The Red Door Inn (25 page)

Marie slipped away, ducking into the kitchen and returning before Jack had even gotten to the next line of his speech.

“I know she'd be proud of this place and the people who work here. Caden, we're so happy to have you on board.”

Her round face crinkled into a smile.

“And Seth and Marie, come on up here.”

Marie led the winding way, never letting go of his hand. It was a mystery how someone so small could fill him with such joy, but he'd follow her until he figured it out.

“You know none of this would have happened without you two.”

“I hope you mean that as a good thing.” The room roared
at Marie's quip, and she grinned at them. “Seth and I wanted to give you something, Jack. The Red Door means so much to both of us, and we wanted to remember whose dream it was in the first place.”

Jack's brows folded together as he accepted the paper-wrapped package she held out. With shaking hands, he pulled off the string and paper to reveal the photograph of the home three-quarters of a century before. The brass plaque ran along the bottom of the glass.

In a whisper, Jack read the inscription. “In memory of Rose, who prayed that hearts would find healing in this home. Rose's Red Door Inn.”

Tears welled in Jack's eyes as he leaned over to show it to Aretha. She didn't try to contain her emotions, her hands covering her mouth as drops rolled down her cheeks.

“We thought the inn should be named after the woman who inspired it,” Seth said.

“Thank you.” The words weren't loud enough to hear, but Seth felt them as Jack slapped him on the back and pulled him into a hug. “I'd have wanted a son like you.”

The back of his own throat suddenly felt scratchy, and he had to turn away to pull himself together. Rose's prayer had been answered. God had already healed at least three hearts here.

Much later, after the house was nearly empty and only the very best of friends still lingered, Seth whispered in Marie's ear, “I want to show you something.”

Her eyebrows arched, but she didn't ask any questions, just followed him to the stairs that led to the back bedroom—the Montgomery Suite.

“Where are you kids off to?” Aretha's teasing voice caught
them just at the foot of the staircase. When they turned, Jack was hurrying to catch them.

“I've been meaning to ask what your plans are.” Jack's voice was gruff, still plagued by the emotion of the night.

Seth shrugged and Marie shook her head. “We haven't had much time to talk about it yet,” she said.

Jack held on to Aretha, looking down at her as she nodded her encouragement. “We've been talking.” He lifted the back of Aretha's hand to his mouth, kissing it until she nearly glowed. “We love the Red Door—Rose's Red Door—but running an inn and an antique shop doesn't leave much time for newlyweds—”

Marie squealed, wrapping her arms around Aretha's neck and holding tight. “You're getting married? When?”

Aretha tittered with delight. “This summer.”

Seth chuckled, pulling his uncle into a hug. “I should have guessed. You two have been thick as thieves lately. When did you decide?”

“Last night. When you're our age, there's no time to waste. Why put it off?” Once extracted from the embrace, Jack wrapped his arm back around Aretha's waist.

“I'm so happy for you.” Marie sighed, holding her folded hands under her chin as her gaze traveled back and forth between them, pure joy in her smile. But it was the look in her eyes that made his stomach jump.

She wanted that for herself. She wasn't ready now. Maybe she wouldn't be ready very soon. But down the road. Someday.

Someday she'd wear white and walk down an aisle.

What nearly bowled him over was realizing how much he wanted to be the man waiting for her. And he
would
wait for her, right by her side. No matter how long it took.

Jack winked at Marie. “Since our sweet girl was hiding a Wharton MBA under a coat of paint—”

She covered her cheeks. “I tried to tell you. I tried to help.”

“I know you did. I just wasn't ready to hear it. I knew there was more to you than you let on. You're one impressive young lady.” With a wrinkled hand, he squeezed her elbow. “Since you both love this place as much as we do, and since you've got that fancy education . . . Well, your dad, he was wrong. This is the perfect place for you to use all that learning. And we couldn't be more proud of you.”

Marie's eyes turned watery, her bottom lip trembling as she leaned into Seth's arm.

“That is, if you want to. We'd love for you and Seth to run the Red Door and take over all the day-to-day functions. It'll be Seth's inheritance someday anyway.”

Marie bit her still quivering lip, hope flickering in her eyes like the sun reflecting on Rustico Harbor.

“We need to go to Boston at some point this summer.” The grip on his arm tightened, and he patted Marie's hand. He wasn't going to let her face anything there alone. “But we'll talk about it.”

“Of course,” Aretha said. “You know where to find us when you decide.”

