by Olivia Miles
ALONG CAME YOU
Olivia Miles
~Rosewood Press~
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Other Books
About the Author
Chapter One
Bridget Harper couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful day for a wedding. The sun was shining, and the sky was a solid baby blue, interrupted only by a few big, fluffy clouds that rose high over the Atlantic, where the waves lapped at the shore. It was unseasonably warm for late April in Maine, and the flowers had sprung early this year. Tonight, at the reception, it would cool down, but luckily Bridget had the foresight to order heat lamps for the tent that was set up on the north side of the lawn.
The cake had arrived, all three tiers of white confection, and the string quartet would soon set up on the beach, where they would begin playing exactly thirty minutes before the procession, just in case some guests decided to get an early start for a good seat. Bridesmaids and groomsmen were getting ready at the Oyster Bay Hotel, scheduled to arrive an hour before the ceremony, in time for group photos, and upstairs the immediate family was gathering their wits with the help of a few bottles of complimentary champagne.
Even from the kitchen window where she now stood, Bridget could see the florist putting the finishing touches on the centerpieces—a colorful mix of tulips that matched the bouquets.
Really, she couldn’t have asked for a more perfect wedding. Even if it wasn’t her own.
Bridget sighed wistfully and craned her neck out the window, searching for her daughter Emma whom Bridget had sent outside with a watering can more than twenty minutes ago, under the orders to water the rows of tulips that lined the wraparound porch of the large house. Many happy moments had been shared on this porch since she was a girl, and despite renovating the upstairs bedrooms to accommodate guests and transforming the attic into two suites, the porch remained intact when she converted her childhood home into an inn last fall, aside from a fresh coating of white paint, that was. In the winter, she roped garland all around it, and in the spring, the tulips sprang in abundance.
Bridget looked farther down the side of the house and saw Emma crouched down to pick one of the cherished flowers, which she added to the bunch she clutched in her fist.
“Emma!” Bridget hurried to open the window, her heart starting to pound. Guests would be arriving in just a couple of hours, and the last thing she needed was for half the landscaping to be ripped out before the cars pulled up the gravel driveway. She poked her head out, calling again. “Emma!”
Emma froze mid-task, her eyes turning round. Without being told, she picked up the watering can and came inside through the kitchen door, her mouth drooping into a frown.
“Emma, I asked you to water the tulips, not pick them!” Bridget looked in dismay at the stems her daughter clung to. There must have been at least ten flowers. She could only hope they didn’t all come from the same patch, but she didn’t have time to check, and what good would knowing do? There was nothing she could do now. She still had to shower and change and oversee the vendors and guests, all of whom would be arriving soon.
“I picked them for you, Mommy. I wanted you to have a tulip bouquet, too. Like the bride.” Emma’s eyes filled with tears nearly as quickly as Bridget could pull her in for a hug.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Maternal guilt weighed heavy as she stroked Emma’s long, sandy blond hair. “I’m sorry I snapped. I just have so much to do.” She sighed as she walked to a cabinet and pulled out a mason jar, which she filled with water. “They’re beautiful. Just don’t pick anymore, okay? The yard needs to look beautiful, too.”
Emma nodded dutifully. “I only picked the best ones.”
Bridget couldn’t help but smile. What was done was done. A few missing flowers in the yard couldn’t be much worse than last week, when she’d washed the guest towels with Emma’s white skirt, which happened to contain a red crayon in the pocket.
Turning this home into an inn certainly had its challenges, she was learning. But it was also a dream come true. Without the business, she and her younger sisters would have lost the house when their grandmother moved into a retirement home last year. With its multiple fireplaces and bright, big kitchen, she hated the thought of losing it, or selling it to someone who wouldn’t cherish it the way the Harper family did. Now she didn’t have to worry about that. She only had to worry about things like running out of soap, because she didn’t account for how many guests would pocket one on their way out the door…
“Why don’t you put these on the dresser in my room?” Bridget carefully handed Emma the jar of flowers and opened the door to their living quarters: a small sitting room, two bedrooms, and a bathroom that used to be a large family room and a butler’s pantry. “I’d put them on the kitchen table, but the caterers—”
Bridget felt herself pale. The caterers. She glanced at the clock on the wall, confirming her fears. The caterers should have been here an hour ago to start prepping for the cocktail hour. In two hours more than fifty guests would descend upon the inn, and, after the short ceremony, would be eagerly awaiting food and drinks. The bride’s father—owner of the Oyster Bay Gazette—would certainly not be shy in giving bad press if this wedding were anything but a success.
With a shaking hand, Bridget scrolled through the list of contacts on her phone until she found the number for the catering company. It rang four times before she got through. Sweet relief.
“Hello, this is Bridget Harper at the Harper House Inn. I just wanted to confirm you’ll be arriving soon?”
“I was just about to call you, Ms. Harper,” the man said, and Bridget’s heart officially began to drum so loudly in her chest, she was sure it could be heard through the phone. Nothing good could follow that statement. “Our truck broke down on the way back from a morning event. We’re more than an hour away.”
