It was official: Pudgie was missing. Abby announced this with wide eyes and a slight tremor when she stopped by the inn the next afternoon with groceries for the week.
Bridget didn’t know what dismayed her more: that her grandmother’s beloved pet’s whereabouts were currently unknown, or that she still hadn’t had a heart-to-heart with Abby about the realities of this situation she’d never really agreed to.
“Why don’t I pour us some coffee and we can talk about this…” Bridget hesitated. She couldn’t call it an agreement, because it wasn’t one. Struggling for the appropriate word choice, she settled on, “Idea of yours.”
“Absolutely!” Abby nodded earnestly, and folded up the brown paper shopping bags.
Bridget inwardly groaned as she walked to the cabinets and pulled two mugs from the shelf, which she slowly filled with coffee that had been warming on the burner since breakfast that morning. A breakfast that Abby had again prepared, but which, unfortunately, Jack had not attended.
When she turned to hand Abby her mug, she was surprised to see that Abby was already settled at a stool at the counter, a notepad in front of her, pen poised.
Oh brother.
Bridget willed herself to stay strong. Abby was known for fits of passion. She was a girl who followed her heart and always had, whether it came to men or jobs. But her heart was fickle, and she never stayed put for long. And that was one risk that Bridget just couldn’t support, not when she’d taken on so much as it was by purchasing their childhood home from her grandmother and turning it into a business.
“Abby…” She swallowed hard, trying to summon the courage to tell her sister all the reasons this would not work, knowing that Abby would, as usual, be devastated for about five minutes and promptly move on. She’d seen it over and over: jobs that were her “dream job” that she quit three months later; men who were her “soul mate” whose names were forgotten within six weeks. Harper House Inn was no different. All it would take was one difficult guest, and Abby would be packing up her groceries, leaving Bridget in a lurch.
“As you know, I took on a lot of risk opening this place.” She leveled her youngest sister with a look to drive home the gravity of the situation. “Every dime to my name went into this endeavor. I left my job as a real estate agent. My daughter’s livelihood depends on me making this a success.”
Abby nodded, but her eyes drifted slightly to her notepad and Bridget fought back a wave of frustration, wondering if Abby was even paying attention or just biding her time.
“When I promise my guests a service, I deliver. I have to deliver, because one or two bad reviews could have a big impact.” Another reason to play it cool with Jack, she reminded herself. The man was her guest, and she didn’t need any online accusations of coming across as needy or overbearing.
“So far, my guests have been perfectly happy with fresh pastries with yogurt and fruit. It’s economical, and it’s straightforward.” And it never failed. Bridget hated to say it aloud, but she couldn’t count on Abby. It wouldn’t be long before one day, Abby just didn’t show up, and then what? The bad reviews would pour in.
“Yes, but you could do better,” Abby said. “I could do better.” With that, she pulled a manila folder from under her notebook, and handed Bridget a typed sheet.
Bridget barely scanned the sheet. “What is this?”
“A menu!” Abby said excitedly, pointing to the first item on the list. “Of course, it’s just my initial thoughts. If you have other suggestions, I’m all ears!”
Bridget fought back a sigh. This wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped. Abby wasn’t going to let it drop.
Until her passing whim had faded.
She skimmed the sheet, her eyes narrowing when she got to the last bullet point. “High tea?”
Abby’s cheeks flushed. “It was just an idea. We can discuss it later, of course.”
“Abby.” Bridget set the sheet down and rubbed her forehead. It was time to level with her sister. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to offer you what you’re looking for, financially. If you want a job in the kitchen, maybe you should talk to Uncle Chip—”
“I can’t work at The Lantern!” Abby scoffed. “All that fish!”
Bridget tried not to laugh. When Abby’s nose wrinkled like that, she looked exactly as she did when she was just five years old and expected to clean her room. Usually she whined and fussed until Bridget, the eldest and the most responsible, rolled up her sleeves and helped.
But this was one thing she just couldn’t help Abby with.
“Abby, I really don’t see how I can afford—”
“Oh, but I’ve figured it all out!” Abby pulled another sheet from the list. “These are your room rates. And here is what you could charge if you offered a sit-down meal, perhaps some light snacks throughout the day, maybe even a Sunday brunch or, uh, the high tea option.”