The older couple wandered off, hand in hand, leaving him right where he wanted to be. Alone with Marie.

“I heard him bragging on your MBA to Father Chuck during the party. He couldn't be more proud if you were his blood.”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she ducked her head. “The thing is, my dad was never really proud of me.”

She hadn't said much more about her dad since that afternoon on the beach, and the tremor in her voice made him
want to punch the man. Instead he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her to his chest. “He wasn't?”

She shook her head until her ear settled in the center of his chest. “It was more about the prestige of having a Wharton graduate with the Carrington name. It was a status symbol among his friends, proof that his family was smarter and richer and . . . Well, I love Jack for caring like he does.”

She stepped back, shaking her shoulders as though she could brush off every hurtful reminder of her dad. “So what is this thing you wanted to show me?”

He led her to the suite, around the foot of the bed, and to the antique writing table she'd made him carry from the auction. On top of the table sat her beloved typewriter. And in it a fresh sheet of paper.

“I left you a note.”

She bent over to read the lines.

Dear M,

I was afraid to love you. I'm not anymore.

S

As she straightened up, a slow smile spread across her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his waist and licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I'm not afraid either.”

He leaned forward until their foreheads pressed together and his breath stirred her hair. “What is it about this place?”

“I don't know, but there sure is something special beyond the red door.”

1

T
here was only one thing better than the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls in the morning. The
taste
of freshly baked cinnamon rolls in the morning.

Caden Holt pulled a pan of piping hot sweet rolls from the bottom of her double oven, breathing in the intoxicating aroma and tapping the golden-crisp top of a roll to the rhythm of her favorite Broadway soundtrack. Her mouth watered and her toe tapped as she slathered a bun with her signature cream cheese icing. The white glaze oozed down the side of the treat, and she caught the errant drip with her knuckle. Closing her eyes, she licked her finger clean before tearing off a corner and popping it in her mouth.

A tremor swirled down her back as sweet, sweet sugar exploded in her mouth, everything good and right with the world.

It only took three more bites to finish off her usual morning treat—after all, she had to make sure breakfast for the guests was up to par—and she immediately regretted devouring it. All that was left was a drop of icing on the scalding pan. But
a chef didn't fear heat. She'd gotten second-degree burns from less worthy causes.

After peeking over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone in her sanctuary, only the morning sun for company, she touched her finger to the tip of her tongue, scooped up the dribble, and licked it clean.

The sweets this morning would certainly pass muster, but she hadn't even started on the main dish. While breakfast desserts were her favorite part of a meal, she didn't work at a bed-and-breakfast pastry. As the executive chef of Rose's Red Door Inn, she was expected to make a full meal to start every guest's day off right.

Muted footfalls and hushed voices trickled from the floor above, promising that said guests would soon be poking their noses into the dining room, looking to fill their empty stomachs.

But for the next thirty minutes, she had the kitchen all to herself. Utterly, entirely, blissfully to herself. And the original London cast of
Mamma Mia!

Lisa Stokke belted out her solo through the speakers tucked into the corner of the counter between a fully equipped stand mixer and canisters of the essentials. As Lisa's voice rose, Caden turned a wild pirouette that would have had her forever banned from the Great White Way—not that she'd ever been there, or on any stage for that matter. She slammed into the kitchen island and bounced off the refrigerator, grabbing the edge of the counter to keep from tumbling all the way to the floor.

Her foot caught on the corner of a cabinet, and she laughed out loud as Lisa hit her high note and Caden hit her low point. Arms flailing as she fell, Caden scrambled for anything
that would help her stay upright. She managed to grab hold of a single sheet of white printer paper hanging from the silver clip on the refrigerator. As soon as she tugged it free, her rear end hit the floor and she lost her grip on the page, which—aided by the fan in the far corner—slithered between the fridge and the nearest cabinet.

“No. No. No.” She shifted to her knees and crawled toward the black hole that had swallowed that morning's instructions.

Caden's boss, Marie, always left a list of special guest instructions on that clip. Food allergies. Gluten sensitivities. Young guests with picky palates. It all seemed innocent enough until one guest the previous summer had failed to mention his peanut allergy upon registration. Caden's famous peanut butter and jelly French toast had nearly sent him into anaphylactic shock. He was one forkful of deliciousness away from a serious emergency when his wife noticed his hives and rushed him to the hospital in Charlottetown. He'd made a full recovery and joked later that he'd married his wife for her observation skills.

