The Red Door Inn (15 page)

“Marie?” Caden's voice was low, concerned. “Are you all right?”

She shook off the memories and the pain that accompanied them. “Yes. Sorry. Just zoned out for a second.”

“Are you sure?” She didn't sound very sure, and her eyes were wary as her sanding stopped altogether.

“Absolutely.” She plastered a smile in place, hoping it
resembled something real, not the grimace that always accompanied the memories. Best to think about something else. Quickly. “Are you about done?”

“Yep.” Holding up a hand covered in white dust, Caden smiled. “All set for painting, I think.”

Marie tossed her a wet rag. “Just one more step. We've got to clean the cabinets off so there isn't loose dust.”

“Okay.”

In no time at all, they were ready to start painting, and as she poured eggshell-white paint into a tray, Caden said, “I like this white against the brick red of the walls. It stands out from the steel appliances and feels somehow modern and classic.”

“I was thinking the same thing when I picked these colors.”

Caden lifted a hand to her forehead and wiped away a bead of sweat before picking up her glass of water.

“You might want fresh water.” Marie pointed to the floating particles that danced in a rhythm all their own, hovering and bobbing. “Let me get you a new one.”

As she pulled two water bottles from the fridge, Jack joined them. He leaned against the door frame, crossing his legs at the ankles of his blue jeans. “Having fun?”

They all chuckled. Preparing to paint wasn't nearly as fun as actually painting, but it was worth it for a quality finished project. As long as they didn't end up with multiple hues like the bedroom upstairs had. Of course, they only needed one can of paint for this job, and she'd stirred it. Thoroughly.

“What do you think of our kitchen, Caden?”

“It's beautiful. I was just telling Marie how much I like the colors. It has such a homey feel that I think your guests are going to want to spend more time in here than in the
dining room.” She took a quick breath before barreling on. “Maybe you should put in a permanent island with stools so that visitors can eat in here too. I mean, I'd have an island, but not so that people can eat at it. There's just never enough counter space in these old houses, so you have to—”

She slapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. “I'm really sorry. My mom says I talk too much, and Aretha tells me I give my opinions too often when no one's asked for them. I just can't help it. They sneak out sometimes.”

Jack's laugh burst out without caution. “Opinions are welcome. What do you think of the room? As a professional?”

“Oh, I'm not a professional.”

Marie spoke in her defense. “What do you call those bites of heaven I keep buying from you? Unprofessional?”

Caden's round cheeks flushed red, and she looked at the paintbrush in her hand. Swiping a thumb over the clean bristles, she shrugged. “I'm not trained far beyond my dad's kitchen. My grandma taught me most of what she knows, and I cook for the whole family—all fifteen of us—when we get together. But I always just thought of it as dabbling in the kitchen.”

“Well, your dabbling is a far cry better than anything anyone else in this house is doing. So tell us what you think.” Marie gave her an encouraging nod.

“True.” Jack hit the nail on the head.

“I might change a few things.”

“Like?” He stuck his thumbs into his pockets.

Her hair fell into her face, and Caden brushed it behind her ears and pointed toward the dark stone countertops. “To start with, I would find a way to add more counter space. Baking isn't for small areas. And any baker is going to have
canisters and cookbooks lining the counter. Also, most of the counter area that you do have is far away from the fridge and the oven. If you were cooking a breakfast casserole and prepped it over there”—she pointed at the counter closest to the laundry room door—“then you'd have to carry it all the way over to the oven. That's at least ten steps, ten chances that you'll drop it. But if you had a stable island, you could prep it all there, and it's not even a step to slide it into the oven.”

Jack tapped his chin as she spoke, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

Caden didn't seem to notice Jack's change in expression. “And then I'd add a hanging rack for your pots and pans. Sure, you've got plenty of lower cabinet space, but serving a fast-paced breakfast is all about having the tools you need at hand but out of your way until you need them.” She mimed pulling a pan from over her head. “If I'm going to make a berry compote for my French toast, that has to simmer while I prep the toast. So if I can pull my saucepan and my skillet down just when I need them, that's perfect.”

Jack pulled a notepad from his back pocket and scribbled a note on it. “Good idea.”

