Page 7 of A Good Egg

The creak of the barn door interrupted my retort. We turned to see Carter Beckett making his way inside, tool belt slung low on his hips. Carter had been a fixture of my childhood, helping Gramps with major farm repairs and teaching me to fish off the town pier. Now in his early sixties, he moved more slowly but retained the calm, steady presence I remembered.

"Well, well," he said, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "If it isn't little Miss, all grown up and taking on the world."

"Hey, Carter." I crossed to give him a hug, inhaling the familiar scent of sawdust and peppermint. "Thanks for coming on such short notice."

"Wouldn't miss it." He stepped back, eyes twinkling beneath bushy gray eyebrows. "Your grandpa would be mighty proud, seeing you take on this place."

A lump formed in my throat. "I hope so."

Carter's gaze swept the barn, his expression turning professional. "Nora says you want to turn this old barn into some kind of restaurant?"

"A café," I corrected. "Farm-to-table breakfast and lunch. Nothing fancy, but good, honest food made with ingredients from right here."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I reinforced the foundation and main support beams last summer, so the structure's sound. Roof's good for another few years at least." He walked to the far wall, tapping it with calloused fingers. "You'll need properinsulation, up-to-code electrical, plumbing for the kitchen area..." He trailed off, jotting notes on a small pad.

Piper sidled up beside me. "Is that Carter-speak for 'this is going to cost a fortune'?"

My stomach tightened. "Carter, be straight with me. How bad is it?"

He tucked the notepad away, meeting my eyes with characteristic directness. "It's not impossible. But it ain't cheap or easy, either."

"I don't need easy," I said firmly. "I just need possible."

A faint smile touched his lips. "Then let's make it happen. I'll draw up an estimate for materials. I can do the labor at cost—consider it my contribution to keeping this farm where it belongs."

Gratitude washed over me. "Carter, I can't ask you to—"

"You didn't ask. I offered." He patted my shoulder. "Your grandpa was my best friend for forty years. He'd haunt me something fierce if I didn't look after his girls."

As Carter began measuring the back wall where I envisioned installing a service counter, Piper pulled me toward a dusty trunk we'd uncovered earlier.

"Look what I found while you were sweet-talking our handyman," she said, lifting the lid to reveal stacks of faded red-and-white checkered fabric. "These must be from when your grandparents hosted those barn dances your Gram's always talking about."

I lifted one of the cloths, pleasantly surprised to find it intact despite decades of storage. "These are perfect," I breathed, imagination sparked. "We could use them for the tables, maybe hang some as accents..."

"And look—" Piper reached deeper into the trunk, pulling out a wooden sign carved with a chicken silhouette. "It's like the universe is endorsing your idea."

For the next hour, we worked steadily—sorting through keepsakes, designating areas for trash versus treasure, and sketching rough floor plans. The vision was taking shape: rustic tables arranged across the open floor, a counter with glass display cases for pastries, shelves showcasing farm-fresh eggs and homemade preserves. Simple, honest, and wholly authentic.

A chicken-shaped clock for the wall. Mason jars filled with wildflowers. The old-fashioned tablecloths lending warmth and nostalgia. I could almost smell the coffee brewing, the bread baking, the promise of new beginnings filling the air.

Around noon, Gram appeared with sandwiches and lemonade, her green eyes brightening at our progress. "It's starting to look like something," she admitted, handing out napkins. "Though I still think you're putting the cart before the horse, Maisie."

"Sometimes the horse needs to see the cart to know which way to pull," I replied, taking a grateful bite of ham and cheese.

After lunch, Gram motioned me back to the house with a subtle tilt of her head. "There's something we need to discuss," she murmured, leading me toward the kitchen.

Once inside, she pulled a manila folder from a drawer and spread its contents across the table: bank notices, property tax statements, utility bills—all stamped with variations of "Past Due" or "Final Notice."

"I didn't want to dampen your spirits," she said quietly, "but you have a right to know what we're up against."

I leafed through the papers, my throat constricting as I tallied the figures. The farm was much deeper in debt than I'd realized. "How long?"

"The bank has given us until the end of April to make good on the mortgage." Gram's voice remained steady, but her fingers trembled slightly. "After that, they'll start foreclosure proceedings."

"That gives us just over a month," I said, mind racing. "If the café takes off, and with the spring crop coming in—"

"It's a mighty big 'if,' sweetheart."

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