But the memory still made Caden's insides squirm.

Food had such a strange and wonderful power. Wielding it made her feel simultaneously significant and vulnerable, fearsome and fragile.

To do her job well she needed the piece of paper glaring at her from the depths of the crack between wooden cabinet and stainless steel appliance. The unmoving refrigerator stood like a sentinel, refusing to budge from its guard. She tried to reach the page anyway, poking her chubby fingers into the crevice, but they didn't make it much beyond her fingernails. Maybe if she could just slide the fridge over.

She leaned her shoulder into its side, but it only groaned, taunting her to try again.

She did and got the same result.

Kneeling between the cabinets and island, she put her hands on her hips and huffed a sigh that sent a wisp of hair that had escaped her French braid floating up. And right back into her face.

She needed something long and narrow. With pinchers.

Tongs.

She pulled herself up on the edge of the alternating white and black counter tiles before rifling through the middle drawer next to the dishwasher. Spatulas and spoons tumbled about as she dug for the tongs she usually used to flip bacon. The tangled utensils scraped together, nearly falling onto the floor as she stretched her fingers to find what she was looking for.

Finally she hooked a handle with the crook of her finger and yanked it—and a deformed whisk—free.

Caden arched her wrist and sent the whisk toward the trash can, its wire loops swishing down the plastic liner.

She laughed to herself. “Two points.”

Just as the cast of
Mamma Mia!
burst into the rousing show closer, she lowered herself back to the floor. The tip of her tongs clicked to the rhythm of the song as she hunched over her prey, eyeing it for the right angle. She moved in slowly, deliberately, trying not to disturb the sheet until it was safely in her grasp.

She just . . . had . . . to . . .

“Rats!”

Even as she bumped the corner of the paper, she recognized her mistake.

The paper fluttered, loosened by her miscalculation, and slid beneath the fridge, completely out of reach.

Just. Perfect.

She scrubbed her hand down her cheek and scratched behind her ear. Maybe if she glared at the spot where the paper had vanished, it would miraculously reappear. That was about as likely as a lobster crawling into her boiling pot.

Two loud footfalls right above her head make Caden jump, and she spun in the direction of the clock on the microwave. Thirty minutes until breakfast time. Fifteen until Marie came to check in and began serving the first course, a fresh fruit salad Caden had prepared the night before.

She'd run out of time to whip up the seafood quiche she'd written onto the large calendar hanging by the door to the dining room. At this point, scrambled eggs and roasted potatoes would have to do.

But first—the allergy list.

Marie sometimes left a copy of the manifest in her office, so Caden hurried down the hallway from the kitchen to the little room between the living quarters and the rest of the inn. Seth, Marie's husband, had built the nook into the restored home just so that his wife would have a place to manage the inn's daily goings-on.

Caden tried to step lightly—no easy feat—on the seventy-five-year-old wooden floors. They seemed to creak and moan even when she hadn't taken a step. It wasn't until she had almost reached the door that she realized it was partly open, and soft voices echoed within.

“It can't be as bad as that.” The deep voice belonged to Seth Sloane, but it didn't sound much like the contractor
turned innkeeper who had swept Marie off her feet. It was as thick as the red clay that gave Prince Edward Island its famous color. He cleared his throat, but it didn't help much when he continued. “There has to be something left. We had a good season last year.”

“But we're only half booked for this summer.” Marie sounded just as strained as her husband. “After this week, we have at least two empty rooms all season.”

“Maybe they'll fill. Maybe we'll get another guest for all of June and July. Maybe that princess bride will decide to uncancel her wedding and the whole party will rebook and stay an extra week . . .”

“That's a lot of maybes.”

Caden held her breath, wishing she could somehow sneak back to the kitchen and ignore the tremor in Marie's tone, but knowing she couldn't leave until she had her instructions. She raised her hand to knock just as Seth spoke.

“Maybe if we talk to your—”

“No.” Marie lost all hint of uncertainty, her tone sharper than Caden had ever heard it before. “We're not—”

Caden spun at Marie's outburst, the floor shrieking like a never-ending fireworks display.

“Morning, Caden.” Seth sounded both surprised and relieved to suddenly notice her presence.

She turned back, an apologetic smile slapped into place as she pushed the door open a few inches more. “I'm sorry to interrupt. It's just that the instructions fell under the refrigerator, and I need to get breakfast going.”

