The document was a letter Arthur wrote to the cooperative board shortly before his death. He proposed transferring our voting share into a family stewardship trust, with Camille as the first successor if she completed a year of financial training and service. I had never seen the final copy. Ren checked the board minutes and found the proposal had been accepted, but Arthur's illness interrupted the paperwork. Camille could inherit responsibility, not merely access, if she still wanted it.

Camille read the letter twice. Arthur described her as persuasive, inventive, and sometimes impatient with limits. He believed all three qualities could serve the resort if she learned that stewardship meant leaving resources for people not yet in the room. I watched her absorb praise that did not excuse her. She asked whether I had known he saw her that clearly. I said Arthur saw all of us clearly and loved us without editing the difficult parts.

At dinner, Camille welcomed both families and corrected her earlier claims. She said the weekend had been reduced because she expanded it without authorization. Nobody applauded, which made the admission feel more honest. Julian's father asked about the lanterns, and I told the flooded-dining-room story with every practical detail. His mother showed me a hem she had repaired with dental floss during a conference. The conversation survived my old coat and became more interesting because nobody had to pretend.

After dessert, Camille asked Ren about the stewardship requirements. He offered to send the training schedule after the weekend. She did not ask for a shortcut. When the others left, we counted the lanterns before locking the room. There should have been twelve, but only eleven remained. Camille remembered seeing one in the photograph beside Arthur. We searched the crates and cupboards. The last seat at the table held nothing except my folded place card, warm at the edges as if a lantern had just been lifted from above it.