She gave me one of her long Belgian hugs. “Good night, Ava honey.”
She left via the back door. Through the screen, I watched her go. She walked with a slight limp into the dark night. Her image merged into the brackish shadows as she passed under the maple trees by my cabin. Then her silhouette picked up the light coming from outside her house across Duck Marsh Street. Once I could see that she was safely inside her door, I turned back to finish cleaning up.
I hadn’t found out anything, but I had high hopes of her eventually confessing this secret about the ghost in her family to me. It might take making several batches of fudge together, but that was something I could easily commit to.
I didn’t have high hopes for the divinity fudge. Somehow it looked uncomfortable in its pan. The marshmallows were likely mocking me after I’d dissed them.
After locking up, I walked across my lawn, enjoying the peace of Fishers’ Harbor at night. A wet Lucky Harbor caught up to me, poking his nose into my dangling fingers to check for treats.
“Want some fudge?” I asked, already getting the fish-shaped crackers from a pocket. I tossed them ahead of me in the grass.
Crunching sounds followed.
Once inside my cabin, I turned on the light, and within a second Lucky Harbor was chasing Titus, the mouse that had adopted me. “No!” I yelled. “Sit!”
The gray-brown field mouse galloped fast toward the couch. But Lucky Harbor was bigger with longer legs and leaped in front of the mouse. It was a standoff. I knew who would win. One slap by the dog with his big paw and Titus would be in the hereafter.
“Lucky Harbor, sit or you get no fudge.”
The curly brown hunting dog plopped his butt down about a yard short of the back of the couch. Titus sat frozen peering up at the spaniel.
Realizing I was forming a barrier for Titus’s retreat, I walked around from the back of the mouse to grab the dog. As I did, Titus did an about-face and scurried to the kitchen, disappearing through the wedge in the uneven cupboard door under the sink.
I sighed in relief.
When I called Dillon about his dog, he asked me to keep him for the night, since he and Piers were playing pool and Piers was up five dollars over Dillon.
That unsettled me. Gambling had gotten Dillon into trouble years ago. “Don’t both of you have to work tomorrow? At the Blue Heron Inn?”
“Don’t worry. Piers said he’d help. And Al Kvalheim is available.”
Al had been around forever and was expert at the sewer pipes under our streets but not much else, as far as I knew. I was feeling growly. “I was arrested today.”
“That’s nice, Ava. Guess where Piers is going to put his muffin shop?”
I stared at my phone. Dillon wasn’t listening to me. Noise in the background indicated the guys wanted him back to the pool table. “In the bookstore?”
“Nope. But I heard Jane Goodland is coming again tomorrow.”
I heard a bunch of hoots at the mention of the woman’s name. Could it be that she was the exotic dancer I’d seen on the Internet? “This doesn’t seem right to see our bookstore become . . .” A stripper’s place? That’d be one way for an independent bookstore to increase business. “Where’s Piers putting down his stakes?”
“In the old mansion my mother’s fixing up for the spa.”
The faded yellow, rundown mansion was where Grandpa and Cody had almost met their maker last May.
Dillon rattled on. “She plans a nail spa, a massage spa, and a muffin spa on the first floor. I’ll be helping Piers with the carpentry for his front counter. We haven’t come up with a name yet.”
We? Dillon sounded way more excited about this than the Blue Heron Inn. Jealousy acted like a torque wrench twisting me. Was I competing for Dillon’s attention now with his mother? And with Piers? With gambling? Having a relationship with Dillon again was taking more emotional strength and work than I had expected.
We said good night as he got pulled back to the pool game.
Within minutes, I climbed into bed, my head spinning about fires, relationships, ghosts, the empty spot at our dock, and Grandpa’s warning not to be alone at Ava’s Autumn Harvest anymore. I felt saddened by it all, and oh so lonely. I had nobody to talk to about it all.
Lucky Harbor must have sensed the ache in my heart. He hopped onto the bed, then crept gently across the covers to come to me and sniff my face. He slurped my cheek, then went to the end of the bed, twirled in several circles near my feet, finally plunking down with a throaty dog groan.
