by Darci Hannah
I hated the thought of lost revenue, but one had to know when to cut their losses. For Mom’s sake as well as the inn’s reputation, I offered Mr. McClellan’s room free-of-charge for the duration of their stay.
“I guess that will just have to do,” the painter said, and tottered off toward the elevator, careful not to spill her cocktail.
Tate had a glass of wine waiting for me at dinner. We were dining at our own private table. He had insisted. I suddenly realized, then, how great it was seeing both the wine and him sitting there. Although we had our differences, I couldn’t deny that there was always something comforting about Tate—his kind smile, his ease of manner, the familiarity … the dimples. It was a big part of the reason I couldn’t let go. That, and the fact that he was persistent.
“So,” he began, staring at me over his wineglass, “now that you’ve met Silvia, what do you think?”
I glanced at the woman in question. She was sitting at the head of a large table, surrounded by her adoring friends, Mom, Dad and Grandma Jenn among them. “What do I think?” I repeated and took a hefty sip from my own glass. “I think I want to strangle her. I want to like her,” I told him honestly, “like I want to like a vicious bichon frise that bites me every time I try to pet it. Eventually you get bit so many times you give up. I’m being nice,” I said to his questioning gaze. “Truly, I am. I’m even giving her a second room—on the house. And don’t get me started about how poorly she treated Margaret.”
“This, I believe, is what they call baptism by fire, Whit. You’ve only been managing the inn for a month and you’ve been saddled with the most difficult customer possible. Did I mention that she stiffed Erik after he brought all that luggage to her room, then turned and propositioned me, asking if I’d like to come back after dinner for a nightcap? Of course I said yes.” He flashed his dimples.
“You had to,” I said, playing along. “It’s called taking one for the team. Maybe you can use your charm to woo her … or, better yet, take her out on your sailboat and toss her overboard. I’ll take care of Erik.”
“No need. I already have. Slipped him a couple of twenties for his efforts. And that woman’s not stepping aboard the Lusty Dutchman, babe. I told you, I have my standards.”
The duck in the cherry demi-glace was sublime, and yet Silvia, having eaten most of it, sent it back, stating that it was dry and gamey. An expertly grilled New York strip was brought out immediately in exchange for the duck, which seemed to please her better, although she couldn’t keep from offering a few helpful pointers on the proper way to grill a steak to the chef via the waitress. I hoped the young woman had the foresight not to pass them along. It would never do to make an enemy of Chef Bob Bonaire.
Sunday the onus was on me. Well, Grandma Jenn and me. Since Mom had put us in charge of the high tea reception we were determined to make it the event of the summer. We’d been in the kitchen since five a.m. working on the food. Gran, having a passion for fancy finger-sized nibbles, headed up the savory treats, peeling hard-boiled eggs for her creamy egg salad, which was spread on ribbons of soft pumpernickel bread. She whipped up herbed butter for her delectable cucumber sandwiches on flattened farmhouse white bread, and shredded poached chicken for her scrumptious cherry chicken salad. This she served on soft King’s Hawaiian dinner rolls.
While Gran worked on the sandwiches, I was busy preparing the mini desserts for the three-tiered plates. Classic lemon tarts were a must, as well as plump strawberries filled with sweet clotted cream. Other strawberries were dipped in chocolate and drizzled with a white chocolate flourish. I made little white cake squares covered in a smooth white gnash glaze. Although all the mini desserts were divine, my mini cherry scones with sour cherry drizzle were my favorite. I’d been perfecting the recipe for weeks until finally achieving a scone that combined the best of the British Isles with the taste of Door County. Like with Gran’s award-winning cherry chicken salad, I used toasted pecan and dried tart cherries grown on our own orchard.
In the dining room Mom had worked a little magic of her own, transforming the tables into a vision of Victorian wonder. Each was covered with lacy white linen and adorned with a tall vase overflowing with gorgeous fat roses in shades of pink and white. Blue cornflowers and purple lilacs added splashes of color, while lily of the valley lent a certain nostalgic charm to the arrangements. The pretty china teapots and the delicate china cups and saucers completed the transformation. It was enough to make anybody feel special, including a diva artist like Silvia Lumiere.