Despite her reservations, Bridget humored her sister and looked at the figures. She expected to laugh out loud, or prove Abby wrong. After all, who was in the business? She’d worked at the Oyster Bay Hotel as an assistant manager for years before becoming a real estate agent. She wanted to tell Abby that, believe it or not, she did know what she was doing.
Sort of. Some days, like the day the electricity went out with a big storm and she couldn’t find any candles, she wondered if she had any business opening this inn at all.
“These are your rates and these are the rates at the Oyster Bay Hotel,” Abby said.
Bridget had researched all this when she opened the inn, though truth be told, she had kept her rates a little low at first in order to garner business and a few good reviews. She’d hoped to eventually raise her rates when she’d gotten her footing. Now, looking at the figures, she wondered if the time had come.
“I suppose I could raise my rates a little,” she said slowly.
“And things like high tea could be separate. There are all different ways to do it.”
She wasn’t going to let this go, Bridget realized. “Yes, Abby, but raising my rates and paying you are two mutually exclusive things. I have a mortgage, insurance, taxes, not to mention the upkeep of this place to think about.”
“I don’t need much! And I can always cater on the side for extra cash!”
“Cater on the side?” Bridget had only recently discovered that Abby liked to cook and bake at all, and now she was talking about catering.
Abby looked crestfallen. “But didn’t you think I did a good job with the appetizers for the wedding?”
“Of course!” Bridget said honestly.
“And I’m going to handle Margo’s wedding menu,” Abby countered.
Ah, yes, that. Bridget hadn’t had a chance to discuss this in private last night as she’d hoped; they’d been too distracted by Pudgie’s latest stunt.
“An entire wedding menu is a lot for one person to take on,” she pointed out, but Abby’s mouth just firmed shut and her eyes took on an injured look.
“If you don’t want me to help, just say so. I won’t bother you again.”
“Abby! That’s not what I’m saying.” But it sort of was, wasn’t it?
Shame filled her when she thought of her childhood, spent here in this house, her mother in this very kitchen, packing up their lunches for school, her last words as they ran out the door were always, “Look out for each other!”
What would her mother think of her now? She was the oldest, and Mimi could no longer offer the advice and support she once had. Abby had lost her parents at a young age, when she was still in college. Bridget was all she had.
“I’ll tell you what, why don’t we do a trial run until Margo’s wedding and see how the guests receive it. And as for Margo’s wedding, we still need to go over more plans with her; at least I know I do.” She frowned, wondering if a tent for the yard could even be ordered in such a short time frame.
Abby’s face broke out into a huge smile as she flung her arms over her sister. “Oh thank you, Bridget, thank you! I promise, you won’t regret this!”
Bridget’s smile didn’t match her sister’s enthusiasm. She wasn’t so sure about that.
***
With her afternoon chores wrapped up and an hour to spare before she had to pick up Emma, Bridget grabbed her sunglasses and novel and headed out the back door. The wind was chilly, but the sky was blue, and she watched the gulls swoop as she cut across the cool grass until she reached the beachfront, the best feature of the property.
She already anticipated the summer to be the busiest time at the inn, as tourists flocked to Oyster Bay for weekend getaways, and the private beach was a huge bonus, and a feature the Oyster Bay Hotel didn’t have. Peak rates would apply, and maybe—she couldn’t dare to stress that word enough—maybe having a warm breakfast and some other dining features would boost profits even more.
Still, with Abby’s track record, she’d have to tread carefully.
Bridget pulled her cardigan tighter around her body as she reached the sand and bent to pick up the flip-flops she toed off. She straightened, about to head over to one of the Adirondack chairs for a few minutes of silence, when she saw him.
Jack.
He wasn’t writing. Wasn’t reading. Wasn’t talking on the phone. He was just sitting there, staring out to the ocean.
She froze, not knowing what to do. A good innkeeper wouldn’t intrude.
She was just about to back up when he suddenly turned and spotted her. Her heart flipped over when he held up a hand and smiled.
Oh, God. She had it bad. And that wasn’t an option.
“Hello!” She smiled, having the distinct impression that it was one of those big, eager, toothy grins, not the more reserved ones she tended to offer to guests, and, following his lead, walked over to the row of chairs where he sat.
His shirtsleeves were rolled casually and his feet were bare under his faded jeans. A pair of shoes sat close by.
“Amazing view,” he said, shaking his head.
“This is my favorite spot,” she admitted, looking out on the crashing waves. “When I was a kid, my parents would have to pull us away, hose us down near the back porch before we were allowed entry.”