More than an hour away. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. This couldn’t be happening. With less than six months under her belt, this opportunity was her chance to put the inn on the map, not unravel it.
“We will be there with plenty of time to prepare the dinner,” the man continued.
“But! The cocktail hour starts at five!” Bridget’s voice was shrill. Even shriller than the time, two weeks into renovating the attic, a pipe leaked and damaged the ceiling of a guest bedroom below.
“We’ll be there in time for the dinner,” he said again. “I’m sorry, but it’s the best we can do.”
Bridget hung up the phone and opened the fridge, staring at the ingredients that had been ordered specifically for the event. Crab meat. Lobster. Every kind of cheese and vegetable she could think of.
This wedding was the biggest opportunity she’d been given since opening just before Christmas. Her chance to show that she was a serious business owner, that she hadn’t been a fool to give up a somewhat stable career as a real estate agent to take on this huge house and try to make something of it for herself and her daughter. Anything that would go wrong today would be a reflection of her capability, a direct impact on her future. On Emma’s future.
She could just picture tomorrow’s scathing front page declaring hungry guests and an incompetent staff. She’d be out of business by June.
�
��Bridge?” Bridget turned to see her middle sister, Margo, peering at her. “You okay?”
She wasn’t okay, not in the slightest, but she couldn’t risk letting on in case a guest, or worse, the bride’s father, happened to pass by and overhear.
“Do you have time to help me in the pantry?” It was cramped but big enough for two. And it had a door. They could talk in there, privately.
Margo’s brow furrowed. “I’m swamped at the front desk. You wouldn’t believe how many people are calling for last minute reservations, and the bride’s family keeps asking for more champagne. And then there’s the guest in Room Four.” Margo rolled her eyes. “He keeps complaining about the noise. Said there is too much laughter going on. Well, I’m hardly going to tell everyone to keep it down. It’s a wedding!”
Bridget barely absorbed a word of Margo’s speech. She glanced into the hall and whispered, “The caterers are late. They won’t make it in time for the cocktail hour. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Margo’s eyes widened, but only for a moment. She tapped the phone in Bridget’s hand. “You’re going to call Abby, that’s what you’re going to do.”
Abby. Their youngest sister. Abby, who might still be in bed right now, or at the very least in her pajamas, because it was Saturday, never mind that it was nearly two o’clock.
“She made that beautiful pie for the Fall Fest pie baking contest,” Margo reminded her. “And Mimi is always talking about the treats she brings to Serenity Hills.”
That was all true. And, Bridget supposed that at the very least, she’d be an extra set of hands. Still.
Bridget looked Margo square in the eye. Margo was right. She had no choice. She would call Abby.
And say a prayer.
***
Abby stared at the notebook spread out in front of her, trying to drum up an ounce of enthusiasm and failing miserably. Office assistant—snore. Waitress—been there, done that. Dog groomer—she wanted to take them all home, or least get a dog of her own, which her landlord wouldn’t allow. Lifeguard, shampoo girl, manicurist. Check, check, check. She’d tried everything and nothing had held her interest for more than a few months.
There you go, she thought, brightening. Don’t look at this as a prison sentence. Look at it as a few months of your life, a way to get back on track, or at least a way to keep the lights on.
With that little pep talk over with, she flipped over the notebook and went to the stove to boil some water for tea. There was an Alfred Hitchcock movie marathon starting in twenty minutes, and she planned to settle onto the couch for the remainder of the day with a bag of cookies. As the kettle began to whistle, her phone began to ring, vibrating in the pocket of her bathrobe.
She pulled it free, surprised to see her oldest sister’s name on the screen. Bridget had been busier than ever before since turning their family’s home into an inn, and Abby heard from her less and less these days. She knew that Bridget and Margo still talked most days, but that’s because Margo was an interior designer who had overseen the design of the guest rooms and lobby, and Abby didn’t have anything to offer other than taking Emma to the movies to get her out of the dust-filled house when bathrooms were being installed and floors were being sanded.
And then there was the fact that Bridget and Margo just clicked. Always had. Especially since Margo moved back to Oyster Bay last fall.
“Bridget?” For a moment, Abby worried that something had happened to their grandmother. Mimi’s health wasn’t what it used to be, and it seemed to be on a downward slope, despite the care she received at Serenity Hills—the nursing home she now lived in, partially against her will. Abby made a silent promise to visit her tomorrow night. She’d bake her some brownies to lift her spirits. She’d even bring something for Pudgie, that spoiled cat she’d bought for Mimi out of guilt. Something that might keep the darn thing busy and out of trouble. “Everything okay?”
“I need your help, if you’re free.”
“Free as a bird!” Abby said, before remembering that Bridget tended to frown on declarations like that. It tended to make her recite all her “responsibilities” which ranged from packing school lunches for Emma to making sure field trip forms were signed, to doing laundry.