“How do you put up with her?” I asked Grandma Jenn.
“Patience, dear, and a lot of flattery. Vain people demand it. But in Silvia’s case I think you’ll find it a worthwhile effort. She really does have quite an extraordinary gift,” Gran added, slicing peeled cucumbers for her herbed cucumber sandwiches. “And she knows how to put on a show. Just wait. People will be hovering like flies to commission her for a portrait or a landscape. She has a knack for those too. But she can only take so many, you know. And people do love to watch her paint.”
“So you’re saying that I should just hold my tongue and keep kissing-up to her, even if I feel that she’s taking us for a ride?”
Grandma Jenn’s sky-blue eyes twinkled as she looked up from her finger sandwiches. “Think of her like a queen bee with a particularly sharp stinger. Drones will flock to her, but those drones must eat something. Keep Silvia on your good side, dear, and keep baking plenty of those delicious cherry treats of yours. Have fun with it. Set up a little Bloom ’n’ Cherries! table on the lawn when she’s painting and staff it with a couple of the high school waitresses. Don’t be afraid to exploit Silvia’s gifts, because you’ve already learned she’s not afraid to exploit yours.”
Bolstered by Gran’s sage advice and her contagious optimism, I felt a little better about our difficult guest. The feeling continued when the French doors to the dining room were opened, revealing a throng of excited guests in their finest tea-toting attire. My spirits soared even higher when I saw my two best friends.
“Holy Victorian Splendor!” Hannah remarked, looking stunning in her mid-length floral dress and floppy wide brimmed hat. She ran her bright blue eyes over the dining room. “This place looks amazing. Jani’s really outdone herself this time.”
“It’s a room meant to impress,” Tay remarked, rocking a flapper-inspired ensemble that accented her chic red hair and large brown eyes. “So how’s our celebrity?”
“Hopefully arriving soon. I’m told she likes to make an entrance.”
“She does. Char does too,” Tay informed us. “They should be here any minute. Last summer, Todd commissioned Silvia to paint their portrait as an engagement gift to Mom.”
“How romantic,” Hannah quipped teasingly.
“Isn’t it just?” Tay agreed with a quick lift of her brow that held a hint of disgust. “Anyhow, they’re both geeking out because Silvia’s bringing it here. She likes to unveil all her commissions from the summer before in front of her adoring public.” A mischievous look came to her eyes as she added, “Can’t wait to see the masterpiece I’ve been referring to all year as Mother and Son. Hope it doesn’t disappoint.” Her grin was deliciously diabolical. It faded the moment she remarked, “Hey, where are the easels?”
“What?” A flash of dread shot through me.
“The easels. You know, those things that prop up the paintings?”
My jaw dangled a moment before re-engaging. “She never mentioned anything about easels.”
“Well, if she never said anything, then you’re off the hook.”
“That’s not the way things work with Ms. Lumiere,” I told them, ushering my friends to their seats. “She doesn’t tell, she just expects. Hopefully she’s put her assistant in charge of the easels. But just in case I better go check. I’ll join you in a minute.”
I turned to go, then stopped as a tall, slender, immaculately
dressed older woman stood before the podium, beaming from ear to ear.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Alexa Livingstone, president of the Cherry Country Arts Council. Today I have the great privilege of introducing my long-time friend and Cherry Coves’ favorite summer artist in residence, Ms. Silvia Lumiere.”
Six
Silvia Lumiere did know how to make an entrance, I have to give her that. She waltzed into the crowded room on the arm of her assistant, dressed from head to toe in black with a shimmering silver wrap draped around her shoulders. It set off her luminous, white pixy hair and matched her sparkly slippers. She appeared a fashion-forward superhero for the elderly, and, judging from the looks on the mesmerized faces, that’s apparently what she was. Peter McClellan, for his part, had brushed out his man bun of the night before, letting his magnificent mane of brown hair tumble down his back in silken waves. He was wearing an embroidered tunic over white baggy pants, and sandals on his feet. His face, in contrast to Silvia’s bubbling rapture, appeared bored, his eyes gentle yet distant. I was staring at the pair of them when an elbow in my ribs demanded my attention.