No doubt she’d be doing the same this summer with Emma, she thought, grinning.
“How long has the house been in the family?” He looked at her with interest.
She eyed the chair beside him, and, after hesitation, sat down. Just for a minute. Oh, man. Up close she could see the flecks of gold around his pupils, the warmth in those otherwise impenetrably dark eyes.
She looked out to the horizon again. A safe choice.
“For generations,” she explained. “It was my grandparents’ house, and after my grandfather died, my parents moved in with my grandmother. My whole life was spent in this house, give or take a few years.”
“And now you’ve opened it up to the public,” he remarked.
She gave a small smile. “Yes. It’s a business I enjoy.”
“It can’t always be easy, though. Not having any privacy.”
“No.” She had to agree. “But I find moments to steal away.” She held up her book, then, remembering how he felt about romance in general, wished she hadn’t.
Immediately, his eyes widened and something in his jaw shifted. Bridget felt her cheeks flush with heat.
“You like that author?” he finally asked, eyeing her sidelong.
Bridget frowned, wondering where he was going with this, if he was about to make fun of her, or launch into another argument about the realities of romance. “I do,” she admitted. “She’s my favorite author.”
Something in Jack’s face twitched, but he pulled in a breath and tented his fingers, looking out to the sea. Bridget used the opportunity to steal a glance at his profile. The strong jaw, straight nose, full mouth.
Her lids fluttered. Look away, Bridget. Look far away…
“How’s your writing coming along?” she asked conversationally.
Jack raised his eyebrows and said, “Good. I’ve started to make progress.” But instead of seeming relaxed, he seemed a bit agitated, at least if the pinch between his brow said anything.
“That’s great!” She chewed her lip, wondering if she should ask more, but decided against it. Jack seemed extremely private about his work, and she didn’t want to pry.
Instead Jack pointed to the book in her lap and said, “What is it that you like so much about that author?” After a pause he said, “Professional curiosity.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Bridget suddenly felt self-conscious. She was hardly in a position to critique a book to an actual professional, though she had plenty to say on the subject. “I suppose I like the fact that it lets me escape. Life can be rough, and these books give me a break from the everyday and allow me to imagine something just a little more…magical.”
His eyes flickered and immediately she felt her cheeks flame. Magical! Why’d she have to go and use that word?
“Do you have a favorite book by this author?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if he was teasing her, but his face was expressionless and he stared at her, waiting.
“Oh, she’s written over a dozen!” Bridget explained. Jack’s eyes briefly glimmered, but he didn’t look surprised. She looked down at the sand, mentally skimming through all of those stories that had filled lonely nights and lonely days. The characters had felt like friends, family even, when she needed them the most. “I think my favorite was a book that came out about four years ago. It was about a man and woman who fell in love as pen pals.” Now she was really embarrassing herself. After all, the man didn’t believe in romance. He scoffed at weddings!
“You liked that the best of all this author’s books?” Jack tented his fingers. “Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?” she asked.
“That this premise stood out,” he said. “Two strangers, who sort of know each other, but…don’t know each other’s true identity?” He opened his palms, as if waiting for her to confirm.
“Exactly,” she said, smiling. “I think that’s what made it so exciting. The reader knew who they were, and the reader knew they were perfect for each other.”
“But they didn’t know it yet.” He grinned, and oh, if her heart didn’t start to race.
“Well.” Bridget shoved the book to the side, deciding to forego her hour of reading. “I enjoy them.”
“That’s always nice to hear,” Jack said, then, suddenly frowned. “I mean, as an author, it’s always nice to hear when a reader enjoys an author’s work. It’s not always an easy job.”
“I’d love to read one of your books sometime,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said, a little evasively. “But I am feeling a little inspired right now.” With that, he pushed his hands down on the armrest and stood up, looming over her, his smile wan but lingering, and his eyes…unreadable. “Well, I suppose I should get back to it.”
She swallowed, not wanting him to go but not knowing what else she could say about that, either. “I’ll see you later,” Bridget said, watching him walk back toward the dock that led up to the house, hating the tug of disappointment that lingered in her chest.
She pulled her book out and opened it to where her bookmark had last been placed, but she didn’t read any of the words. Instead she looked out to the sea, at the very view Jack had just been staring at, and wondered if he might come down again around dinnertime…