The Red Door Inn (3 page)

Marie blinked big eyes, the same rich blue as Rustico's harbor, and wrinkled her nose, clearly as happy at the prospect as Seth.

Jack laughed. “You'll be here, boy, won't you?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know.” Jack clapped his hand on Seth's shoulder, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. “She won't bite. You could even help her get the lay of the land.”

Refusing to even look at the little imp, Seth growled, “I have work to do. Besides, we're behind schedule.”

“We're almost on schedule. And once Marie is up to speed, we'll work that much faster.”

“I don't want to get in anyone's way,” Marie said. “I'll be fine on my own tomorrow.”

Both of the men looked at her as though she had no say in this argument, but it was Jack who responded first. “Of course you would be. But Seth is happy to help you get settled in.”

Seth opened his mouth to contradict his uncle, but Jack's
hand whipped up, palm facing Seth, and a look in his eye said,
Hold that thought.

“Fine.” Seth sighed. “I'll be around tomorrow.”

But Marie didn't seem at all pleased as she shrank into the far corner, holding on to her bag like a lifeline. It took everything inside of Seth not to march over to her and demand to know her game. One minute she and Jack had been talking in the dining room, the next she was practically climbing into the kitchen cabinets to hide from the world. Was it all a ploy to get Jack to feel sorry for her and let his guard down? If she was playing him for a fool, Jack would just sit back and let it happen.

“I suppose you're worn pretty thin there, Marie.” Jack held out his hand, offering to lead her back through the kitchen. “Maybe we should get you set up in your apartment.” Shooting a pointed glare at Seth, he said, “Get her bag, son.” Jack nodded at the bright pink backpack, the only colorful thing about her.

“No,” she whispered. “I've got it.”

Seth squinted at her but nodded to the hallway at his left. “The door to the apartment is down there. We don't have sheets or anything for the bed. I wasn't expecting any guests until May.”

Jack smiled like Seth had made a joke, ignoring the younger man's glower. “I can pick up some sheets and towels when I'm in Charlottetown in the morning. In fact, I can get all the linens we need.”

Marie started another silent nod, her gaze locked on her feet, but suddenly looked up. “Have you thought about how the sheets will go with the bedspreads? And what kind of colors you want for each room?”

Jack shook his head, confusion clearly painted on his features.

“Before you buy for all of the rooms, maybe consider some alternatives to white.”

Seth narrowed his eyes. “Why would we do that?”

“I was just thinking about a bed-and-breakfast that I stayed at one time. The sheets were green paisley. And they made the room . . .” She bit her lip for a second. “I guess they made it feel homey. Simple touches like that make an inn memorable.”

Jack's face cracked, a smile breaking through. “I like that. How do we know what sheets to get?”

“Well, they should match the comforter. And the island is known for its quilting. Maybe we could start there.”

“Good.” Jack beamed, his grin spreading all the way across his grizzled cheeks. “Make that your first project.” He paused for a minute and scratched his chin. “Where exactly would you find quilts for sale?”

Marie's lips puckered to the left, and she glanced toward the ceiling. “Is there a fabric store close by? Or an antique store? I could even look for other statement decorations while I'm there.”

Seth put his hands on his hips. So this was her angle. Spend all of Jack's money on useless junk at jacked-up prices. She hadn't even been there fifteen minutes and she was after his savings, the only funding for Rose's dream.

“There's an antique place down past the bakery. Seth will show you where it is.”

Seth hadn't been joking when he said he had things to do. Besides the upstairs sink, the walls in the second-floor rooms needed to be sanded for painting, and he'd promised Father Chuck that he'd check out the roof at the church.

He opened his mouth to tell them that he had prior engagements, but Marie beat him to the punch.

“I'm sure that Seth is busy. Would you mind just pointing me in the right direction? I'm sure I can find it.”

The hair on Seth's arms stood on end. Sure. Send her off on her own to buy only God knew what. That would turn out well. But maybe Jack wouldn't fall for her innocent routine. Maybe he'd show her the no-nonsense attitude that he'd been giving Seth for months.

“How much money do you need?”

Maybe not.

Jack's hand dove into his back pocket, and he had his wallet out faster than Seth could say
gold digger
. “Here's seventy-five. Will that be enough?”

