I opened Bellwether's beach gate to the public at eight in the morning on the day the restoration work began.
The gate had been stuck for years, its hinges warped by salt and weather. My mother had kept the key on a hook in the office. I used a wrench to loosen the rusted bolt, then pushed until the gate swung open.
The first people through were a woman with a stroller and an old man carrying a folding chair. They nodded to me as they passed. I nodded back.
The hotel would not be whole by spring. We'd sold the carriage house, borrowed against the restaurant, and cut the renovation plan to the rooms that needed immediate repairs. The kitchen roof still leaked. The ballroom floor still buckled. The grant covered the windows and the old seawall, not the parts visitors noticed first.
It wa
