Chapter 1

Monica Albertson drove down the hill, away from Sassamanash Farm and toward Cranberry Cove and Beach Hollow Road. It was sunny but dark clouds hovered over Lake Michigan in the distance. The wind was picking up, too, tipping the waves that rolled toward shore with white foam.

As she passed a cottage on her right that had long been abandoned, she noticed a spiral of smoke rising from the chimney and a dusty green Jeep parked in the driveway. She was startled—the place had been unoccupied since she’d moved to Cranberry Cove last August. The shingles were weathered, the grass out front scrubby, and a number of the windows were boarded up.

She wondered who could be living there. The place must need some work after having sat vacant for so long—much like her little cottage at the farm had. She’d scrubbed and spackled and painted for over a month, but now the place looked fresh and cozy, and Monica loved it.

Monica continued on her way into town and Beach Hollow Road, where all the shop fronts along the main street were painted in soft pastel tones. The tulips, which had stood like brightly colored sentinels along the sidewalk in early May, were gone now, replaced by planters overflowing with flowers in every hue. Baskets of red and white geraniums hung from the old-fashioned gas lamps that a previous mayor of Cranberry Cove had had the foresight to convert to electricity.

Monica found a parking space in front of Twilight, a store that sold healing crystals, tarot cards and other new age items. She waved to Tempest Storm, the proprietor, as she got out of the car. Tempest was dressed in one of her usual bizarre outfits—this time a long scarlet dress with bat-wing sleeves. There was a silver belt slung around her waist that made her look like the chatelaine of an old castle.

Monica walked past Twilight and continued two doors down to the pastel pink façade of Gumdrops, the local candy store.

Hennie VanVelsen greeted Monica as soon as she stepped into the shop. She was one of a pair of elderly identical twins who had been running Gumdrops for as long as anyone could remember. Her gray hair was set in precise marcel waves and her peach shirtwaist dress was as demure as something worn in the 1950s.

Hennie normally greeted her customers with a bright smile but today she had an unaccustomed worried look on her face as Monica approached the counter.

“Is everything okay?” Monica asked. Hennie was normally the more unflappable of the two sisters, and it surprised Monica to see her worried. “Where’s Gerda?”

Hennie fumbled with a box of Droste chocolate pastilles. “She’s in the back.” She inclined her head toward the door to the storage room. “Lying down. She’s not been feeling well lately.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious?” Monica asked in alarm.

Hennie turned the octagonal box of pastilles over and over in her hands. “I certainly do hope not. I don’t know what I’d do without—” She forced her shoulders back and put the candy box down on the counter decisively. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. You know Gerda.” She gave an indulgent smile. “Every little ache or pain sends her into a terrible tizzy and she immediately thinks she’s about to die.”

Monica smiled. She’d been in Cranberry Cove long enough to know that Gerda was something of an alarmist, while Hennie was the stauncher sister. So seeing Hennie worried frightened her, even though Hennie had now put on a brave face.

“I passed that abandoned cottage,” Monica said, hoping the topic would take Hennie’s mind off of her problems. “You know—the one on the road leading to Sassamanash Farm?”

“Yes, I know the one.” Hennie touched a hand to her elaborate gray curls, which were in perfect order as usual.

“I saw smoke coming from the chimney today and a truck—a Jeep—parked in the driveway.”

“You don’t say?”

“It looks as if someone is moving in. I thought maybe you might have heard something about it.”

Hennie looked vexed—as if her sources had, for once, failed her. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard a thing. So you think someone is moving in?” Hennie shuddered. “The place must need quite a lot of work.”

Monica shrugged. “I suppose someone could be cleaning the place out in order to sell it.”

Hennie nodded. “I imagine they have a splendid view of the lake from there—it’s set up quite high. A lake view would make the property highly desirable. I’m surprised it’s sat vacant for so long.” She sighed and fiddled with the antique cameo brooch at her neck. “Someone will probably come in and build another one of those enormous summer homes.” She sighed again. “Cranberry Cove certainly isn’t what it used to be.”

Monica hid a smile. The VanVelsens said that every time a new store opened or someone had the nerve to paint their house a different color.

Hennie slapped her hands down on the counter. “I’m sure we will find out all about it soon enough. You can’t hide something like that in Cranberry Cove.”

Monica laughed. “That’s certainly true.”

“Now, is there something I can get you?”

“Do you have any more of those delicious winegums?” Monica said. “My mother’s birthday is coming up soon and she particularly enjoyed those the last time she was here.”