“Who’s the hot Jesus,” Hannah whispered.
“What? Oh, that’s Peter McClellan, Silvia’s assistant.” I frowned. “The fact you think he’s hot is a little disturbing.”
Hannah, ignoring my mild disgust, brightened. “So he’ll be here for the summer?”
Tay, grinning from ear to ear, nodded. “He’s got ‘yoga guy’ written all over him, doesn’t he? I bet he’s as bendy as you are, Hannah.”
“He does look bendy,” she mused, staring at the man in question. “And doesn’t HJ just ooze sexual enlightenment? I’m calling him HJ now because Whit finds Hot Jesus offensive.” She rolled her eyes at Tay, who was giggling.
“Can we just call him Peter?”
“You can,” she said. “But I call dibs. You all heard it. You already have Tate,” she continued. “Besides, rumor on the street has it that you’ve been making early morning visits to the police station as well.” Her weighted look was beyond insinuating. “Two men should be enough for you.”
“He’s my jogging buddy,” I hiss-whispered.
“How’s that going?” Tay, with elbows on the table and chin plopped between her hands, held me in a rapt, questioning gaze.
“Truthfully, not very well. I was only able to make it out twice. I’ve been too busy to think about running the last few days.”
“Or Jack?” she teased. “I don’t believe that for a moment. And what about Tate? Mrs. Cushman over there”—she gestured to Tate’s housekeeper, who was sitting with Grandma Jenn—“was just telling me how happy he’s been since you’ve moved back home. Said you’ve been to his house a time or two but haven’t yet set foot on the Lusty Dutchman.” She raised an accusatory eyebrow at this.
The Lusty Dutchman was Tate’s sailboat and his favorite make-out spot. That boat held a lot of memories. I wasn’t ready to climb aboard it just yet. I banished the thought and waved to Mrs. Cushman. “Dear Mrs. Cushman. I’m surprised she’s noticed now that she lives aboard that fancy yacht. But again, I’ve been so busy with all the baking and trying to get a handle on running this place that I don’t even have time to give men, or romance, a serious thought. And now with Ms. Lumiere staying here, it’s likely to get worse before it gets better. My plan is to just forget about men for a while and concentrate on my career for the time being. I’m good at that. I’ve had plenty of practice. Besides, what we really should be focusing on is Tay and her knight in shining armor. How is your hunky warrior and his jousting?” I asked, glad to be changing the subject.
Tay grinned. “I went to the Ren fair yesterday, and it was awesome. I was propositioned by a dwarf dressed as a jester and pinched in the keister by the king. And Lance wasn’t slain. He broke three lances.”
Hannah wrinkled her nose. “That sounds tragic. Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. And that’s a great thing … not the proposition or the pinch,” Tay clarified with an eye roll. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing. But breaking a lance on your opponent is how a jouster scores points. Surprisingly, he’s doing really well this year. Must be that new suit of armor, although he doesn’t wear it for jousting. It’s too fancy and way too expensive, but in an odd sort of way it gives him more confidence. And that reminds me. You two both promised you’d come with me to watch Lance joust. There’s to be a tournament in three weeks. It’s on a Sunday, which means both of you can come. No excuses. And bring dates … unless you want to be pinched by medieval creepers.”
“We’re coming!” Hannah declared, and grabbed my hand with more enthusiasm than I felt. “And I know who I’m bringing. I have three weeks to convince him. Who are you going to bring, Whit?” Her look had more of a challenge about it than a mere question. Tay leaned forward, curiosity gripping her as well. The trouble was I knew who I wanted to bring. His face sprang to mind, but I pushed the thought aside. I feared he would refuse the invitation, or worse, he would agree and Tate would find out. While all this played out in my head and my friends, delighting in my inner turmoil, eagerly awaited an answer, I was thankfully spared. Silvia had arrived at the podium.