“Then if you built in a spice rack on the wall right there next to the refrigerator, you have easy access to the flavors you need most. And most importantly, you need a good trash can.”

Everything she'd said made perfect sense until that last statement. “How many kinds of trash cans are there?” Marie said. “As long as it doesn't have a hole in it, isn't it a good one?”

“It's not good enough. You need one with a lid that opens without having to touch it. We have one at the bakery that
has a sensor on it. When you wave your hand over it, the lid opens, and you never have to touch it. It keeps you clean and keeps your kitchen tidy even during a rush. At least, that's what my dad always says.”

“Smart guy.” Jack kept scribbling.

“Will you be cooking breakfasts yourself?”

“Not unless cold cereal has become acceptable fare.”

Caden shook her head. “I don't think so. Have you hired your chef yet? If not, there's a good school in Charlottetown. At Holland College. You might be able to hire a recent graduate.”

“Thanks. We're all set. I've hired an executive chef from New York.”

Marie waited for a twinge of recognition to cross Jack's face as her stomach lurched. But he didn't seem to realize that the chef's arrival would mean her departure. Or he didn't care.

Jack just continued writing with his stub of a pencil, nodding as Caden offered him another thought on the types of plates they'd need to look for. Dishwasher-safe didn't look as classic or homey, but they would save endless hours of hand-washing the china that Aretha sold.

Marie watched them, even as their conversation faded away.

Did Jack not remember that he'd promised her room to someone else and he hadn't even told her? Except it wasn't really her room. She was just temporary help. Jack would send her packing as soon as the chef arrived.

Marie took a deep breath and swiped her paintbrush down the inside of a cabinet door. He couldn't ask her to leave if she was already gone.

T
wo Sundays later, Marie woke up later than usual. Rolling over on her bed, she stared at the red numbers on the little clock. She never used to wake up before the alarm jerked her from her sleep on the weekends. But ever since New Year's Eve, she'd been more eager to get out of bed every morning.

But today she'd slept until well after seven. A little sore from helping Jack lay paving stones in the backyard the day before, she scooted from under a thick blanket, grabbed her only pair of clean pants and a thick sweater, and hugged them to her chest to ward off the basement chill as she ran for the bathroom.

When she emerged from the steam-filled room half an hour later, the bone-chilling cold was a distant memory. She pulled on thick socks and padded up the stairs, careful not to hit the creaky step. Jack or Seth might still be asleep. She didn't really know what time they got up. It was usually while she was on her morning run, and that was all she needed to know.

She also needed to find something to fill the gnawing in her stomach.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard and poured a generous helping into a plastic bowl. She topped it off with a long splash of milk. The granola made a loud crunch as she chewed slowly, surveying the room. The white cupboards had turned out just as she'd envisioned, and the hanging rack that Jack had asked Seth to install at Caden's suggestion glimmered in the light of the sunrise.

“So you decided to join us this morning?”

She jumped at Seth's voice, sloshing milk down the front of her sweater. Frowning at the damp trail, she took the washcloth next to the sink and tried to mop it up. It only succeeded in leaving a wider path.

Oh well. There was no helping it now. She'd just have to wait for it to air dry.

She shrugged. “Don't I always?”

His gaze roamed from the top of her head to her shoulders and back up, his face void of emotion. “I wasn't sure you were going to make it on time today.”

“Well, I did.” She held up her bowl and shoveled the cereal into her mouth, never taking her eyes off him. After too long, she swallowed a painful bite. “Can I help you with something?”

One side of his mouth angled up. “I don't think I've ever seen your hair down like that.”

“My hair?” She ran her fingers through the still-damp strands hanging over her shoulders, suddenly wishing she'd pulled it back before leaving the safety of her room.

“You should wear it like that more often.” He turned up his smile from half-mast to full-blown.

She held her breath as her stomach performed a complete barrel roll. Hugging her bowl just below her chin and squinting at him, she asked, “Why?”

“It's pretty.”

A war waged in her chest, and she tightened her features to keep it from showing on her face. It had been months since anyone had offered such a simple, sweet compliment, and she longed to accept it. Longed to believe it.

