by Maisey Yates
Wendy blinked. “Oh. Of course. Hansen. It’s such a common last name...”
She couldn’t believe she was looking at Jenny’s relative. Jenny was like a friend, in many ways. When Wendy had first come here and had learned to adjust to the gray of the Oregon coast, to her new life, the story of Jenny, the mail-order bride, had connected with her particularly.
She’d spent years compiling letters and tracking down journal entries, so that she now had as complete a story about the woman as possible.
And here was her great-great-grandson.
“I know it. But yes, this was...the first place my family lived in the United States. After Olaf came from Sweden.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Wendy said. “He was a lighthouse keeper there originally, wasn’t he?”
A strange smile touched his face. “What an interesting thing, to meet someone who already knows your family history. At least, some of the ancient family history.”
Wendy supposed that would be strange. “Your family history is a part of mine,” Wendy said. “I’ve been innkeeper here for... Well it’s been thirty-three years.”
“About as long as my family was here. So it’s in both our blood, I suppose.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Do you have anything here that’s part of the Hansen family? Any photographs?”
“Oh, yes,” Wendy said. “All of these.” She gestured to a line of photographs on the top of the piano. “Olaf and his wife, Jenny.”
“I haven’t seen this one,” he said, leaning forward, his blue eyes glittering. “Incredible.”
“Your great-grandfather was born here. In this house,” she said, and goose bumps rose on her arms.
“Of course he was,” John said, looking around the room as if the space had just taken on new meaning. “What a thing.”
Wendy fell back and stayed silent, and she could hear Anna continuing to give her talk in the other room. She was all the way up to how their family had come to be the innkeepers.
“I would love to continue to talk to you about this,” John said. “Perhaps over dinner.”
Wendy drew back. She hadn’t expected that. And she couldn’t sort through whether or not he was asking simply because he really did just want to have a discussion with her about his genealogy, or if he was interested in her.
Not a lot of single men came to the bed-and-breakfast on their own. Quite a few single women did, typically when they were experiencing a major life change.
It was a good beginning point to someone’s emotional journey.
But she didn’t often have handsome men in her age group roaming around without a wife attached to them.
So it was entirely possible that he did have a wife.
Though there was no wedding band on his hand.
Not that that meant anything, necessarily.
“I’m busy,” she said.
Because being busy didn’t require her to sort out what his intent was. Because it just allowed her to avoid it. Avoid him.
“Sorry to hear that,” he said.
“If you have any more questions, though, today, my daughter Anna is an expert.”
“Oh,” he said. “She’s your daughter.”
“Yes,” Wendy said. “And I swear if you say she looks like she could be my sister...”
“No,” he said. “I’m far too old to try a line like that. I might have done it twenty years ago, but I know better now. She does look like you, though. She is also lovely.”
Her face felt warm. She didn’t like that. Not at all. She didn’t give men the power to affect her, not anymore. She hadn’t given him anything. He’d just taken a response right from her.
“Well, thank you.”
“Have a good day,” he said.
“Enjoy your stay,” she commented.
“That I will.”
Wendy practically fled to the kitchen, and it wasn’t until the door closed behind her that she realized her heart was beating far faster than it should. Especially since she didn’t even know if he wanted to go to dinner for her, or for the house.
It was easier to calm the beating of her heart if she assumed it was for the house.
She didn’t have time to worry about that, though.
Because thoughts of beginning a seven-course dinner at the lighthouse were beginning to swirl through her head. And she might not be able to solve Anna’s problems, or Rachel’s. And it wouldn’t fix the strange flush of reaction she’d had to this tall, handsome stranger.
She couldn’t fix any of this. But she could give them all something more to do. And sometimes, when there weren’t answers, activity would do just as well.
8
If you can focus only on the ocean as you patrol, you can pretend you are simply walking along the beach, rather than keeping watch for the enemy.
—FROM A LETTER DATED JULY 4, 1943, WRITTEN BY STAFF SERGEANT RICHARD JOHNSON DURING HIS TIME STATIONED AT CAPE HOPE
ANNA
It was a Monday night. Things at the inn were quiet, and Anna’s mother had asked for all of them to gather in the kitchen tonight.
Anna had been in the kitchen since late afternoon, working on batches of Jenny Hansen’s soda bread, pound cake and raspberry bread, with berries that had come from the garden last spring that they’d frozen for use throughout the year. They had gotten a few recipes over the years from earlier inhabitants of the lighthouse.
Anna had modified an oatmeal recipe that had been fed to the soldiers during WWII, which was now called Lookout Porridge, and contained steel-cut oats and dried fruit and nuts. But the favorites of the guests were Jenny Hansen’s breads.
She hadn’t gone down into town for over two weeks now. It had been...great. She had stayed up here on the cliff top overlooking the sea, and she had...regressed.