Chapter 22
A loud rapping at my door woke me at seven on Thursday morning. I’d overslept by two hours. I panicked. I never overslept. The foggy gray autumn morning outside my bedroom window looked as sleepy as I was.
Pulling on a sweatshirt against the chill in the cabin, I headed to the door. Lucky Harbor padded behind me.
Before opening the front door, I peeked out the window next to it. A limousine longer than my cabin was wide was parked between my yellow truck on this side of the street and the other side of Duck Marsh Street in front of my grandparents’ cabin. The limo’s front end was pointed toward the marsh end of the street.
I opened the door to Mercy Fogg standing there in a sharp black uniform with a white shirt and tie. Her curly blond mop poked out from under a billed black cap.
Mercy said, “You’re not dressed yet.”
“Was I supposed to be dressed for something?”
With a thumb, she pointed behind her. “Aren’t you going to breakfast with your mother and grandmother?”
I’d forgotten about the breakfast. “No, I wasn’t invited. I believe it was for the church ladies that regularly take care of the Namur church.”
“So you don’t go to that church? What church do you go to?”
“Mercy, why do you need to know?”
“So I can avoid it.” She laughed.
I was still half-asleep and couldn’t throw a punch. She was safe. “Thanks for asking, but I’m not going with. I have to go to the fudge shop.”
“No, you’re not. I need you to move your truck.”
“Why?”
“I can’t turn around in this narrow street, and when I started backing up with the ladies, my back bumper scraped a tiny part of your truck. But it’s tiny.”
I woke up. “You scratched my truck? Are there dents?”
“Not yet, but there will be if you don’t move your truck.”
After grabbing my keys, I hurried out to pull my truck up onto my lawn. I had no driveway or garage. The limo was filled with chattering ladies. My mother was in back jabbering loudly about the fire at the Coppens place, the goats, and the fire at my roadside market.
Cathy Rivers poked her head out of a back window and winked at me. “We’re having so much fun already, dear. Talk with you later.”
She waved as Mercy backed up the long black limousine until it edged into the end of Main Street.
The front fender on the driver’s side of my yellow truck had a strip of black paint about a foot long above the wheel well. I’d have to take it to the body shop and incur a bill that Mercy wouldn’t pay.
Eager to see how the divinity fudge turned out, I changed into a pink, long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and heavy work shoes. I tossed on a zippered hoodie sweatshirt and headed to the shop. Lucky Harbor followed me until I told him to go to Dillon and pointed back toward the cliff where the Blue Heron Inn nestled above us. The dog took off in a furry brown streak.
I entered the fudge shop’s galley kitchen, shedding my sweatshirt and pushing up my sleeves, ready for cutting fudge. It was gone.
I rushed to the front of the shop. No divinity fudge. But Grandpa was there. Had he sold my fudge?
My grandpa was busy with several fishermen, so to kill time I threw dry ingredients for a new batch of Belgian chocolate fudge into a copper kettle.
After the fishermen left, Grandpa began whistling. This seemed odd; he usually talked or was swearing and grumbling about somet
hing.
“Gilpa, I had white fudge in the kitchen. Do you know what happened to it?”
He came over to me with a piece of paper, flapping it in front of my face. “See this?”
It was for a new Savage Bros. stove and kettles. “What’s this about, Gilpa?”
“Your equipment arrived for your new kitchen in the Blue Heron Inn.”
“What equipment? I thought I had everything.”
“You ordered used equipment. But this is new.”
I ripped the paper out of his hands. Indeed, it was a delivery slip for new equipment signed with today’s date in September by my grandfather.
“Gilpa, I thought we agreed to make do with used equipment?”
“I’m the only used equipment you have to deal with.” He was grinning. He liked mischief.
“But we can’t afford this.”
“I have it figured out.”
I couldn’t resist the twinkles in his eyes. That’s the definition of love. “Just as long as you didn’t rob a bank,” I said. I hugged him and gave him a big kiss on both cheeks. He still smelled vaguely of smoke from last night.
