by Sophie Moss
She nodded. “Jess and I are helping my mom decorate the new menus. Want to see?”
“Sure.” Izzy followed her over to the table where Jess was stenciling a purple dragonfly border around a piece of white card stock. “That’s beautiful,” Izzy said, noticing how the colors matched the outside of the building.
“Thanks,” Jess said, smiling up at her.
Izzy took in the silver café tables and black and white checkered floor. A glass display case, which she imagined would be filled with pastries and desserts during normal business hours, took up most of the counter space beside the register. From a quick glance at the number of specials crossed off the chalkboard menu above the bar, it looked like it had been a busy day.
“Well, hello there,” Della said, walking out of a room in the back and smiling warmly at Izzy.
“Hi,” Izzy said, returning her smile. “It smells amazing in here.”
“I just put a batch of caramel pecan rolls in the oven,” Della said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I wanted to get a jump start on a few things for the morning.”
“Is that the kitchen?” Izzy asked, peering at the room Della had just walked out of.
“It sure is. Would you like to see it?”
Izzy hesitated, but her curiosity outweighed her fear and she nodded.
Della led her through the swinging, shutter-style half-doors, into a cozy corner kitchen barely big enough to hold two people. She could smell the sticky buns rising in the oven. A batch of skillet brownies was cooling on the stove. Pots and pans covered every flat surface, grouped into a kind of organized chaos that only another chef could understand.
Standing in the doorway, Izzy waited for the memories to creep in, but there was something about the size of the kitchen, and the cluttered chaos of it, that made her feel safe—like nothing bad could ever happen here. “It suits you,” she said finally.
“I like to think so.” Della smiled and transferred four brownies from the cast-iron skillet to a serving plate. “Here,” she said, handing the plate to Izzy. “Carry these out to the girls and take one for yourself. I’m going to pour us each a glass of milk.”
Izzy walked out to the dining room and set the plate between Taylor and Jess. For a moment—just for a moment—she remembered how much pleasure the simple act of making a dish and serving it to someone had once brought her. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think about that, she wasn’t prepared for the sharp stab of longing that came along with it.
“I’m about to start on the caramel glaze for the sweet rolls,” Della said lightly, walking up behind her, “if you care to give me a hand.”
It was an invitation, Izzy thought, without any strings attached or hidden agendas this time. And while she couldn’t deny that a part of her wanted to say yes, she knew better than to risk it. At some point, the memories would catch up with her, and then she’d be right back where she’d started.
Right now, all that mattered was getting through the next two months without any more incidents. If she could finish this program with a good enough reference from Ryan to land a job in Baltimore, she might actually be able to support herself and live a semblance of a normal life again.
“Actually,” Izzy said, taking the glass of milk Della handed her. “I wanted to talk to you about catering an event.”
“Oh?” Della asked as she settled into the chair beside Taylor.
“We’re hosting an open house at the environmental center next Thursday, and I was hoping that you and Annie might…” The sound of footsteps on the stairs had her trailing off. She glanced over at the stairwell that led to the second-story apartment and spotted Annie making her way down to the café. “Oh, good, I’m glad you’re here. I was hoping to talk to both of you.”
Annie’s steps slowed the moment she laid eyes on Izzy, her expression shifting from distracted to wary. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Izzy said, noticing that her tone wasn’t nearly as friendly as Della’s or Taylor’s had been. Hmm. She hadn’t been expecting that.
“Izzy wants us to cater an event for her,” Della said, a little too cheerfully. “She was just about to tell us what she had in mind.”
“I see,” Annie said, pausing at the foot of the stairs, making no moves to come any closer.
Izzy looked back and forth between the two women, wondering what was going on. She hadn’t seen much of Annie lately—Annie or Taylor—which, now that she thought about it, seemed kind of strange. Surely, they would have crossed paths at the inn.
Unless…
A sinking feeling formed in the pit of her stomach. Was it possible that Annie and Taylor were avoiding her? For the same reason that Ryan had hesitated before agreeing to let her plan the open house—because he thought she was going to flip out again?
“Go on, then,” Della said encouragingly. “Tell us about this event you want us to cater.”
Izzy swallowed. Her throat felt dry all of a sudden, parched. She’d apologized to both Annie and Taylor after the incident. She’d thought they’d forgiven her, that—like Della and Will—they understood that it had all been a mistake. That she had never intended to hurt anyone.
But maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe they hadn’t forgiven her. Maybe they were keeping their distance because they were afraid she was some kind of ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any moment.
Izzy took a sip of the drink in her hand, trying to calm her nerves, then glanced down at Taylor, whose mouth was rimmed in chocolate from the brownie she’d just devoured. The child smiled up at her, offering her the last brownie off the plate. Okay, Izzy thought, taking it. Maybe Taylor had forgiven her. But Annie obviously hadn’t.
“We’re hosting an open house at the farm next Thursday to raise money for the environmental center,” Izzy began. “Ryan’s board members will be there, along with some of their friends who we’re hoping to convert into donors. We’re going to issue a general invitation to the islanders and ask everyone to come around five o’clock. Anyone who’s curious about what we’ve been up to for the past month is welcome to stop by.”