Honestly! Did Bridget think that Abby didn’t do laundry? She might not always fold her clothes, but they were clean…or clean enough. Also, she’d learned that if you just hung up your shirt while you showered, the steam worked wonders at loosening the wrinkles. Mostly.
“Need me to watch Emma?” She was Bridget’s backup babysitter and loved playing with her little niece. Their favorite thing to do was have a spa day, where they’d do each other’s hair, and paint each other’s nails, and put on face masks. And there was always glitter. (Even if Bridget called glitter “messy”.)
“Ryan’s coming by to get her soon,” Bridget said, referring to her ex-husband. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me in the kitchen. The Carrington wedding is today. In two hours, actually. And, well, we have a problem. The caterers are running late and we have all these hors d’oeuvres to prepare…” Bridget trailed off, but Abby had heard all she needed to hear.
Cooking! Baking! She was already shedding her bathrobe. “I’d love to help!”
“Really?” Bridget sounded more uncertain than relieved.
Abby balked. As if she’d pass up an opportunity to do what she enjoyed most. Her brownies were a sensation down at the old folks’ home, and she had a stack of recipes she was burning to try…once she had a job and could afford the ingredient list. Really, did there always need to be so many ingredients?
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said, flicking off the burner and running out the front door so fast, it wasn’t until she reached for her key to lock up that she realized she was still wearing her pajamas.
***
The kitchen was bustling when Abby arrived a rather shocking nineteen minutes later. Considering she didn’t own a car, she must have pedaled with all her might to get here from the center of town where she lived.
Bridget felt her hesitation relax. That was rather nice of her sister.
“Shoot,” Bridget said. “I forgot to ask if you had a black dress. Well, you can borrow one of mine.”
Abby frowned, and looked down at her jeans and tank top. “A dress?”
“For passing out the hors d’oeuvres.” Bridget studied a recipe card in her hand, cursing under her breath when she realized that while the item was the same, this particular recipe called for extra ingredients than had been on the caterer’s list.
“Passing out the hors d’oeuvres?” Abby’s frown was deep. “I thought—” Her cheeks turned pink as she looked over at Margo, who was also inspecting a recipe card with a pinched mouth.
“I know this is the same thing the caterers were going to make, but my recipe is calling for chives, and I don’t have chives!” Margo shook her head in frustration.
“Mine is asking for mustard seed,” Bridget commented. “I don’t think we have any of that in the pantry.”
“Let me see,” Abby said, reaching out a hand to take the cards. She inspected the lists and the ingredients they had spread out on the counter.
“Bridget, you’re fine without the mustard seed, and Margo, you can substitute with onion, which I’m sure you have.”
Bridget blinked. She couldn’t remember the last time her youngest sister had such confidence!
“Is this all you need to make?” Abby asked. There was something in her eyes. Defiance. Maybe a little hurt, too.
“No. There’s a lot more.” Bridget nudged Margo, who passed her the menu for the wedding.
Abby studied it silently for a moment. “The brie bites need to go in first, followed by the bacon-wrapped dates. That way the brie can set while the others are baking—you don’t want to serve them too warm and have them drip down someone’s silk dress.”
Bridget glanced at Margo, whose eyes were round.
“I can help with the food,�
�� Abby said, her mouth tight. “Or I can go put on that dress you mentioned.”
“Help,” Margo cut in. She glanced at Bridget, her eyes pleading but firm. “We need all the help we can get.”
Abby grinned as she pushed up her sleeves and walked to the sink to wash her hands. “Then scoot aside, and let me do the crab puffs and the brie bites. If you haven’t worked with pastry before, best to leave it to me.”
Bridget didn’t know if it was the tone of Abby’s voice, or the way she seemed perfectly comfortable in the kitchen, but she did as she was told and moved to the left. She stood for a moment, in borderline awe, as Abby quickly pulled the ingredients she needed from the fridge and wasted no time getting to work.
Maybe she’d underestimated her sister, she thought. And with the clock ticking away the minutes until the ceremony started, she could only hope so.
***
Bridget had to hand it to her sister. Abby had pulled it off. More than once during the cocktail hour, she had overheard a guest compliment the mini quiche, crab cakes, and bacon-wrapped dates.
Now, as votive candles flickered and then faded, and the guests dwindled, Bridget breathed a sigh of relief. The wedding had been a success, from the weather to the band to the cutting of the cake. The caterers had arrived in time to prepare a delicious three-course meal. From the guests’ perspective, it had all gone off without a hitch.
“Champagne, miss?” A waiter from the catering company held a tray of crystal flutes up to her. “Last call.”
Last call. Meaning she could finally go inside and flop into bed. Or she might have done, if she didn’t have a house full of guests and a kitchen that would need cleaning before breakfast tomorrow.
The caterers were cleaning up most of the kitchen, she reminded herself. And Margo was spending the night to help out with the guests. Maybe she could sneak into the bath with her latest J.R. Anderson novel—a small bit of escapism she looked way too forward to every night.