Seth jumped between Jack and Marie, shaking his head at his uncle. “Are you serious?”

Jack nodded, dipping his hand back into the stash of green twenties. “You're right.” He held another handful of bills out to Marie. “Antique stores can be expensive.”

One measly suggestion from the blue-eyed girl, and Jack had dropped over two hundred dollars without even seeing what she was going to buy. He had lost all of his senses.

If Jack wasn't careful, he'd end up broke and conveniently free of the headaches of owning a bed-and-breakfast. Someone had to watch Marie to make sure she didn't swindle him out of his retirement. And someone had to watch out for Jack if he wasn't going to watch out for himself.

T
he front door clicked behind her as Marie stepped onto the inn's wraparound porch. The brisk March wind blew her hair into her face, and it took two hands for her to capture the wayward strands behind her neck. Her cheeks stung even more with each step farther into the open.

But oh, the open. How had she not noticed it the day before? She'd completely missed the rich blue of the bay across the street from the inn. The ground dropped off on the far side of the road, straight to the shoreline. Straight to the line of pine trees, two months late for Christmas but still decked out in their finery. The gentle waves from the wake of a fishing boat beckoned her like the beach at the Hamptons never had.

If only she could find a place to sit and watch it. Just her and the sea. And the goose bumps breaking out across her arms.

She picked up her pace, hurrying in the direction that Jack had pointed the night before. If she wanted some
thing more than the flimsy blanket he'd given her to ward off the chill of her underground room, she had to find the antique shop.

And it had to carry the bedding she needed. If it didn't, her first attempt at helping Jack would fail. And likely his patience along with it. He wouldn't put up with her wasting his time or spending his money frivolously. She didn't know him well, but she knew business owners. It took guts and a strong will to run a business. He wouldn't hesitate to do what was best for his bed-and-breakfast, even if that meant sending her packing.

Maybe she should just keep walking and not go back.

The thought froze in her mind as her gaze met two of the biggest brown eyes she'd ever seen. She stumbled back a step, her stare glued to the unblinking eyes. Until the cow mooed.

Black and white spots swayed as it lumbered toward her, chewing like it had never met a piece of cud it didn't like.

Did cows charge like rhinos? Would it attack?

Panic bubbled in her chest, gripping her lungs and sending her heart into overdrive. Again. This always happened at the worst possible moment. The horizon tilted, nearly sending her to her knees, and her vision narrowed. She couldn't possibly run if the beast charged her.

Bending at the waist, she sucked in a stilted breath just as tears formed in the corners of her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. What was she thinking leaving Boston? There were no cows in Boston. No four-legged creatures set on attacking her for no reason. Why hadn't she just done what her father wanted her to do?

Because he'd cared for nothing and no one but himself.

Even thinking of his words made her stomach roll like
she was going to retch. Or maybe that was the memory of an attack she hadn't been able to ward off.

Either way, she needed to be free. But she didn't need to have a heart attack along a road in Nowhere-ville, Prince Edward Island. She needed the freedom of the open space, not a hulking black and white monster charging her.

Leaning her hands on her knees, she tried again to grasp the edge of a breath like the string on a balloon before the wind carried it away. There it was. A wisp of air seeped in, and the spinning in her head slowed down.

The next breath filled her lungs almost halfway, enough to give her the strength to look back up to meet her attacker—who had apparently decided she wasn't interested in Marie anymore. The heifer tossed her head, training those big brown eyes on the far side of the green pasture, and ambled off toward a water trough beside a bright red barn set at least fifty yards off the road. The weathered wooden panels served as a portion of the fence, connecting to thin wire that followed fence posts all the way around the pasture where Big Brown Eyes and six others lazed away their morning.

Of course there was a fence. No farmer would risk his cows wandering into the road. Even if not a single car had passed in the five minutes since Marie came face-to-face with the cow.

Of course.

Feeling every bit the fool she was, she pushed aside the remnants of the panic attack, managing a shaking breath with every step toward the antique shop. The buildings grew closer together, businesses and tourist shops lining the road. At an odd three-way stop, traffic picked up, and North Rustico started looking more like a town and less like a village on
the harbor. Passing a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, she turned where Jack had told her to.