She looked at Della. “We’ll serve oysters, obviously, and have some drinks on hand, but we wanted to offer a few other options as well. I was thinking maybe some rockfish, a big bowl of crab dip, and some kind of salad in case anyone’s a vegetarian. Nothing fancy. We want to keep it simple and low-key, but classy. It’s a fine line, but I think you know how to walk it.”
She turned to face Annie again. “We don’t have much to offer in terms of a budget. We’re trying to raise money, not spend it, but I was going to talk to Zach tonight. He’s one of the other veterans—”
“I know who Zach is,” Annie said.
Right, Izzy thought, taking a breath. God, she used to be better at this. “I was going to see if he’d talk to Bob Hargrove about giving us a discount on a couple of rockfish that day, since it’s for a good cause. And I’ve already talked to Jake Haddaway about the crab meat. He said he could get us a better price than what they’re selling it for at the market if we give him a heads-up the night before.” She paused, took another breath. “Lastly, if you agree to cater it, I’ll personally make sure that every person who attends the event knows who’s responsible for the food and leaves with one of your business cards.”
“I think it’s a lovely idea,” Della said, as soon as Izzy had finished.
“I think it’s awfully short notice,” Annie said. “And we don’t really do much catering.”
Della narrowed her eyes at Annie. “We’ve been talking about getting into catering a lot lately.”
“In the winter months,” Annie said, correcting her. “When business slows.”
“This could be an opportunity for us to get our name out there for the future,” Della argued. “If Ryan’s board members are inviting their friends, and they’re people he’s hoping to tap as potential donors, then we can probably assume that they’re fairly wealthy.” Della angled her head. “You know how those people
like to throw parties.”
Izzy nodded, grateful for Della’s support. “Not only will it be a good opportunity for you to get your name out there, but it’ll give us a chance to start pitching the café as the place to stop before visiting the farm. As soon as Ryan’s operation is up and running and he starts offering tours on a regular basis, he’s going to attract a fair amount of tourists to this island. I’ve been talking to Paul about possibly adding a link to the café on the website, suggesting that visitors stop here and pick up lunch before heading to the farm.”
Sensing from the expression on Annie’s face that she’d begun to catch her attention, Izzy took it a step further. “Depending on the time of day and the type of tourists the farm ends up attracting, you could even offer a few pre-designed picnic baskets—one for a couple on a date, one for a group of friends, one for a family with young children.”
“You know,” Della said thoughtfully, “we’ve talked about the possibility of Ryan’s farm bringing more tourists to the island. But we hadn’t thought about offering picnic baskets. I love that idea.” She looked at Annie, her eyes lighting up. “We could even partner with some of the other businesses on the island, see if they’d like to add something to each of the baskets.”
Yes, Izzy thought, that was exactly along the lines of what she’d been thinking. And she had her own ideas for what could go in each of the baskets, but she didn’t want to overstep her bounds. She looked back at the woman standing at the foot of the steps.
“Have you talked to Ryan about this?” Annie asked. “He hasn’t said anything to me.”
“No,” Izzy admitted. She wanted him to experience it firsthand, the same way his guests would. She knew that, as soon as he saw it, everything else would fall into place. “He doesn’t have time to think about this right now. He’s swamped with getting the farm ready for the launch. He trusted me to plan this event. I know I can do a good job. But I can’t do it without you.”
“Mom,” Taylor said, exasperated. “It’s Ryan. You have to say yes.”
“We’d be honored to cater Ryan’s first open house,” Della said, giving Annie a pointed look. “Wouldn’t we?”
“All right,” Annie said, sighing. “Fine. We’ll do it. For Ryan.”
“Thank you,” Izzy said, letting out a breath of relief. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Della said as she stood. “Now, could you please eat that brownie? I’ve been waiting for over five minutes to see your reaction.”
Izzy smiled and took a bite of the brownie. It was perfectly cooked with a gooey, dark chocolate center and a thin crackly crust that released the faintest hint of peppermint when it broke. She suppressed the urge to groan. “These are amazing, Della. Where’s the mint flavor coming from? It’s so subtle, I can barely taste it.”
“I laid a few mint leaves on the top while they were cooking,” Della said, pleased with Izzy’s reaction. “Not so many that they’d overwhelm the flavor, just enough to leave a trace of it. I thought it would be a nice cooling touch for the summer.”
Brilliant, Izzy thought, taking another bite. She looked over at Annie—wondering if she had any idea what a gift she had in Della—and saw that the redhead was watching her. Her body language wasn’t quite as standoffish as it had been when she’d first walked down the steps, but her expression was still guarded, and Izzy could sense a lingering discomfort.
She had a feeling she was going to have to work twice as hard to get Annie to warm up to her.
“The wind chimes are beautiful,” Izzy said after she’d finished the brownie. “Did you really make all of them by hand?”
“We did,” Annie said.
“How long does it usually take you to make one?” Izzy asked.
“It depends,” Annie said, and received another long look from Della when she didn’t elaborate.
“We’re working on two more right now,” Taylor said, glancing up from the menu she was decorating. “Want to see?”
