14
Jack paced the kitchen, as had become his habit in the early morning hours after Marie left for her run. The girl couldn’t sleep more than three or four hours a night. If she wasn’t up late painting, she was drawing layout designs for the bedrooms. Even if she excused herself to her room early—as she had the night before as soon as Aretha left—her light didn’t turn off until the wee hours of the morning.
And somehow she was still the most pleasant person in the house.
He rubbed a hand over his hair, the other at his waist as he stalked the room. The inn was supposed to open the first of May. Rooms had been booked and guests confirmed. And they were behind and without money to pay a crew to help them get back on schedule.
He scrubbed his whiskers with his fingernails.
They had so much more than finishing touches to finalize. The shower in one of the first-floor bathrooms didn’t have any tile. The outside of the house needed to be painted. All of the kitchen cabinets needed to be finished.
He shoved at an open drawer, which groaned but didn’t move.
And apparently that drawer needed to be fixed.
Then, of course, they hadn’t started planting the garden or really gotten into the landscaping. It was too cold to do much yet, but they didn’t have a plan in place, and Marie seemed pretty sure that they needed one.
He swung open the refrigerator door, analyzing the breakfast options. Even after Marie’s most recent grocery store trip, the shelves seemed bare. Cold cereal and milk it was, despite his craving for something more akin to Caden’s sweet rolls—or scrambled eggs and biscuits.
Rose made the best biscuits, light and fluffy layers of heaven.
She’d left a recipe in her tin box. Next to the shortbread and pie crust cards.
He’d tried to make them. Once.
After she’d gotten sick.
He scratched his chin, covering his mouth and wishing the taste of strawberry preserves over oven-fresh biscuits wasn’t on the tip of his tongue.
He slammed the stainless steel fridge door closed, but the rubber seal bounced, swinging it wide again.
“Jack? Are you okay?”
Whipping around at the sound of Marie’s voice, he tried not to look too embarrassed. This was his home, after all. And if he missed his wife’s biscuits, then he was entitled to slam a door.
But the concern deep in Marie’s eyes couldn’t be missed. Even her rosy cheeks and wind-tossed ponytail didn’t detract from the very real unease.
Jack sagged against the counter next to the sink. “I’m fine.”
She nodded, but the creases in her forehead told him she wasn’t quite convinced. What did she want him to say? That he missed Rose? True. That he had started thinking he’d made the biggest mistake of his life trying to open a bed-and-breakfast? Also true. That he couldn’t stop as long as he remembered Rose?
He’d sat beside her hospital bed and promised her. He’d sworn that he’d find a home and open her inn on Prince Edward Island.
Failure wasn’t an option.
But success was out of reach.
“I’m sorry, honey.” He and Rose had never had any kids, but somehow it seemed right to soothe her with kind words. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just . . .”
“Are you worried about the money? I think I can help. I’m pretty good at putting together a business plan. And I can help with marketing.” When he shook his head and waved off her offer, she simply plowed forward. “And in the short term, you don’t have to pay me. Really. I don’t need it. I’m all right.” She looked away as she said the last words. She’d said them often in the three weeks he’d known her, but no matter how often she did, it was clear she wasn’t all right.
Rose had dreamed and prayed for this old house. She’d prayed that the broken would find healing under its roof. Long before the house had an address or an image in their minds, she had petitioned God for a place of healing.
She’d have liked Marie. And Aretha too. Rose would have liked North Rustico in general.
The thought of her smiling and standing in this kitchen brought a grin to his face.
Ignoring Marie’s words, he pulled a mug from an overhead cabinet and filled it with coffee. He held it out to her, but she shook her head. Taking a sip himself, he sighed. “Marie, I loved my Rose more than anyone else in this world. She was kind, and she always smelled like peppermints. And not just at Christmas. All year long. How do you think a body gets to smell like peppermint?”
Marie filled up a glass with tap water but stopped with it halfway to her mouth. “I’m not sure. Lotion maybe. Didn’t you ever ask her?”
He squinted as he stared at the opposite wall, not really seeing the trim around the plant shelves above the cupboards. “I guess not.” He took another sip, the bitter liquid stinging the inside of his lip. “Sometimes a little mystery in life is good. It keeps you wondering. Keeps you thinking.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Life. Dreams.”
She gulped down half of the water in her glass in one chug. “Jack, can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“You’re opening the Red Door for Rose, right? Because it was her dream. It’s what she wanted.”
He nodded slowly. The girl’s question wasn’t quite complete. “Yes.”
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I’m curious. What’s your dream?”
Jack opened his mouth to tell her his dream was the inn too. But his trap snapped shut with sudden realization.
He didn’t love the old walls or creaking floor. He didn’t care if the bathroom tile was white or taupe. And he couldn’t pick an attractive paint color to save his life. Opening the inn wasn’t his dream.
“Jack?”
He couldn’t quite make the words come out of his mouth. He couldn’t even pinpoint them in his mind.
The pathetic thunk of the doorbell saved him from having to answer. “Let me see who that is.” He scuttled to the front door and opened it with more energy than was required. Marie’s friend from church, the one who made all those tasty sweet breads, stood on the porch, a white paper bag in her hands.
“Mr. Sloane. I’m Caden. Holt.”
He nodded, stepping aside to let her enter. “Marie’s friend.”
“Yes, sir.” Her short blonde hair bounced around her round cheeks, and her pretty blue eyes glowed.