But twenty minutes later, the same pasture and same brown-eyed cow loomed before her.

Looking over her shoulder, she squinted hard enough to make out the outline of Jack's house. She hadn't passed it again. She was sure. Almost.

So how had she gotten back to these same cows, which had graciously given her a wide berth this time? Maybe she should go back to the house and ask for directions again. But she'd heard Jack drive away while she was still curled in her blanket, which meant Seth was the only one there.

She'd rather have breakfast with these cows than ask Seth for help.

As Marie started her second attempt to find the store, the wind picked up, tilting the tops of the pine trees and sending a shiver from her head to her toes. She snuggled as deep as she could into her lightweight jacket, but temperatures hadn't been quite this cold when she'd left Boston. Now she longed for her faux fur-lined parka. Or at least a scarf and gloves. Shoving her hands into the deepest corners of her pockets, she leaned into the wind, which blew a blanket of gray across the sun.

By the time she reached the three-way stop again, the tip of her nose could have held an icicle. She needed to find a place out of the wind to warm up, but this early in the morning the restaurants were still closed. Besides, she only had the money that Jack had given her for the quilts. She couldn't spend it on anything else—even breakfast—without giving him a reason to kick her out.

Then her eye caught a blue sign on a white house on the
opposite corner. A bakery. She hurried around a car, stalked up to the wooden deck, and reached for the door handle. Before it even cracked open, the smell of heaven surrounded her. Inside, the aromas of cinnamon and sugar mixed with apples and peaches and ginger, each complementing and accentuating the one before.

The bell on the door jingled as Marie's skin tingled with the warmth of the cozy room, every nook lined with shelves laden with breads and rolls and packages of mouth-watering brownies.

“Be right there!”

Marie jumped at the voice coming from around a corner behind the cash register. First a cow—a fenced-in one at that—and now a disembodied voice sent her out of her own skin.

“Get it together,” she chided herself as the body to the voice appeared.

She was the type of girl who would have been shunned by Marie's childhood friends in Boston. She wouldn't have been invited to the cotillion in high school or had a date for prom. The boys at her elite private school hadn't dated girls who looked like they enjoyed a meal. Even at Wharton the student body had snubbed the girls who didn't and couldn't wear designer clothes.

They also missed out on smiles like this one.

The young woman's grin—punctuated by dimples on either side—filled the entire bakery, as sweet as the spicy scent lingering in the air. Hands tucked into the pockets of her white apron, she leaned against the counter next to the cash register. “Hi there. What can I get you?”

The smile that Marie offered was an involuntary response
to the other woman's kindness, and it felt strange, like she'd forgotten how to use those muscles. The grin dropped away quickly, replaced by a feeling of chagrin. At the same time she said, “I was just looking for directions,” her stomach growled violently, betraying the fact that she hadn't eaten anything before leaving the house that morning. It just hadn't felt right, eating without asking Jack first.

An alarm chimed in the background, and the woman waved her hand before disappearing into the back room again. “I'll be right back. Just a second.” Suddenly a loud groan accompanied the ringing, followed by the sound of several metal cookie sheets falling onto wire racks.

A few moments later she slunk around the corner, smile gone, carrying a plate piled with dark brown rolls. “I'm trying a new recipe, and I think I overcooked these cinnamon rolls.” Her blue eyes moved between the stack of treats and a garbage can. Then they lifted to meet Marie's gaze. “Would you mind trying one? They're overdone, but we could pick off the overcooked parts and you could tell me what you think of the flavor.”

Marie glanced over her shoulder and around the empty room, sure that the woman must be speaking to someone else. But there was no one else there. Tucking her finger around the chain at her neck, she twisted it several times, wanting to accept the offer as much as she knew she had to decline.

The other woman didn't bother to wait for a response, wrapping one of the steaming sweets in a napkin and holding it out. Marie hesitated for a beat before taking it and holding it close to her chin with both hands.

“Are you visiting or new to the area? I haven't seen you around before.”

Marie nodded before picking a bite off the roll and popping it in her mouth. Flavors exploded across her tongue—cinnamon and nutmeg mingled with the sugar of the cakey bread, like a coffee cake in roll form. Her smile returned, and she pointed at the roll, too consumed with experiencing it to make any sound except a sigh of pleasure.