“Taylor,” Annie warned, with a quick shake of her head. “I’m sure she doesn’t—”
“Come on,” Taylor said, standing and taking Izzy’s hand. “I’ll show you.”
Izzy hesitated, looking at Annie.
Annie’s gaze shifted to her daughter. “Why don’t you go get them and bring them downstairs?”
“We’ll just be a second,” Taylor protested, already tugging Izzy toward the steps.
Annie took a deep breath, then stepped aside to let them pass. “Okay,” she said, resigned. “I’m right behind you.”
“I’ll be right back, Jess,” Taylor said over her shoulder as she led Izzy up the stairs.
Jess nodded and waved her away, absorbed in her stenciling.
Izzy climbed the last few steps, pausing at the top of the landing when Taylor ran into one of the bedrooms to retrieve the chimes. The first thing that struck her was how bright and homey the apartment was. It had the same comforting, inviting feel that the inn and the café had, which made sense if Annie had decorated all three of them.
Through the windows on the far side of the room, she spied a ribbon of water cutting through the marshes. Two Adirondack chairs sat at the end of a rickety pier, overlooking a sheltered cove where marshmallow flowers bloomed along the shoreline. Wanting to see more of the view, she took another step into the room, and noticed, for the first time, the empty mugs on the coffee table, the dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the unmade beds in both of the bedrooms.
Confused, she turned to face the woman who’d walked up the steps behind her. “Are you sleeping here?”
“Yes,” Annie said.
“But…I thought you lived at the inn?”
“We do,” Annie said, looking away. “It’s temporary.”
“Here they are,” Taylor exclaimed, walking out of her bedroom and holding up the two chimes. Oblivious to the conversation that was taking place in the room, she lifted the chime made of eagle feathers and arrowheads. “This is the one I was telling you about on the boat.”
Izzy nodded, swallowing a sudden lump in her throat. Annie and Taylor had moved back into the apartment above the café because they didn’t feel safe staying in the same house with her.
She had known shame before. She’d become well acquainted with the emotion over the past nine months. But she couldn’t remember ever feeling quite like this.
“And this is the one we’re making for Ryan,” Taylor said, lifting a spiral of oyster shells suspended from a piece of driftwood. She gave the chime a little shake, and the sound of clinking seashells—the same sound Izzy had woken up to three weeks ago—filled the room.
“He’ll love it,” Izzy said, forcing the words out.
“I know,” Taylor said, “but it won’t balance.” She climbed up onto the coffee table and twisted the loop around one of the blades of the ceiling fan. “See? There’s something wrong.”
Sure enough, the whole chime tilted, causing the piece of driftwood to sag down on one side and the strings to tangle together.
“I’ve pulled it apart and started over three times,” Taylor said. “Mom can’t get it to balance either. We can’t figure out what’s wrong with it.”
Izzy’s heart sank. Because she knew what was wrong with it.
It was her.
She was creating so much instability in Annie and Taylor’s lives that they couldn’t even make their wind chimes anymore.
She had thought that she’d gotten control of her personal issues, that she’d contained them—at least temporarily. But she hadn’t considered the ripple effect of her actions, and how they might still be impacting other people.
She’d been working so hard over the past few weeks to prove that she was worthy of the second chance Will had given her. But in driving herself to distraction at work, she’d only succeeded in numbing the pain. No matter how well she hid it, the pain was still there. And it was spilling over now, hurting other people, too.
She needed to find a way to be free of it.
But how?
Fourteen
Grace stepped out of her car, eyeing the boarded up row houses and trash-littered sidewalks of Sandtown-Winchester. She’d spent most of the past three weeks driving back and forth to this neighborhood, talking to as many people as she could during her off hours. She hadn’t found any leads on Izzy yet, but she’d heard plenty of other stories. And those stories had reminded her of how much she’d once loved this grittier, grassroots style of reporting—talking to people out in the streets, knocking on doors and getting strangers to open up to her, piecing together clues from each conversation to slowly reel in the truth.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until now.
Locking the door to her car, she ignored the massive dog that barked at her from behind a chain link fence and headed south toward an intersection she’d driven through earlier. For the past several years, she’d been covering politics for The Washington Tribune. The editors had steered her in that direction because of her ability to get to the heart of a story and expose the truth. They’d said they needed someone like her on the inside to keep the politicians in check. But there was something so insular and incestuous about Capitol Hill. The more time she spent there, the more jaded she felt about the people she was interviewing.
She was tired of writing stories about schmoozy politicians who cared more about their polling numbers and reelection campaigns than getting any real work done.
She passed a homeless man asleep on the sidewalk, his fingers wrapped around a crumpled paper bag that held a fifth of some kind of hard alcohol. She smelled urine, heard a baby crying somewhere down the street, and felt the ground shake from the bass pumping through the stereo system of a car in the distance.
At the next intersection, she spotted the two women she’d seen when she’d driven by earlier. They were leaning against a cement wall, sharing a cigarette and looking bored. It was still light out, and would be for another couple of hours, but they were already dressed for the night. One wore white platform heels, a red mini skirt and a body-hugging tank top. The other was in tall leather boots, silver hot pants, and a baby tee that molded to her breasts.