by Darci Hannah
He now stopped playing Angry Birds on his phone and shoved it into his pocket. Then, placing a hand over Char’s, he added, “The White Lady. That’s what we called her. Remember, hon?” Tay’s mom stared doe-eyed at her fiancé and nodded. “Get this,” Todd continued, shifting his attention to Tay. “She wanted an outdoor portrait, like we did, with the lake in the background. But Alexa chose to stand beside the trunk of a knotty old tree, and she was wearing this outdated white gown from, like, the sixties or seventies. Might have looked virginal on a younger woman, but on Alexa it looked positively haunting.” He manufactured a shiver for comedic effect.
“Maybe that was the point of it,” Tay remarked. “A portrait by Silvia isn’t cheap. Maybe old Alexa wanted it done to spite her daughter. I hear she’s loaded, and I met her daughter once. Wouldn’t it be the ultimate payback to have a creepy portrait painted of yourself, then state in your will that in order to inherit, the portrait must be hung in a place of prominence in the inheritor’s house? Every time Alexa’s spoiled-rotten daughter would walk past it, she’d feel the cold, dead eyes of her mother judging her from beyond the grave.”
“Oh, for cripes’ sake, Tay,” Todd admonished. “That’s disgusting.”
“You’re engaged to my mom and you think that’s disgusting?” Tay genuinely liked Todd, but she was never one to miss an opportunity to torque him up a bit. They fought like brother and sister, which was slightly disturbing when, in reality, they were about to become stepfather and stepdaughter. “My story’s funny, Todd,” Tay went on. “You’re disgusting.”
“All right, you two,” Char broke in. “Enough.”
The conversation was once again brought under control. After a few more colorful descriptions of the local artists, I excused myself and went to check on Silvia. Hannah excused herself as well, but it wasn’t to Silvia she was heading. Nope, my tea-besotted friend headed straight for the table where Peter McClellan was taking orders for Silvia’s next round of commissions.
Seven
It was challenging enough for the owner of an inn to see to the needs of all their paying guests, but with a customer as vocal and demanding as Silvia Lumiere, something had to give. Unfortunately, over the first few weeks of her stay I wasn’t the only one she harassed. Even more unsettling than our celebrity guest was the pool the staff had going in the kitchen. They were placing bets on who would crack first: Erik Larson, Bob Bonaire, or me.
After the success of the high tea, I honestly thought Silvia would settle down and be civil. After all, Mom had outdone herself for the event, and Silvia had been the center of attention. The dozen new commissions she’d put up for sale had sold out in a matter of minutes, and all her private unveilings had been scheduled and scattered out over the summer. This, I surmised, was another attempt to build drama and keep the air of excitement going. Silvia had openly praised Grandma Jenn for her delicious tea sandwiches and couldn’t stop raving about my cherry scones. Of course this pleased me to no end. I took great pride in our cherry orchard and inn, but most especially in the cherry-inspired baked goods I had worked so hard to perfect while living in Chicago. The inn’s bakery, Bloom ’n’ Cherries!, was now booming. Cherry pies had always been a hot seller, but now, thanks to Silvia and the praise she’d lavished on my cherry scones over the first few weeks of her stay, we couldn’t keep enough on the shelves. This was partially due to the fact that I’d taken Gran’s advice, as well as to Dad’s inspired gazebo.
The gazebo sat on the back lawn and offered a spectacular view of the Bay of Green Bay, an arm of Lake Michigan on the west coast of the Door Peninsula, and also the smaller, picturesque Cherry Cove Bay. Quaint white buildings, a lofty church spire, and the rustic log cabins of the village dotted the half-moon shoreline. The inn, built on the opposite shore and sitting on a gentle rise, had one of the best views in all of Cherry Cove, and Silvia Lumiere knew it.
On the days Silvia painted outside, a gallery of chairs was set up around the gazebo. There was a lazy sort of charm in watching a painter at work, whether it be on a landscape or with a new client during a siting, and the seats were always filled. Most who came to watch were Silvia’s fans from the artist community, but I was happy to note that quite a few guests were enjoying the experience as well. The advertiser in me couldn’t help but drum up a little more business on those days. Gran had planted the seed and I ran with it, setting up a little stand that sold coffee, tea, lemonade, and cherry scones. It was a simple stand, the kind that only required being polite and making change. Since the inn was getting busier than ever and the waitresses were already overworked, I decided to hand the stand over to Erik Larson. The boy was dependable, and also charmed by the idea of earning extra money.
“Whitney, dear, bring me one of those immediately!” demanded Silvia the moment she spied me carrying a tray of fresh scones out to Erik. “And don’t be mean with the lemon curd and clotted cream. My blood sugar’s dipping. And tell that lazy ingrate of yours that my coffee’s gone cold. The brute just sits there, flirting with the waitresses.”
I had to admit, this wasn’t far off the mark for Erik. Especially if Kenna was working.
“He hasn’t even bothered to refresh my mug,” the painter continued from her chair under the gazebo for all to hear. “This may be one of the most beautiful inns I have ever had the pleasure of staying at, but the help leaves something to be desired.” She lifted her head and glared down her nose in the direction of the boy through her zebra-striped glasses. All heads turned in our direction.