“Really? You think it's okay?” The chef extraordinaire took her own and nibbled on a corner, her lips pursing and dimples disappearing as she analyzed it. “It's all right.”

Marie shook her head. “It's so much better than all right. It's amazing and delectable. Light and spicy. It's like an L. M. Montgomery story in edible form.”

This made the other girl laugh. “No one has ever compared my baking to any author, let alone Maud Montgomery. This deserves a cup of hot cocoa on the house.” She pulled a paper mug from beside a silver machine and pressed a lever, filling it to the brim before holding it out. When Marie took her cup of deliciously hot chocolate, the other woman filled her own. “To Maud, then.” They held out their drinks in a toast, then sipped carefully.

The heat coated Marie's stomach, warming her toes and fingers and every bit in between. With tingles and pricks, feeling returned to her nose, and she blew into her cocoa just to watch the steam rise. After several minutes of eating in silence, Marie glanced up, warm, renewed, and ready to find the illusive antique shop.

“I was told there's an antique shop close by. Can you tell me how to get to it?”

“Sure. It's just down the street. About five minutes.”

“How many miles—I mean, kilometers—is it?”

The woman's laugh was as rich as her cinnamon roll. “I'm
from the island. We only know it by time. But it's very close. In fact, if you walk it, I can give you a shortcut.”

Marie nodded quickly, paying closer attention to the directions than she had when Jack told her how to get there.

“Thank you so much. You've been so kind . . . and I don't even know your name.”

“Caden Holt.”

“Marie Carrington.”

“How long are you in town?”

Marie shrugged, not sure how to even begin answering that question. “I haven't figured that out yet.”

Caden leaned over the counter and whispered, “Watch out or the island will lure you in. You'll never want to leave.”

The facial muscles that hadn't had a workout in months bunched again, Marie's smile growing wide. With views like the Rustico Harbor and people like Jack and Caden offering kindness to strangers, Marie didn't have any trouble picturing PEI capturing someone's heart. In fact, she was as much at risk of falling for the island as any girl who'd grown up reading about the redheaded orphan. And she'd love to leave her heart there, if only she could stay. But she'd be leaving as soon as she made good on her promise to help Jack.

And part of that promise meant finding bedding for the queen-size mattresses at the inn.

Tossing her empty napkin into a trash can and wrapping her fist around the roll of bills in the pocket of her jeans, she slipped toward the door. “Thank you again.”

“I'm just glad you liked the cinnamon roll.”

“That was entirely my pleasure. I'll be your guinea pig anytime.”

“Don't offer it unless you mean it.” Caden chewed on the
corner of her bottom lip, her eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “I have an orange scone and berry brownie recipe I've been dying to try out.”

“Then I will definitely be back.”

With a wave Marie stepped into the chilling wind, the ringing of the bell muted as the door closed behind her. Replaying Caden's directions in her mind, she turned right, passing a gas station and a small grocery store, then ducked between a bank and what appeared to be a family-run restaurant. Right past the Lions Club building was the little blue house, just as Caden had described it. With the white trim around four-pane windows on either side of the red door, it looked like the building was sticking its tongue out at her, but the sign next to the door said C
OME
O
N
I
N
!

No bells as Marie snuck into the surprisingly large room, and despite the towers of furniture and knickknacks stacked nearly to the ceiling, a small woman with gray curls shuffled toward her.

“I thought I heard someone come in.” She stuck out a wrinkled hand with skin so thin that her veins stood out bold and blue. Marie offered her own hand, but instead of shaking it, the older woman clutched it in both of hers. “Aretha Franklin. No relation to the singer.”

Aretha had to be joking. The petite ghost of a woman would never be confused with the robust soul singer of the 1960s, except by name. And the humor broke the ice, leaving them more friends than strangers. “Marie Carrington.”

Aretha tugged on Marie's hand, which she still clasped firmly in her own, leading the way through the narrow maze toward the cash register. Marie barely had time to take in the enormous collection of worn and weathered treasures, each
a story in itself. What stories had the ancient Underwood typewriter from the turn of the century put on paper? What ships had the brass compass navigated to safety?