“You can’t go wrong with Katjes winegums,” Hennie said, retrieving a bag of the brightly colored sweets from the shelf. “They’re imported directly from the Netherlands, you know.” She put the bag on the counter.

The influence of the wave of Dutch immigrants that had come to this area of western Michigan in the late 1800s was still strong, and the VanVelsens were carrying that tradition on with enthusiasm.

Hennie plopped the winegums in a Gumdrops bag and handed it to Monica. Monica swiped her credit card and signed the slip Hennie put out on the counter.

“Are you on the committee that has been planning the Vlaggetjesdag celebration?”

Monica must have looked blank, because Hennie gave a smug smile and went on to explain.

“Vlaggetjesdag is Flag Day, and a tradition in the Netherlands. We have our own little celebration here in Cranberry Cove.”

Monica vaguely remembered seeing flyers about the event, but she’d been too busy to pay much attention.

“Of course, in the Netherlands, Vlaggetjesdag is also the start of herring season and all the fishing boats crowd the harbor, their colorful flags fluttering in the breeze. And, as you can imagine, everyone eats herring.”

“Don’t herring live in saltwater?” Monica asked, searching her memory for the very little she knew about fish.

“Yes, so obviously we don’t have them here in Lake Michigan. Instead we have a Dutch food festival.” Hennie suddenly became animated, clapping her hands together, her eyes glowing. “We have tables and tables of delicious things to eat, games for the children and folk music.”

The only Dutch food Monica had sampled so far was the erwtensoep and the Dutch treat known as oliebollen. She couldn’t conceive of an entire food festival geared around pea soup and doughnuts.

“We have a fabulous rijsttafel, or rice table. The rijsttafel was adapted by the Dutch when they colonized Indonesia to show off to visitors the variety of dishes served in that part of the world. Gerda and I have always contributed something ourselves.” Hennie’s face suddenly darkened. “I hope Gerda will be up for it this year. She would hate to miss it.” She knitted her gnarled hands together. “She would be devastated, you know.”

“Is she that ill? Maybe she should see a doctor?” Monica suggested.

“She’s being rather stubborn about it. Dr. VanderWeide retired, you know, and Gerda’s terribly suspicious of his replacement—young Dr. Albers—although I’m sure he’s perfectly qualified.” She frowned. “Even if he does look terribly young.”

Monica smiled. She’d been to Dr. Albers for a bout with strep throat during the winter, and he was at least forty years old. “I do hope Gerda feels better soon.”

“I’m sure she will,” Hennie replied, a smile replacing her frown.

“I’d better be going.” Monica tucked her receipt into her purse.

“Have a good day, dear. And if you hear any more about that cottage, you will let me know, I hope.”

•   •   •

Monica continued down Beach Hollow Road toward Bart’s Butcher. The scent of the flowers spilling out of the planters competed with the smell of frying bacon coming from the open door of the Cranberry Cove Diner. A colorful poster taped in the window of the diner caught her eye and she stopped to read it. It was all about the Flag Day celebration. She couldn’t imagine how she had missed seeing it before.

Of course, she’d been very busy on the farm with all the baking and cooking, but the phrase time to get a life, crossed her mind. She would have to make an effort to get out more.

Bart’s was empty when she got there. After perusing the case of crown roasts of pork dolled up with paper frills, lamb chops adorned with curly bits of parsley, and skinned and boned chicken breasts, Monica chose a couple of thick porterhouses.

“Good choice,” Bart said as he pulled a sheet of butcher paper from the roll. He slapped the steak. “That’s a fine piece of meat.”

Monica nodded, watching as Bart wrapped up her purchase with practiced ease. “By the way, do you know anything about that abandoned cottage—”

“The one on the road to your farm? Why? You thinking of buying it?”

Monica laughed. “Hardly. I have enough to do keeping up with the farm.”

Bart gave her a sly look. “You could fix the place up, you know. You’d have a nice view from there. Perfect for when you and Greg get married. Very convenient, too. It’s halfway between the farm and his store.”

“What makes you think Greg and I are getting—”

Bart cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Everyone knows he’s going to ask you, it’s only a matter of when.” He chuckled. “They’ve got a pool going over at the diner.”

Monica was momentarily horrified. People were actually talking about her and Greg?

“I think the cottage is already taken,” she said, ignoring Bart’s last comment. “I saw a green Jeep parked in the driveway, and there was smoke coming from the chimney.”

“You don’t say?” Bart paused with a piece of string wrapped around his finger.

“You haven’t heard anything?”

“Not a word.”