Page 3 of A Good Egg

"I know. I've been doing it for years, just for other people." The excitement bubbled up, drowning out my earlier despair. "We could call it 'The Little Red Hen'—like the children's story about self-reliance. Remember how you used to read that to me?"

A flicker of interest crossed her face. "Easter's only three weeks away. The town will be full of weekend tourists."

"Exactly! We could do a grand opening Easter brunch." My mind raced ahead, envisioning red-and-white checkered tablecloths, mason jars filled with wildflowers, the smell of fresh-baked pastries. "It would generate income quickly—hopefully enough to get the bank off our backs."

Henrietta clucked loudly at our feet, as if adding her approval to the plan.

"I don't know, dear," Gram hesitated. "The start-up costs alone..."

"I have some savings," I insisted, deliberately not mentioning how paltry the sum was. "And I can handle the cooking and baking myself. We'd need to hire help eventually, but to start..."

She studied my face for a long moment. "You're serious about this."

"I am." And I realized I truly was. For the first time since walking in on Brad's betrayal, I felt something beyond pain andhumiliation—I felt purpose. "Let me do this, Gram. Let me help save our home."

Something shifted in her expression—pride, mingled with cautious hope. "Your mother always said you had more determination than sense. Just like your father."

"Is that a yes?"

She sighed, but her eyes twinkled. "I suppose we can look at the barn tomorrow. See what we're dealing with."

I hugged her impulsively, breathing in her familiar scent. "Thank you."

After dinner—a simple but satisfying vegetable soup with homemade bread—I borrowed a flashlight and walked out to the barn alone. The evening air carried the first hints of spring, a gentle promise after a harsh winter.

I unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, sweeping the flashlight beam across the cavernous space. Dust motes danced in the light, and the musty scent of hay and old wood filled my nostrils. Farm equipment sat covered with tarps in one corner; stacks of crates and barrels lined another wall. The wide-plank floor, though worn, seemed solid beneath my feet.

In my mind's eye, I could already see it transformed—tables where the central floor space now stood empty, a service counter along the far wall, shelves displaying homemade preserves and fresh pastries. The high, beamed ceiling could be strung with soft lights. We could keep the rustic charm while making it functional.

But as I completed my circuit of the barn, the enormity of the task ahead settled on my shoulders. This wasn't just about hanging curtains and setting out menus. The renovation would require serious work and money—both in short supply. And thenthere was the developer, circling like a hawk, waiting for us to fail.

I leaned against a support beam, letting out a long, shaky breath. What was I thinking? Three days ago, I was a sous chef in a trendy Boston bistro with a boyfriend and an apartment. Now I was planning to launch a business in a converted barn with barely any capital, racing against a looming foreclosure.

Henrietta appeared in the doorway, her silhouette unmistakable against the twilight sky. She clucked questioningly, as if checking on my mental state.

"I know," I told her, smiling despite myself. "It's crazy. But sometimes crazy is all you've got."

I thought of Brad and Jessica, probably already settling into their new reality without a backward glance. I thought of Gram, too proud to admit how dire things had become. I thought of my parents, who'd never had the chance to see their dreams through.

And then I thought of myself—Maisie Grace O'Malley, who'd spent five years playing it safe in someone else's shadow.

"No more," I whispered, straightening my spine. "This is my fresh start. My new beginning."

Henrietta clucked again, this time with what sounded suspiciously like approval. I stepped forward, absurdly encouraged by a chicken's apparent faith in me.

"The Little Red Hen," I said aloud, testing the name in the empty barn. "Who will help me plant the wheat? Who will help me harvest the grain? Who will help me bake the bread?"

In the story, no one helped—until it was time to eat the bread. But this wasn't a children's tale. This was real life, with real stakes and real consequences.

I'd have to be clever. I'd have to be resourceful. Most of all, I'd have to be brave.

The developer, this Westbrook person, had no idea who he was dealing with. I'd lost enough already—I wasn't about to lose my family's legacy too.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin. But tonight, standing in the darkened barn with a loyal chicken as my witness, I made a promise to myself: this would be my resurrection story. By Easter Sunday, The Little Red Hen would rise, and with it, a new version of myself—stronger, wiser, and finally hatching a plan of my own design.

Chapter Two

Logan

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