“That old dried-out sack of paintbrushes needs a lesson in manners,” Erik growled under his breath the moment I set the tray down on the table. I cast him a stern, watch-your-step look.
“What?” he said defensively. “It’s the truth. She’s had three scones already and insists she doesn’t have to pay. And it’s not like I have a pot here that I can just pick up and carry over to her easel. It’s a self-serve push-pot! It’s for all my customers. I’m not going to upset the flow of business by picking it up and lugging it over there for that dolled-up hag at her easel.”
“Enough with the names, Erik. It’s not appropriate to sink to her level. And did you ever think about picking up her mug, dumping out the cold coffee and refilling it?”
“Why should we treat her any differently than we treat the other guests? If I let that nasty woman dump out her cold coffee and get a refill at no charge, I have to let everyone else do the same. Everyone staying here already gets complimentary breakfast with all the coffee they can drink, but breakfast is over. This is a stand. It’s a separate business, Ms. Bloom. My customers are actually tipping me for the service.” He gestured to a large, brightly painted jar on the table that was hard to miss. “And most of that lot aren’t staying here anyhow.”
“That’s a very good point,” I said, mildly impressed with Erik’s burgeoning business acumen. I loaded a fresh scone onto a paper plate and, mustering a determined look, told him, “I’ll handle this.”
I honestly thought that I could. But when I explained to Silvia that after breakfast the scones were not complimentary and that she would have to pay for them, she threw a fit. It didn’t matter that we were in front of her coffee-sipping, scone-nibbling admirers. If anything, it drove her on, inspiring her to fling such phrases as “overpriced rubbish” and “glaring lack of Midwestern hospitality” and, worst of all, “shoddy biscuits stuffed with subpar cherries.”
The insults not only stung me, but also shamed me. My face grew hot and I had to bite my tongue. If I didn’t I feared I would snap. My only recourse was to leave the painter with another complimentary scone with all the fixings and a fresh cup of coffee.
“Whitney, isn’t it?”
I was nearly on the patio when the voice stopped me.
“Alexa Livingstone.” The Cherry Country Arts Council president extended her hand. “I was at the high tea you threw in Silvia’s honor.”
“She’s a trying woman,” Alexa began in a distinctly Chicago accent. She waved a beringed hand nonchalantly. “Her little eccentricities can take a rather nasty turn. We’ve all been in your shoes at one time or another. What I came to tell you is how thankful we all are that you handled the situation like a professional. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Ms. Bloom. Silvia’s meanness is only surpassed by her talent, and she’s extraordinarily mean.”
“Implying that her talent is even more extraordinary?” I raised a skeptical brow at this.
“Yes,” she said, unflinchingly. “Especially in a backwater like Cherry Cove. Her technique is remarkable. Her use of shadow and light is sublime. And wait until you see one of her finished portraits. You’ll understand what I’m trying to tell you then.”
“What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
A forced smile rippled across her unnaturally taut face, an act reminiscent of a wave hitting a seawall. “Quite simply,” she began, “that we at the arts council feel it’s imperative we do nothing to lose Silvia Lumiere. An artist of her talent could summer anywhere they pleased, and yet she has chosen to come here. Regardless of her demanding ways, she must be treated with the respect her talent deserves. We owe that much to the community.” Alexa paused. “I can tell that you don’t like this idea.”
“Honestly, no. I’m partial to the Golden Rule myself. You know, treat others as you would like to be treated? I don’t believe rudeness should get a pass because of talent.”
“But you are not an artist, Ms. Bloom.” This was stated matter-of-factly and with a smack of condescension as well.
For some reason her presumption rankled me. “Not an artist?” I retorted and crossed my arms. “Some might argue that I am. Although my medium isn’t as traditional as paint and clay. I work in cherries.”
“That’s baking, not art.”
I exhaled a bit forcefully. “All right, look. We’re all going out of our way here to treat that woman like a queen, and for our efforts she’s stomping all over us like secondhand carpet. And she’s under some misguided impression that the Cherry Orchard Inn is an all-inclusive resort, which we’re not. We’re strictly a bed-and-breakfast establishment here. But that doesn’t stop her from ordering dinner every night, eating most of it, and then sending it back to the kitchen with scathing remarks only to demand another dinner—on the house! I’ve already given her a second room for Mr. McClellan at no extra cost—”
During my tirade, Alexa was fumbling with her purse. “I’ll pay you for whatever she eats,” she cut in. “Send me the bill.”
“No,” I blurted, placing a hand over hers. “What I mean is, that’s very kind of you but not necessary. Honestly, I don’t understand why you’d go to all this trouble for some ungrateful woman?”
“Let me put it to you this way. In the artist community, that woman is a superstar. She’s the equivalent of an A-list actor. She could spend her summers anywhere she wishes, but she’s chosen us; she’s chosen Cherry Cove. Silvia is willing to paint our portraits and let us watch her stellar technique. In return our community is enriched, our reputation gains prestige. You’re new here. Your mother obviously never told you, but Silvia Lumiere is the one guest that does get a pass on bad behavior. Really, Ms. Bloom, it’s for the greater good.”