“Caden.” Marie slipped out of the kitchen, a complete opposite to her friend, petite and reserved where Caden was solid and bubbly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Caden shot a tentative glance in his direction. “Mom and Aretha wanted to make sure you’re eating well enough.” Her chuckle masked the uncertainty in her words.
Jack suffered from no such modesty. “So did they send us something to eat?”
She nodded, holding out her bag. He took it and poked his head inside. The perfume of heaven floated out. Fresh bread and tart apples. And something citrusy, like an orange grove in a bag. “What is this?”
“Um . . .” She peeked over the edge of the sack and pointed. “Those are orange scones with an orange cream glaze. That’s a loaf of raisin cinnamon bread. And those are apple turnovers.”
He nodded his approval and took another sniff. “Do I have to share?”
Caden’s gaze leapt to Marie and back to him. “Only if you want happy employees.”
He shrugged. “They’ve been cranky before. I think I could handle that again if I can keep this all for myself.”
Her smile was all teeth and charm.
“What are you doing today?” Marie asked.
“I have the day off.” She opened her coat to reveal a bleach-stained T-shirt. “I thought I might be of some help.”
Marie twisted the screw in the back of a cupboard door until the handle popped off. Then she sanded around the edges of the hole, smoothing down the splinters.
“These are beautiful.” Caden stood next to the stainless steel double oven affixed to the wall. Her fingers brushed the metal handles with a reverence that Marie hadn’t ever seen in a kitchen before.
She shrugged. “I guess. I never thought about it.”
“Try learning to cook in an oven older than you are that has a habit of burning both the tops and bottoms of your cakes.” She winked from behind an unruly swipe of blonde bangs. “You’ll gain an appreciation for fine appliances. And Jack has very good taste.”
“Try never learning to cook at all.” Marie caught her thumb on a rough patch of wood and cringed, popping it into her mouth.
“Never?”
Staring at the tip of her finger until the redness subsided, Marie said, “Nope. We had a—umm, I guess I just never had to. And I didn’t really want to either. But my mom’s best friend Georgiana was an interior designer, and she took me under her wing when she worked on our house.” No need for Caden to know it had been their beach house.
Of course, most houses on the island were on the beach. But the Red Door Inn—although right off the bay—was just half the size of her father’s place on the Cape and intended to house three times as many people.
Caden looked down at her empty hands. “I feel like I should be doing something. What can I do?”
“Well, I almost have the handles off the cabinets. Then we’ll give them a quick sanding before we paint them. Do you want to sand the ones I’ve already done?”
“Sure.” She picked up a sheet of sandpaper and swiped it in a straight line down the front of a cupboard door. “Like this?”
Marie held up a flat palm facing away from her, making small circles in the air. “Make loose, round motions. You’re not trying to smooth it out, just give it enough texture so the paint will stick to it.”
“Paint doesn’t stick to stuff naturally? I mean, it doesn’t seem to be sliding off the wall or anything.”
She waited to see if Caden was serious, so when the blonde turned, her eyebrows pulled together and a pleasant frown in place, Marie nodded slowly. “It does naturally stick to surfaces, but sometimes, if there’s a glossy coat or smooth surface on the bottom, you have to give it a little extra something to grab on to.”
Caden followed her directions, the scratching stiff and disjointed. “So you learned all of this from your mom’s friend? Did you work for her?”
The loose metal handles and screws clanked together as she swept them off the counter into a baggie. “Not exactly.”
“An internship?”
“I loved design, so I took any excuse I could to spend time with Georgiana.” Marie looked up at the ceiling, searching for the right word. “It was probably more like stalking.”
Caden chuckled, then abruptly stopped as a fine cloud of dust reached her nose. Her sneeze rattled the cabinets, sending them both into a bout of laughter. After rubbing her nose, Caden said, “Did you go to university for design then?”
Marie pressed a hand to her chest as a dull ache settled in. Even after ten years, the memory stung of turning down the invitation to attend Parsons The New School for Design in New York. “No. My dad didn’t think design was a prestigious enough career path.”
The words felt strange as they came out. Like she’d never said them before. Maybe she hadn’t. She’d sure thought it enough times, but no one disagreed with Elliot Carrington, especially not his only child.
“Really?”
“Really.” She sighed, the memories close, the regrets closer. She hadn’t stood up to her dad then. In fact, she’d only stood up to him once. Well, running to PEI just to get away from him wasn’t exactly standing up to him. But at least she hadn’t become his pawn.
Caden’s sanding slowed as she turned to stare over her shoulder at Marie. “So did you go to university?”
“Sure. I went into the family business.”
“I didn’t know your family had a business. What is it?”
Well, that wasn’t exactly a business. But her father was an expert at making money. Investing in property, building condos, and leveraging assets. He’d leverage anything he could to make a sweet million.
She pinched her eyes closed against the image of her dad’s face on that morning in early January. After a week in hiding, a week trying to scrub the filth off her skin, she’d emerged from her suite. He’d acted bored with her, telling her she was overly dramatic. Of course, she wouldn’t go to the police right that minute. She’d wait until the right time.
He put his foot down, and she let him. She stayed away from the truth because it hurt just to think about it. Because every breath in Boston was like sucking air through plastic. Because she was sure she was truly alone for the first time in her life.
After her mother died and her father—jealous of Georgiana’s influence on Marie—told Georgiana she wasn’t welcome in the Carrington home, Marie had clung to her mother’s last words of hope. She’d spoken with such conviction of a God who cared for his children.
But how could a good God, a loving Father, leave her to the devices of a man who would barter her pain for a deal on the property he wanted?
“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.