Her life felt cleaned. Uncluttered. She’d swept aside everything annoying, like her actual life and the fact that she was going to have to deal with a divorce, look her soon-to-be ex-husband in the face again. That she’d have to go back to town. That Michael hadn’t called for weeks.
None of it mattered. She had purpose here. Cleaning guest rooms, cooking, giving history tours and manning the gift shop that was on the property.
And she didn’t mind at all.
If things were tense sometimes with her family...she just did her best to ignore it. Her mother’s judgment weighed heavy on her. Her sister’s silence grated sometimes. But at least silence was...silent.
She could keep her head down and do her work, and not worry about it.
Maybe that was reverting to type, but honestly, she’d take a little bit of type reversion without Thomas and still call it growth.
All things concerning the inn itself were familiar. Easy. Some things were uncertain, but for her, piecrust would always be a steady constant.
That also gave her a momentary kick of cheer.
Piecrust was the undoing of a great many home chefs. And, in Anna’s personal opinion, a great many professional pastry chefs who sold their pies in restaurants and bakeries. It was a difficult art to master, one that required cold water and hands that weren’t overeager.
Anna had mastered the art a long time ago.
And feeling in her element, feeling like she knew what she was doing, was such an important thing in her life just at the moment.
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Mom,” Rachel said when she walked into the crowded kitchen, positioning herself far away from Anna. “What’s your idea?”
Emma and Wendy trailed in behind her. Emma was carrying baskets of berries.
Emma looked a bit pale and drawn, but her expression was very Emma—her mouth set in a slight smile, her eyes full of light.
Rachel looked sallow and thin, and the moment she got into the kitchen, she started wiping the counter.
/> Wendy looked as implacable as ever.
“I’m not trying to keep you in suspense,” she said. “But I don’t know if it’s a good idea or not. But it feels like... It feels like we’re starting over. And if we’re going to start over, then we might as well shake things up a little bit.”
“You’re advocating for shaking things up?” Anna asked. “I feel like I should check your temperature.”
“Not a dramatic shake-up, Anna.” Anna couldn’t tell if that was a pointed remark. “But... If you girls are going to be here to help, maybe we should try and take on some more meals. The couple of dinners that we’ve done for outdoor events and weddings and things have gone over hugely well. Perhaps it’s time we add them as a weekly event.”
“What spurred that?” Rachel asked.
“I need a distraction,” Wendy said. “And with Anna here now, and you with...more free time, and Emma helping out. Well, we can do it. So why not? We’re in no hurry. We can launch in spring when town is busier, and until then we can plan.”
Anna figured it was not the time to joke that she’d had a similar thought before cheating on her husband.
“That...sounds good to me,” Anna said cautiously.
Rachel’s face was doing something Anna couldn’t read. “Funnily enough I was just talking to Adam Campbell about pie,” she said.
“Were you?” Wendy asked.
“He gave me a free piece of pie from the diner the other night.”
Emma grimaced. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I threw it away. We had candy bars in the house. There was no need to try and choke that down.”
“Definitely not,” Anna said.
They might not be able to talk about much right now, but they could all agree that Adam’s pie was a travesty.
“Maybe we need to make pie. Well, not me,” Rachel said. “Anna.”
She was slightly surprised that her sister was suggesting that, but not mad.
She hadn’t realized that she would miss the act of being there for others that came with being a pastor’s wife. Yes, it had chafed in the end, but there had been a time when it had been her calling.
Thomas had joined the staff of Sunset Church a couple of years into their marriage, first as a youth pastor, then an associate pastor and finally as head pastor. Her role had evolved along with his and she’d honestly enjoyed it.
For the first ten years she’d been all in.
She’d coordinated most of the women’s events, and a lot of the community outreach. She’d spent days meeting with people, listening to their struggles. Praying for them, in earnest.
And as time went on she’d felt like her body was hollow and every word coming out of her mouth was just a practiced response.
One day she’d ended a conversation with “I’ll pray for you.”
As she’d walked away, she’d realized she probably wouldn’t. Not intentionally. But that at some point over time, those words had replaced the prayers.
Once she’d realized it, she’d begun to withdraw.
She’d still shown up to everything. She’d talked and she’d smiled. Her body was there. The rest of her wasn’t.
At first she’d been angry with herself.
Then she’d tried to talk to Thomas.
And tried.
And tried.
Can we go out more?
What about a day of rest?
We haven’t had sex in a month.
I miss you.
And then she’d tried to seduce him. She’d been embarrassed, which was stupid. He was her husband of fourteen years; she shouldn’t be embarrassed about anything, but the distance between them made it feel like seducing a stranger.
Candles. A sexy dress. High heels.
He hadn’t even looked at her.
The next day she’d sought solace at the inn, and Michael had checked in for the first time.
He’d asked, “Are all innkeepers as beautiful as you are?”
“Let’s get baking,” Wendy said, her words jolting Anna from the past into the present moment. “Do you have ideas for what dinners we might make?”