Heading over to feed his minnows, he said, “Why don’t you get on up there and check out that stove? I sent the fella up there to the inn in his big truck. Can’t believe you didn’t hear him hauling ass in first gear up that steep hill.”
“I was busy with Mercy. You saw her in the limo?”
“Taking your grandmother to that breakfast thing. Exactly what she needs.”
He didn’t know it was a plot by Cathy Rivers and me to soften up my grandmother. After tossing a towel over the top of my copper kettle to protect the sugar and chocolate pellets, I left.
I ran up the steep hill and was panting by the time I charged through the grand entrance door of the Blue Heron Inn.
The foyer and welcome hall sparkled, which shocked me. There wasn’t a speck of sawdust anywhere. The chandelier above me threw rainbow prisms into the air. The stairwell’s powder blue carpeting had been vacuumed. The wood floors had been buffed. On a nearby accent table, the cup with AVD on it that had started all our troubles with Grandma but that had given birth to the upcoming visit by the royals sat in an honored spot under a glass dome.
I intended to head straight through the dining room for the kitchen but was stopped by a wondrous sight. On the table—covered with a white Belgian lace tablecloth that belonged to my mother—sat the twelve antique cups and saucers with their pink roses that my mother had been keeping at her house. The precious collection we’d been bequeathed by Grandpa’s friend Lloyd Mueller looked as if it’d finally come home.
But what was going on with this overnight transformation of the inn?
My mouth was hanging open when a man I didn’t know walked in from the foyer behind me, startling me.
He bowed slightly. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
He was taller than me by a couple of inches, and had the most magnificent, wavy coppery hair perfectly clipped at the sides. His eyes were blue-gray, calm as our morning fog and mesmerizing, though they competed with a dazzling smile. A sky blue cashmere sweater over a blue pin-striped, collared shirt enhanced his perfection. He wore expensive slacks and shoes, the kind of which I’d only seen on Rodeo Drive in Los Angeles. Perhaps he’d stepped from a photograph? An advertisement? A dream? Maybe I was still asleep. I was tempted to slap my face.
Our awkward meeting was interrupted by the clomping feet of Dillon and Piers emerging through the kitchen door at the other end of the dining room.
In contrast to the man standing before me, they were smudged with dust and dirt, maybe a little oil, and wearing T-shirts with sports team logos. They had on holey and frayed work jeans.
Piers grunted, “We got the stove put in already. Savage Brothers is a good name.”
Dillon loped over with a big grin as he spread his arms apart. “How’s it looking so far? Piers and I worked until midnight after we played pool. Then we headed to the airport for this guy. I see you’ve met.”
“No,” I said, “we hadn’t gotten to names yet.”
Dillon ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “I guess your grandfather didn’t tell you what’s going on.”
Uh-oh. “He said he had a new stove delivered.”
“But your grandpa didn’t buy the equipment. This man bought the stove and copper kettle for you. As a gift for the Blue Heron Inn. You don’t know who this is?”
“No.”
Dillon bowed. “Let me present Prince Arnaud Van Damme.”
Chapter 23
The prince was here? My “cousin” in Grandma’s lineage?
Prince Arnaud took my hand, bowed again, and then kissed the top of my hand. “Enchanté. I am pleased to meet you, Ava Oosterling. Your fudge is saintly. I can taste the holiness of Sister Adele Brise. Her fudge—your fudge, mademoiselle, is light as the wafer we receive during Communion.”
Oh boy. No—oh crap. What was I going to do? Evidently, Grandpa had brought that batch of experimental fudge up here to the inn this morning early and told a big fat lie.
After a fevered, panicked glance at Dillon, I smiled for my relative. “I’m charmed to meet you, too.” Did I just say “charmed”?
I took a deep breath, then got back to being me. I gave Prince Arnaud a big hug. “When did you get here? Why are you here early? Can I get you something?”
Prince Arnaud laughed again—a rich, melodious song from his throat. His perfection amazed me. He even had the Belgian nose with its slight hump in the middle of the ridge.