The tightness in Marie's jaw didn't release, even as she shot a glare at her husband, who managed an unrepentant shrug. Then she turned to the computer and printed out another
page with the guests' details. Her motions were sharp and controlled, her frown fixed in place.

“Here you go.” Marie's voice held none of the tension that seemed to permeate the room, but there was a sadness in her eyes that sent Caden backpedaling as fast as she could.

Marie and Seth remained silent as she hurried down the hall, and when the door swung shut behind her, Caden let out a whoosh of air.

Whatever was going on in there, she didn't want any part of it.

Except that Marie was her best friend.

And what she'd heard sounded like the Red Door might be in trouble.

Which meant they were all in trouble.

A slamming door on the second floor jolted her into action. Scanning the page in her hand, she made note of two lactose sensitivities and one pineapple allergy. No cheese on the eggs for some of those guests. And the fruit salad was a simple apple, blueberry, and peach concoction. No problem there.

As she whisked a dozen eggs in a glass mixing bowl, she glanced out the kitchen window, enjoying the view of her herb garden and a corner of the bay beyond their neighbor's back porch and a narrow field of wildflowers.

She'd spent her whole life staring at that same patch of rippling blue. And though the kitchen had changed, the view from the window over the sink was always the same. The morning sun caught the tip of a wave, and it sparkled like a diamond.

Not that she'd ever owned one.

Caden glanced down at her empty ring finger and sighed as she covered the bottom of her skillet with a nonstick spray. It
popped against the hot pan, and she poured the beaten eggs over it, bubbles immediately forming in the yellow mixture.

As she stirred the eggs, she risked another glance out the window.

A man stood between the inn and the water. He was far enough away that she couldn't make out his features or even tell if she recognized him. He certainly wasn't one of their neighbors, all of whom had a distinct stoop and slow stroll. But there was an appealing easiness to his gait, and she watched him walk the shoreline. As he bent to pick up a small duffel bag, his shoulders pushed at the fabric of his leather jacket. No one in this area wore that kind of coat. A gust of wind fluttered his dark hair, and he ran his fingers through the loose strands in an infinitely male move.

Nope. She didn't know him.

She'd have noticed a guy like that walking around town. North Rustico wasn't big enough to hide in.

After all, she'd been trying to hide here for years.

It never worked.

She stirred the fluffy eggs, giving them another dash of salt and pepper. And just a hint of garlic for good measure.

The door between the kitchen and dining room swung in, sweeping Marie's chipper greeting to the waiting guests with it. “Breakfast will be right out.”

Caden turned and raised her eyebrows in question.

“Breakfast will be right out. Won't it?” Marie's brown curls had crossed the line from fun to frazzled, and the apron she looped over her head didn't help the situation. Whatever she and Seth had been talking about that morning had left her in a knot, so Caden squelched the urge to tease her boss.

“Fruit is in serving dishes in the fridge.”

Marie already had half of them loaded on the silver tray, scooping them up and whisking back through the swinging door.

Oohs and aahs over the crystal goblets of mixed fruit carried in from the dining room, and Caden couldn't help the rush of pride through her middle as she plated scrambled eggs and roasted red potatoes, adding a cinnamon roll platter for each table.

With each swing of the door, Marie scooped up more plates, the lines around her mouth easing until an actual smile fell into place.

“This is so good,” one guest mumbled around a mouthful of food. “What's in these eggs?”

Marie giggled, and Caden's heart gave a little leap of joy. She could easily imagine her boss sidling up to a table and giving everyone there a saucy wink.
Our chef only makes the best.

Except Marie didn't say that. She didn't say anything about how Caden hunted out fresh eggs three times a week from the hens at Kane Dairy. She didn't say that Caden started her day at five each morning to make sure every guest was full and happy before leaving to explore the island. And she didn't say that Caden had a knack for serving up the best sweet rolls in town.

In fact, Marie didn't say a word about Caden at all.

“That's our little secret.” And she left it at that.

A fist in her stomach sent Caden doubling over against the sink, head hanging low and heart even lower.

She loved this job. She loved this kitchen. She loved Marie.

But lately it felt like they might not love her back.

“Excuse me.”

Caden's head snapped up at the unfamiliar voice, but she had to duck into the laundry room to find the source.

Face-to-face with the man from the beach, she yanked on the strings of her apron as she stared into his unblinking gray eyes. But the bow at her waist caught in a knot. Her fingers suddenly forgetful, she fumbled with the fabric.