That led to a lively discussion on how to accommodate different diets—which was something they had to contend with for breakfasts, but dinner was only bound to make it that much harder.
It was exhilarating. Like the world faded away. Like time faded away.
Like she hadn’t been married for the past fourteen years. Like Rachel’s husband hadn’t died.
Like they hadn’t been distant for two years and her mom wasn’t disappointed in her.
They were family again.
Here in the kitchen.
Like an open window letting fresh air into a stale room. And she could feel how much they all needed it. Could sense that they were all filling their lungs with this reprieve.
“Gluten,” Anna said, laughing in spite of herself, “is what makes you stretch. Without it, you break. Gluten holds us together.”
“I’m just saying,” Emma said, with all the unearned wisdom in her voice that seemed innate to teenagers, “you’re going to need a gluten-free option for dessert.”
“I’ve known about this new initiative for five minutes and it’s already a chore.”
“It’ll be fun,” Emma said. “Honing your creativity.”
“My creativity is a finely pointed blade, child,” Anna said. “I don’t need to hone it with subpar baked goods.”
There was laughter filling the kitchen, and it reminded Anna of simpler times. Happier times. Something she would have said couldn’t happen on that terrible day when everything had changed. That this quickly they would get back to talking, to laughing. To being them.
“Can I just supervise?” Rachel asked. “Because all of this sounds like it’s above my pay grade.”
“I’ll supervise you,” Anna said. “I’ll tell you what you’re doing wrong.”
“That doesn’t sound very fun.”
“It will be lots of fun. For me.”
Anna rolled out the crust for the pies they were making and placed them in the pie plates. Emma and Rachel mixed together the fillings.
“So does everyone get surprise-pie hour instead of wine-and-cheese hour tomorrow?” Rachel asked.
“I was thinking,” Wendy said. “It isn’t a bad thing to have surprise pie.”
“Unless it’s Adam’s pie,” Emma said.
Rachel was laughing, and wiped a swipe of flour from her cheek, which only added more. “Yes. And can you imagine if you were going to work at the diner you would have to be around his subpar food all the time.”
Emma frowned. “Why would I work at the diner?”
Rachel sputtered and shook her head, blowing a strand of red hair out of her eyes. “It’s just... He mentioned to me that he was looking for someone. And he asked me if you would be interested. I told him no.”
Emma frowned. “You didn’t ask me.”
“You have a job here. And we’re... We’re adding to the menu.”
“But you can’t just tell him no. It’s up to me.”
“Adam asked me if I thought you would be interested. He didn’t ask you. And, apparently, he could’ve asked you that morning when you came in, which you did not tell me you were doing. You told me you had an early class.”
Anna recognized that maternal tone. Shock layered with deadly disappointment. She’d heard it often enough when she’d been around Emma’s age.
“I didn’t realize omitting that I’d stopped at the diner for a doughnut was a cardinal sin. I didn’t think that it was relevant. I did have an early class.” She also recognized that answer back. And knew Emma didn’t realize what danger she was in.
“You just normally tell me things.”
“It wasn’t something that I needed to tell you
. I decided to stop for a doughnut. It’s not like I decided to stop for some weed.”
“Well, the problem is you might have, and if you’re not telling me things—”
“The bridge from doughnuts to drugs is a pretty long one, Mom. I wouldn’t get paranoid.”
“My job is to be paranoid. And I didn’t think that taking a job at the diner was the right thing for you. Not right now.”
“But that’s not your decision.”
“Yes,” Rachel said, her hands buried in a bowl of blackberries. “It is my decision to make. Right now it is. You still live here. You’re not eighteen yet. It’s not up to you.”
Emma growled and stalked out of the room. A few minutes later Anna heard the front door slam.
Rachel sighed and pulled her hands out of the bowl. “I made a mess of that.” Her hands were stained with juice. She stared at them, hopeless, and Anna had the feeling it had nothing to do with the berry juice at all.
She felt for Rachel, she did. But she recognized herself in Emma. Emma wanted something more, something different. Anna had wanted the same in that summer of sneaking out and smoking cigarettes. The one before she’d seen how she’d broken her mother’s heart and had decided that Thomas could be the right change.
If Rachel didn’t let Emma go, Emma might turn into Anna. And there was nothing Anna wanted less for her niece.
“It’s not that big of a deal if she wants to work somewhere else, is it?”
“That’s not the point,” Rachel said.
“It’s not,” Wendy said, backing Rachel up, of course. “When you have children, it’s your job to set the boundaries that you want them inside of. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to them. If she wants Emma here, that’s her decision.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Anna said. “But you can’t force Emma to be here. It’s not like that’s going to make it a good time to be had by all.”
“Sometimes you do have to force teenagers to do things,” Wendy said. “They don’t know what’s best for them all the time. I had to get tough with you sometimes, Anna.”
“Excuse me? Are you turning this around and making it about me?”