Page 29 of A Good Egg

Easter morning broke crisp and vibrant over Starlight Bay. I ignored Victor's incoming call—his ultimatum could wait. Today belonged to The Little Red Hen and the woman who'd not only upended my carefully constructed worldview but climbed the walls I’d built around my heart, planting herself in the soft soil that still remained within.

I dressed thoughtfully—a blue button-down and tailored slacks. When I arrived at the O'Malley farm, organized chaos greeted me. Vehicles lined the gravel drive, volunteers bustled about with last-minute preparations, and teenage servers practiced their routines under Piper's enthusiastic direction. Carter adjusted a hand-carved wooden sign while Nora arranged fresh wildflowers in mason jars.

Then Maisie appeared from the kitchen, and everything else receded.

Her green dress complemented the red-hen patterned apron tied at her waist. Wisps of copper hair framed her face, escaped from their practical arrangement. Flour dusted one cheek, and nervous excitement sparkled in her eyes. When she spotted me, she smiled and warmth flooded my body.

"You're early," she said, approaching with a basket of freshly baked goods whose aroma alone could have drawn customers from miles away.

"Wouldn't miss this moment." I resisted the urge to brush the flour from her cheek. "The transformation is remarkable."

Pride tinged her voice. "We're actually ready."

"More than ready," I assured her. "This place is exceptional."

Before she could respond, Piper materialized between us. "Ten minutes to opening! Positions, everyone!"

At precisely nine, Nora unlocked the double doors, and The Little Red Hen welcomed its inaugural guests. Sunshine streamed through freshly cleaned windows, illuminating the rustic charm of the town’s new breakfast café as customers poured in—locals curious about the farm's new venture, weekenders from Boston, families dressed in Easter finery.

I found myself serving as impromptu host, guiding guests to tables while servers distributed coffee and juice. The barn's metamorphosis drew universal admiration—simple elegance created from salvaged materials, vintage egg baskets suspended from rafters, colorful blooms brightening each table.

Henrietta made her grand entrance mid-morning, prancing through the side entrance with imperial dignity and pausing to accept gentle attention from children and adults alike.

"Is the chicken scheduled entertainment?" asked a pearl-wearing woman with a Boston accent.

"Our quality control supervisor," I explained with mock solemnity. "She's quite discerning."

Henrietta chose that moment to approach the woman, tilting her head in consideration before offering what soundedremarkably like approval. The woman laughed with genuine delight, clasping her hands.

"How utterly charming! Nothing like this in the city."

Similar reactions echoed throughout the morning as plate after plate emerged from the kitchen—golden omelets flecked with herbs harvested that morning, blueberry pancakes glistening with local maple syrup, biscuits that redefined what bread could aspire to be. Laughter and the steady clink of utensils filled the space.

Arthur Jenkins—the bank manager whose deadlines had caused so much anxiety—arrived with his family around eleven. I observed his conversation with Nora, noting how initial tension melted into what appeared to be genuine respect as he surveyed the bustling restaurant.

"Good signs?" I asked Nora as she passed.

"He's impressed," she confided, relief softening the lines around her eyes. "Says if we maintain even half this business, he'll restructure the loan terms."

The morning crowd gave way to eager lunch patrons, the café's popularity showing no signs of waning. Maisie emerged briefly during a lull, fatigue and triumph mingling in her expression.

"We might actually pull this off," she whispered as our paths crossed.

"I think you already have," I replied proudly, leaning forward to kiss her rosy cheek.

Something crystallized in that moment—and my path forward became suddenly, perfectly clear.

Stepping outside, I made a brief call, reaching Victor's voicemail. "This is Logan Westbrook. I'm resigning from Sheffield & Associates, effective immediately. The O'Malleyacquisition will not proceed under my direction or anyone else's if I have anything to say about it. I'll clear my office by the end of the week."

Fifteen years of corporate ambition, released in thirty seconds. The lightness that followed was almost physical.

Back inside, the café's success was undeniable. Carter had assumed hosting duties to give Nora a break. Servers bustled efficiently between kitchen and dining room. Henrietta had settled regally in a corner, apparently satisfied with her inspection.

I caught Maisie's eye across the room and signaled my intent. She joined me moments later as I tapped a spoon against my water glass.

"May I have your attention?" Conversations quieted as faces turned toward us. "For those who don't know me, my name is Logan Westbrook. Many of you realize I originally came to Starlight Bay representing Sheffield & Associates, a commercial real estate firm, intending to purchase the O'Malley farm and bulldoze the existing structures for new development."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd—recognition from some, surprise from others.

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