seventy-eight reservations for Easter brunch," she announced, spreading lunch across one of the farm tables. "Not bad for a café that doesn't technically exist yet."

"Seventy-eight?" I nearly choked on my first bite. "Piper, we only have twelve tables!"

"So we'll do multiple seatings," she replied with breezy confidence. "It's called being in demand, darling. Embrace your destiny."

As if summoned by the scent of food, Henrietta appeared through the side door I'd left ajar. She settled herself regally beneath the table, where she could optimize her chances of catching fallen crumbs.

"Our quality control officer is on duty," I remarked, tearing off a piece of bread crust and offering it to her. She accepted my tribute with haughty appreciation.

"Speaking of quality," Piper said, her expression turning mischievous, "I saw your handsome developer in town this morning. He was asking about local suppliers for restaurant-grade equipment."

My heart performed an unexpected flutter. "He's not 'my' developer."

"Really? Because ever since your little evening chat, you get all flushed whenever his name comes up." She leaned forward, eyes sparkling with interest. "Spill it, girl. What exactly happened after I so tactfully gave you privacy?"

"Nothing happened," I insisted, though the memory of Logan's unexpected honesty during our conversation still lingered. "We talked. That's all."

"Uh-huh." Piper's skepticism was palpable. "And this 'talk' is why you've been checking your phone every five minutes ever since?”

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