But the part of her that carried the memories of another man who had said she was beautiful cried out in fear. She couldn't trust any man who offered such flippant comments. She couldn't believe he said them for anything but his own benefit.

Except there was a twinkle in Seth's eye that suggested he meant it.

And as she scooped another bite into her mouth, his face turned serious, and his eyebrows pulled together. “I'm sorry for what I said when we were coming back from the auction.” His voice low and insistent, he leaned toward her as though proximity equaled sincerity. “I shouldn't have been such a jerk.”

Her stomach clenched, putting a pause on her breakfast. This kind of genuine apology was new to her. Her mom had never done a thing requiring an apology—at least from Marie. And her dad had certainly never offered one for anything—despite his numerous offenses.

Just when she compared Seth to the men of her past, he surprised her.

He stood there, the pain in his eyes testifying to his true remorse, even as he fidgeted with a screwdriver that had been left on the counter. Owning up to his mistake. This was what
real men did. Not perfect ones. Just ones who recognized their shortcomings and tried to make things right.

He attempted a grin, which fell flat, then added, “I didn't mean to tell you so much about Reece. It just sort of came out. And sometimes what she did is still a little too fresh. You know what I mean?”

Marie nodded around the mouthful she was slowly chewing.

“Anyway, I just—” He stabbed a hand through his hair before flattening a black eyebrow with a finger. “Well, I'm glad we could finally talk alone. Seems like Jack has stuck to you closer than glue.”

Her swallow was so loud she was sure he'd go deaf.

The truth wasn't that Jack had been sticking to her side. It was the exact opposite. In the almost two weeks since the auction, she'd made it a point not to be left alone with Seth. The easiest way to do that was to stay by Jack. He always had a project, and she liked talking to him, hearing stories about his courtship with Rose. At least that was what Jack called it.

Working with him kept her entertained
and
safe from another run-in with Seth. Listening to Jack and Rose's love story made her forget—if just for a few minutes—why she was even on the island. Why she'd left Boston in the first place.

And it gave her a glimmer of hope.

She wasn't quite sure what she hoped for. But maybe it was a future.

Seth heaved a sigh from somewhere deep in his stomach and pressed a thumb and forefinger against his eyes. “I really am sorry, Marie. I had a good time at the auction.”

She licked her lips, steeling herself to tell the truth. “I did too.”

“Maybe we should do it again sometime.”

“Another auction?” She sidestepped his suggestion, anything to keep from having to respond to it.

He shook his head. “Not an auction necessarily. There are plenty of other projects we could work on together. Or we could go for a walk and get ice cream. I could show you my favorite spot on the beach.”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, which had turned into a desert. Ice cream. He'd just suggested they get her favorite thing on earth. Like, on a date. Or maybe not a date, but definitely alone. Just the two of them. Eating her favorite thing.

Did he know that ice cream was her worst weakness?

Her stomach shot into her throat. She'd left her mini diary in the typewriter. She'd confessed to wishing she'd gone to get ice cream and left it there for anyone—including Seth Sloane—to find.

And then she'd promptly forgotten about it. Twice.

She was such a birdbrain. What a stupid mistake.

Biting her cheeks, she tried to find enough moisture in her mouth to respond to him, but instead her tongue seemed to swell. Her throat felt like sandpaper as she tried to swallow.

She grimaced against the pain.

“Are you all right?” Seth asked.

Nodding with forced enthusiasm, she backed away. “I just forgot something.” She set down her bowl and pointed over her shoulder, then ran down the hall. She hoped she didn't sound like a herd of island cows stampeding over the hardwood, but she couldn't get to the room at the end of the hall fast enough.

She closed the door behind her, at the last minute turn
ing the knob to silence the sound of the click. As she wove her way between stacks of newly purchased antiques, she found the original piles. And there was her beautiful black Underwood.

The sheet of white paper she'd left there nearly glowed on its curved perch.

She grabbed the edge of it, intent on pulling it free, until she saw that a second line had been boldly typed below her original confession.

I wish you had too. Next time?

S

She stared at the letters, unable to make sense of their meaning. “Next time?” She said the words aloud, hoping that would help them sink in.

