One

I read once, probably while skimming through ads in an O magazine, that true success doesn’t come from one’s ability to dream big and shoot for the stars like some jacked-up mythological arrow, but rather from one’s ability to thrive where you are. Right where you are. And to be content. God help me, I was trying. But waking up day after day in the overdone Victorian love nest my mother had created out of my old bedroom was not bringing me contentment. It was, quite frankly, giving me a headache, and probably a rash as well.

I turned off the alarm and rolled onto my back, staring up at the pink chiffon canopy suspended above my bed. It was ridiculous, sleeping in a bed cocooned in flowered chiffon and hung with fresh sprigs of lavender. I mean, how was a practical, twenty-eight-year-old overworked modern woman supposed to thrive in her childhood bedroom that had been purposely renovated by the queen of modern Victorian chic? Baby steps, I reminded myself. I took a deep breath and was just about to roll out of bed and put my plan into action when Mom’s voice floated through the bedroom door.

“Whitney. Are you awake, dear?” She sounded excited. She also didn’t bother waiting for me to answer. The door burst open and Mom fluttered in just as I was propping myself higher on the absurd mountain of decorative pillows.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” She beamed, peering beneath a swag of flowery curtain. “I’ve the best news. I’ve just heard it. Margaret left a note for me at the front desk. I saw it on my way back from the kitchen. Guess what?”

I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “What?” I replied, lacking enthusiasm. My alarm had just gone off. Nothing enthused me at 5:45 in the morning.

Mom’s soaring spirits plummeted at my lackadaisical tone. But she wasn’t one to be deterred. Her round blue eyes twinkled as she pinned on her brightest smile. “Silvia Lumiere just booked a room with us, from Saturday through Labor Day weekend! Nine whole weeks! Isn’t that marvelous? She’s never stayed at the Cherry Orchard Inn before, and now she’s staying with us for the remainder of the summer. See? I told you, Whitney. You’re a genius. Your new ads are working. We’re back in business, and in a big way. Silvia Lumiere!” Mom shook her head, sending the single flaxen braid down her back wiggling like a dog’s tail. “I would never have dreamed it, and you’ve done it. Oooh, everyone’s going to be so envious that she’s staying here!”

I was genuinely tickled by Mom’s enthusiasm and the fact that she was proud of me. But the obvious reason someone would book a room at the Cherry Orchard Inn for nine weeks had escaped her. Murder, however craftily one could spin it, still tended to taint a business. And, quite frankly, I hadn’t spent a lot of effort trying to explain away, in clever advertisement or any other form, all the chaos that resulted when Jeb Carlson, our orchard manager, got killed this spring. Even though it was what had brought me back home from Chicago. What I’d done instead was lower our prices to the point of absurdity for the peak of tourist season in Door County, Wisconsin. If I’d learned anything over the last few weeks, it was that affordable luxury accommodations during the height of a Cherry Cove summer was the only force on earth powerful enough to combat the horrors of murder. And, if what Mom was telling me was true, it appeared to be working.

I sat up a little straighter and cleared my throat. “Mom. That’s great news. But who is this Silvia Lumiere, and why is everyone going to be envious?”

Mom was from hardy, cheerful, perpetually polite Midwestern stock and it took a lot to disappoint her. But I’d done it within two minutes of waking. It was a new record. I’d have to remember to text my younger brother, Bret, and rub it in. It took me a second more to realize that Mom was still talking.

“You don’t know who Silvia Lumiere is? She’s a Chicagoan, Whitney. I’m surprised. How could you live in Chicago for six years and never have heard of Silvia Lumiere?” Apparently the thought was as preposterous as it was disappointing.

“I was busy, Mom. And obviously not moving in the right circles. Is she an actress or something? Is she in commercials?”

Mom gave a dismissive twist of her lips. “No, she’s a painter, dear. A famous one, known primarily for her portraits. She discovered Cherry Cove five years ago and since then has spent every summer here, painting her portraits and creating quite the buzz. She’s part of our local artists’ community. She’s also the darling of the Cherry Country Arts Council. Oh, Whitney,” she breathed, filling with a new wave of delight. “She’ll be here, at the Cherry Orchard Inn, painting on the lawn! Such an honor. Oh!” she exclaimed as another, even more titillating thought popped into her head. “We should have her paint a family portrait. Why not? She’ll be right here. We’ll have plenty of opportunity to pose for her. Oh, drat.” The quasi-expletive dropped from Mom’s lips as disappointment swiftly toppled delight. “Bret’s still out of the country,” she said. “I suppose I could call him and have him fly home for the sitting, if he’s not too busy.”

Bret was somewhere in Europe chasing ghosts … literally. I wished to God it was metaphorically. That would be a heck of a lot easier to explain to people than telling them that your promising younger brother was traipsing across Europe, barging into haunted castles and stirring up the spirits that lived there. It was all for a reality TV show he was filming.

I glanced at the time on my iPhone. It was swiftly approaching six o’clock, so I needed to get a move on. I got out of bed, looked at Mom, and smiled. “Bret doesn’t have to be here, Mom. This woman’s a portrait painter, right? We can just show her a picture of him and tell her to paint him in. In fact, I’d be happy to choose the picture.”

Mom didn’t like the grin on my face and swiftly declined. “No. I’ll pick it out. It’s a portrait, after all. You can’t just delete it if you’re not happy with it. It’s there forever. For posterity. But you’re right. Although I’d love for him to come home, Bret doesn’t need to be here. Anyhow,” she continued, “since Silvia will be arriving Saturday evening, I think we should plan a tea in her honor for Sunday afternoon. I’ll rally the Cherry Cove Women’s League and have them pass the word around. I want you and Grandma Jenn to plan the menu.”

I’m not going to lie. The thought of planning a fancy high tea reception for a celebrity guest was scintillating. The wheels of my mind were already spinning as I grabbed my running clothes off a lavender wingback chair. “Sounds like just the challenge I need,” I told her as I excused myself and headed for the bathroom. “I’ll get on it straight away … after my run.”

“Run? I didn’t know you liked to run, dear?”

“I don’t. I mean, who does like to run, right? I’m just embracing it for now as a way to stay in shape.” And a way to ambush the one man I couldn’t stop thinking about. But this I didn’t tell Mom. Mom had her own ideas about my love life. She still adored my ex-boyfriend Tate Vander Hagen despite the fact he’d cheated on me when I lived in Chicago. However, since his recent heroics during the Cherry Blossom Festival last month, I’d started seeing him again, strictly on a trial basis. But this time my heart wasn’t entirely in it. Which I blamed on the other man in my life, a man who wanted nothing to do with me. It was this attitude that had really gotten under my skin.

“You should try goat yoga,” Mom suggested, standing at the bathroom door. “I saw it on the internet. It’s all the rage.” Apparently she was serious.

I wrinkled my nose. “Mom. You can’t believe everything you see on the internet. I know goats. Goats aren’t exactly Zen-friendly. Nobody in their right mind would do yoga with goats.”

I was about to shut the door on her when she added, “Hannah’s considering it.”

It was all that needed to be said. Hannah Winthrop, one of my best friends, owned Yoga in the Cove. She was tall, blonde, and bendy … and perpetually hyped-up on caffeine. I could almost picture her trying such a class. The thought made me laugh.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “But today I’m just going to stick to running.” I cast her a wink and shut the door.