Eight
F or the greater good. I was still trying to wrap my head around that concept, and the fact that nearly every member of the Cherry Country Arts Council willingly allowed Silvia Lumiere to bully them, when Jack stopped by the inn. It was a Wednesday morning two weeks after Silvia’s arrival. I was manning the Bloom ’n’ Cherries! bakery counter and felt a welling of guilt at the sight of him. I hadn’t met him for a downhill run since our demanding painter had arrived. Jack was checking in to see how things were going and, of course, to eat one of my cherry scones, having heard so much about them.
I assured him I was fine and teased, “You’re finally giving up your donut habit for my cherry scones. Welcome to the club.” I grinned and placed an extra scone in the bag for MacDuff, who was waiting in the car.
Jack, looking adorably smug, said, “Really? Does this look like the body of a donut-eating cop?”
I gave his well-fitting uniform the once-over. No, it certainly did not, I thought, and consciously refrained from licking my lips. Jack cleared his throat. Dangit! I had stared too long. What the heck was I doing? “You hide it well,” I remarked, covering my guffaw.
“Only because I run. The only reason I’m here now is because word on the street is, your scones are to die for. You know my kryptonite.”
“Cherry pastry, I believe, especially the type pushed on you by kindly old ladies.”
“And young ladies as well. We’ve missed you,” he added, all the playful flirtation leaving his voice. “Every time we come to the hill, MacDuff dashes off in search of you. Poor thing can’t figure out where you’re hiding.”
“Here, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Jack.”
“It’s that Lumiere woman, isn’t it?” His soft, honey-colored gaze held mine. “Every summer she’s been coming here it’s the same story. She always manages to make life a living hell for some poor soul.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Surely not you?” he said, picking up on my sarcasm. When I didn’t reply he pursed his lips, looking genuinely concerned. “Whit, that’s not good.”
“Oh, on the contrary, it’s for the greater good, or so I’m told by the Cherry Country Arts Council. After all, the customer’s always right. Right?” I was feeling a little giddy as I launched into a hushed tirade. Lack of sleep and a waking nightmare in the form of Silvia Lumiere was beginning to unhinge me. “Nothing’s ever good enough for her,” I hiss-whispered, leaning across the counter so only he could hear. “Every dinner she’s ordered she’s sent back. Every morning there’s a new complaint about her room. She’s accused the housekeepers of stealing her paints and demands repayment for what’s gone missing from her room, never thinking that her assistant might have used them up by mixing her colors for her. She can’t manage the stairs, and when her overworked assistant isn’t available to hold her hand on the elevator she insists Erik takes his place—all because she’s afraid of elevators and refuses to use a cane or a walker.”
I paused for a breath, then continued. “Sometimes it’s that potter friend of hers, Fred Beauchamp, who escorts her to her room. He fawns all over her. It’s disgusting. But I tell you, she’s just humoring him. Anyhow, the moment Fred leaves, Silvia orders room service.”
I threw a hand in the air. “She knows the kitchen’s closed, but that doesn’t stop her. Since she demands that Erik deliver it, I’ve gotten in the habit of making up either a charcuterie board or a plate of cherry scones with lemon curd and clotted cream. And she always orders a bottle of wine.” I stared at Jack a moment to make my point.
“And she never signs for it, of course. And heaven forbid she actually tips that poor kid. I seriously doubt she’ll even pay her bill when all is said and done. And she’s terrible to that boy, Jack, calling him an ingrate one minute and pinching his behind the next like an old creeper. Erik’s on the verge of quitting, and I don’t blame him. For his sake I should have never hir
ed him back. The only reprieve we get is a few precious hours on the weekends. And we deserve those! That’s when her assistant loads up the trailer and whisks her away on her unveilings. She makes such a big production of it all… as if she wants everyone to be awed by her talent. The moment we see her leave we all want to lock the doors behind her and catch our breath, but we can’t. We have a lot of guests arriving on the weekends. I tell you, Jack, we’re all walking on eggshells here. Honestly, I don’t know if I’m going to last until the end of the summer. A few more weeks of this and I’m going to strangle the old sack of paintbrushes myself,” I declared, borrowing Erik’s spiteful pet name for our guest.
“Jesus, Whit,” Jack breathed, sweeping a nervous eye around the room. Other than a few couples eating before the fireplace in the breakfast room we were alone. “Don’t say that, okay?”
“Oh, for the love of Pete, Jack! It’s not like I’m going to do it or anything. It’s only a fantasy—one I’ve been harboring ever since that woman arrived.”
Jack, blanching, held up a cautioning hand. “Whit, seriously, you’re in danger of becoming unhinged. I know the signs. I saw plenty of it in Milwaukee. Too much stress coupled with too little sleep and a person can snap. And snapping’s never good. Dear Lord, you can’t even sneak away for a morning run, or an hour of yoga with Hannah. I know, because she’s told me.”
I crossed my arms on the counter and hung my tired head. “My baking schedule’s ramped up. As hard as it is to admit, Silvia Lumiere is good for business.”
“That may be, but what you really need is a day off.”