The knot in her stomach pulled taut, and she pressed a hand to her belly.

This was the third time he'd asked. Or maybe it was the second. She had no idea when he'd typed this note. It could have been before the auction.

But did that make any difference? All it really meant was that he had asked again. That he really did want to spend time with her. But that could be just to ask more prodding questions about her past.

She tightened her grip on the paper, ready to pull it free.

What if it's not?

She harrumphed at the voice in her head. What did it know?

That you're lonely. That you miss having a friend who's not
twice your age. That you like being told your hair
is pretty.

She frowned at the paper but left her hand in place. “I don't have to, you know. I can turn down ice cream.”

Yes, but do you want to? Or are you just scared?

“What do I have to be scared of?” Even as she whispered the words, her voice shook. She had plenty to be scared of. Haunting memories. Losing her breath to another panic attack. Being coerced into returning to Boston.

Taking a wavering breath, she released the paper and knelt to sit in front of the typewriter. Resting on her heels, she stared at the blank area below Seth's message until her eyes crossed. She had to give him an answer. And leaving it here was easier than saying her piece in person.

Except she wasn't quite sure what her answer was.

She pinched her eyes closed and clasped her hands in her lap. “Oh, God, what am I going to do?” The prayer passed over her lips before she even realized what she was doing. Somehow it felt natural, like it hadn't been three months since she'd talked to him.

Letting a slow breath out through tight lips, she pressed one of the keys. Then another. The reports picked up speed, echoing against crates and boxes.

Quick footsteps down the hall outside the door announced Jack's imminent arrival. “Marie? Ready to go?”

“I'll be right there.” She lifted her voice to carry through the closed door, pounding out the last word in careful measure. As she pushed to her feet and scurried toward the door, she gave her note one last glance.

As long as next time is soon.

M

The pews were empty. The parishioners had long since fled the indoors, prompted by the unusually warm midday. Their voices—faint but lively—carried from the front lawn through the open door.

Jack welcomed the solitude, leaning his arms against the back of the bench before him and folding his hands. His gaze followed the outline of the wooden cross hanging behind the podium, where Father Chuck had dismissed the congregation more than fifteen minutes before.

As he closed his eyes, numbers and columns flashed before him. From black to red they danced, leaving only dread in their wake.

“God?” He lifted his eyes toward the rough-hewn beams above, his voice falling far short of the vaulted ceiling. “I'm in a bit of trouble, and I could use your help here. I'm just trying to do what Rose wanted, but the numbers aren't adding up. And the bank says I'm not a good investment anymore. But I can't pay back the loans I've already taken out if the Red Door doesn't open.”

He bowed his head, staring at the swollen knuckles and broken fingernails. He was working hard—they all were—but it wasn't going to be enough.

Soft steps approached, and he turned to find Aretha making a slow path up the center aisle. “I'm sorry to interrupt you.” She pointed to the bench behind him. “I forgot my hat.”

He nodded, doing his best to give her a smile. “No problem. Just talking with God for a bit.”

Her floppy pink hat flourished as she picked it up and waved it under her round chin. Green eyes—so different
from Rose's deep brown—squinted at him. “May I ask you a question?”

Jack nodded.

“You seem troubled. Is there something I can do?” Though they were a different color, the compassion in Aretha's eyes was exactly like Rose's.

He shook his head, looking down again, his chin touching his chest, his shoulders falling. A sigh escaped pinched lips from somewhere deep inside.

Her skirt swished as she slid into the pew beside him and rested a silky-smooth hand on his outstretched forearm. “There's something weighing heavy on you. Will it help if you talk about it?”

“No.” He patted her hand. “Thank you for offering.”

She bobbed her head slowly, scooting a little closer until her shoulder brushed his. They sat in silence for several minutes as he prayed for a way to solve his money dilemma.

“Is this about Marie?”

He jumped at the sound of her voice. “Not so much. But I've certainly pulled her into my problems.”

“What do you mean?”

He scratched behind his ear. “I thought I could help her. Thought she needed a safe place to stay. She was just so sad.”

Aretha rearranged her skirt as she crossed her legs and took a soft breath. “How did you meet her?”