Dillon came to my rescue. “Your grandfather brought us the holy fudge this morning before he opened the shop.”
Piers said, “We tried the fudge because we couldn’t resist, but I set the table with the cups your mother dropped off a few minutes ago. I thought we could offer coffee after breakfast in them, then chocolate. Arnie says he likes some kind of chocolate drink at breakfast.”
Arnie?
Prince Arnaud stepped to the head of the table. “It is very pretty. Merci.” Then he nodded at me. “I would love to see the recipe for the divinity fudge, the paper that Sister Adele touched. That is where my hunger lies—with knowing the past and connecting the Van Dammes to history, to connecting our two continents and countries, and our families. All accomplished with a confection recipe.”
Sweat was trickling down my spine. “The recipe?” I said, stalling to give my brain time to think of some lie.
Dillon grimaced. The man was no help to me at all.
I said, “I, well, you see, to protect the recipe I put it in a bank vault and asked them to seal it until the kermis a week from Saturday.”
The prince’s face was like the sunrise breaking through clouds over Lake Michigan. “That is smart. You can show me where you found it today. I would enjoy a tour.”
Piers stepped up. “Hey, guys, I’m starving. Why don’t we head up to Sister Bay to Al Johnson’s for pancakes? The prince will get a kick out of those goats.”
Panic exploded inside me. “I’ll make us breakfast here. We’ll christen the new stove. Prince Arnaud, I’m so honored you’re here and so thankful for your gift. Would my cooking on the new stove—your gift to me—be acceptable?”
“Of course. May I help?”
“No, thanks. Perhaps you’d like to go outside and look at the gazebo for a few minutes while I get things started. Dillon, can I speak to you in the kitchen about the menu?”
I marched ahead of Dillon into the kitchen.
Once the door was closed, I whispered, “We can’t go to Al Johnson’s, because Grandma is there with your mother supposedly talking about why she doesn’t want the prince here on our soil. I assume Grandpa hasn’t told her about Prince Arnaud’s arrival. You picked him up this morning?”
Dillon took me in his arms. I wasn’t in the mood for lovey-dovey stuff and wriggled, but he wouldn’t let me go.
Dillon said, “Your grandfather told me this was the prince’s idea. The prince called your gra
ndfather a few days ago about arriving early so that he could experience life here without a mob of people following him and without the obligations of being a good son and escorting his mother and seeing to her comfort.”
“A mob is going to follow him with the way he’s dressed.”
“Piers and I will fix that with a stop at the farm store.”
“Where did he stay last night?”
“Here, in the suite. Piers and I settled him in, then cleaned up things until about three or so in the morning, then sacked out at my mother’s condo.”
“You and Piers are suddenly mighty chummy.” I was jealous. I felt ugly even saying that and wanted to take it back.
Dillon kissed me soundly on the lips, with a little tongue action that tasted like marshmallows.
I said, “What am I going to do about the recipe? The prince thinks that fudge concoction Grandpa brought over here is the real deal. And boy, am I going to have to give Gilpa a talking-to!”
Dillon nuzzled my neck. My body was going limp. This was not going how I wanted the discussion to go.
Dillon said, “The only people who know it’s not the real thing are you and me, and your grandpa.”
“Wrong. My grandma, too. She helped me make it. Dillon, there are ordinary marshmallows in that stuff. Marshmallows,” I repeated, trying to extricate myself from Dillon’s arms.
He let me go. “We won’t tell your grandmother anything. She doesn’t have to know he’s here.”
I found Dillon’s coffee beans in the refrigerator and silenced him by grinding for a few seconds. After tossing the coffeepot together and turning it on, I said, “But she’s going to see this guy. Isn’t he going to be at the shop and meet her sometime soon? This is awful because she was in a really good mood last night. Except when I brought up the ghost thing. Why is Grandpa so happy about this? This could blow up his marriage. He did this last July with his lies about not paying taxes like he should on the bait shop, and now this? Grandma’s going to divorce him—”
Dillon kissed me again.
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