“What a lovely reception,” she began, gracing the audience with her impish, pixy smile. “And I can’t get over the transformation of this tired old restaurant into this picture of Victorian splendor. We have three generations of the lovely Bloom women to thank for that.” This was followed by a round of applause. I was clapping, too, until I happened to spy Bob Bonaire sitting at one of the far tables. He wasn’t clapping, or smiling. Although cloaked in a compliment, the slight to his restaurant was something he wasn’t about to ignore. Silvia, however, breezed right past it until finally coming to her big announcement. After introducing her new assistant, Peter McClellan, a promising young artist in his own right, she explained that this year she and Peter were going to personally deliver last summer’s commissioned portraits and hold private unveiling ceremonies for the families.
Applause erupted, and I can honestly say that no one was more relieved to hear this than I was. It meant that Silvia hadn’t needed the easels after all. I was off the hook, so to speak. She then announced that she would be taking new commissions for next year, limiting the number to twelve. They were on a first-come-first-serve basis. Peter would be handling the orders and schedule the sittings.
“Did you hear that?” It was Char. She and Todd had joined us shortly after Silvia had made her appearance. “She’s coming to the house for a private unveiling! You girls have to come too. We’ll have hors d’oeuvres, champagne and make an event of it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said, and cast Tay a private wink, thinking of the grand portrait lovingly dubbed Mother and Son.
The high tea reception was going along nicely. The guests staying at the inn seemed to be enjoying the event as much as Silvia’s local admirers were, and of these there were plenty. Mom, Grandma Jenn and their friends from the Cherry Cove Women’s League held their own against an impressive showing from the larger and slightly pretentious members of the Cherry Country Arts Council. I wasn’t as familiar with these folks, mostly because only one of them lived in Cherry Cove, Gran’s nemesis and the woman I shared the Gilded Cherry trophy with, Edna Baker. The rest of the arts council resided all over the peninsula, but it was just my luck that every one of them was familiar with Tay and her shop, Cheery Pickers. Hannah’s yoga classes had attracted more than a few members as well.
“So who’s the middle-aged man with her now?” I asked, noting a man dressed in a blazer and jeans bending close to Silvia. He was whispering something in her ear, making her giggle like a school girl.
“That’s Fred Beauchamp,” Tay informed me. “He’s a potter. Has a studio near Gill’s Rock, and he’s quite the charmer. I sell some of his pottery at the store. He does exceptional work.”
“And ha
s been married four times,” Hannah added. “Rumor has it that he means to make Ms. Lumiere number five.”
I thought about that a minute, recalling what Tate had told me earlier about Silvia going after younger men and his suspicion of Peter McClellan. Fred Beauchamp, although not young, was definitely younger than Silvia. “I guess Mr. Beauchamp’s going to be a frequent visitor at the inn. I’ll have to introduce myself.”
“Alexa Livingstone will be here a lot too,” Hannah continued, setting down her tea cup. She gestured to the president of the arts council. “She’s in my nine a.m. yoga class at the studio. Which reminds me, I need to talk to you about hosting a yoga class here … a goat yoga class. Jenn called me the other day and thought it would be a fun activity for the inn to host. I do too.”
“Excellent idea!” Char exclaimed, looking totally enchanted. “It’s all the rage on YouTube.”
I’m sorry to say that I still found the notion more puzzling than enchanting. “I have no idea what goat yoga might be, and as far as I know you don’t even own goats.”
Hannah shrugged. “Minor issue. I can just rent them. Anyhow, back to Alexa. She moved up here five years ago and shortly thereafter became the president of the arts council. That’s impressive, given all the local artists who’d love that title.”
Char leaned across the table. “She also commissioned a portrait from Silvia last summer. Her sitting was before ours. Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Absolutely,” Todd answered, a little too quickly. He looked up, his large hazel eyes wide and clueless. Todd always reminded me of a nerdier version of an eighties teen movie bad boy—with his preppy attire, country club looks and attitude, and fluffy blond hair that was chronically a little too long. It was probably why Char was attracted to him, since she’d lived and partied in the eighties. Todd, meanwhile, was born in the late eighties. He was thirty-two and a full-blown millennial.