The Red Door Inn

by Liz Johnson

  That was anything but safe.

  Especially since his jerk side had a bad habit of popping up unexpectedly.

  And she’d come to PEI to be safe.

  Besides, she wasn’t ready for it. Wasn’t ready to think about holding hands and kissing and . . . This wasn’t an innocuous topic, especially where Seth was concerned. There were too many memories bubbling right below the surface.

  Her stomach churned, and she leaned her forehead against the window, waiting for a panic attack to begin, waiting for her head to begin spinning and her vision to narrow until it was gone. In the truck she couldn’t get to her beach, to the security of her private view of the sunrise, to the clapping waves greeting her each morning.

  The best she could do was let the window’s coolness wash over her and wish that she could jump into the chilly waters of the gulf. Every now and then she’d catch a glimpse of the blue expanse as they wound their way toward Cavendish. Between pines standing sentry on the far side of a farmer’s field, blue flashes captured her attention and soothed the unnameable monster that stole her very breath with each attack.

  But the panic attack didn’t come.

  The monster stayed at bay, and the memories of that New Year’s Eve night stayed with it.

  Good. Because stuck in close quarters with Seth was the worst possible place to dwell on the old memories and her disturbing new realizations, so she heaved a sigh and thanked God—even if he wasn’t listening—that her chest wasn’t tied in a knot.

  The auction was safer territory on all counts, so she pushed her mind from its track and forced the words out of her mouth. “Here’s what I’m thinking about for the auction.” She held up her fingers as she ticked off her top priorities. “We have to get that cherrywood buffet.”

  “How much do you plan on spending on it?”

  She hadn’t actually given that much thought. But three thousand dollars seemed reasonable. Jack had given them a budget five times that for the day, so she could splurge on a focal piece. “Around three.”

  “Hundred?”

  “Thousand.”

  “Three grand?” His voice rose half an octave. “What are we going to do with a three-thousand-dollar table?”

  “What do you mean? It’s an antique buffet. We’re going to build a room around it. We’re going to find complementary pieces and put them into the room so they look pretty and your guests have a place to eat breakfast.”

  “I mean, what’s its purpose?” The volume of his voice increased with his conviction. “Day to day, what are we going to use it for?”

  “Are you joking?”

  He shook his head, taking his eyes off the road long enough to stare hard at her. “For that much cash, it should be a time machine.”

  “We’re going to put food on it. That’s generally what a buffet is used for, right?”

  He nodded slowly, his lips twitching like he couldn’t decide if he was going to laugh or cry. He decided on a snicker of disbelief. “You’re going to get Jack’s New York chef to put his food on a buffet?”

  “What chef?”

  The curve of his lips flattened, the faint dimple in his cheek disappearing. “Jack hasn’t told you about Jules Rousseau?”

  Jack hadn’t said a thing about hiring a professional chef. She pressed her hand against a growing ache that radiated from her stomach. It wasn’t a big deal. He’d probably just forgotten to mention it.

  They’d been so busy. Painting and then repainting. Running errands. Picking out dishes. They’d focused on colors and design. Decorations and personal touches.

  She was almost certain it had simply slipped his mind.

  Unless he was keeping her on the fringes. Unless he purposefully kept her out of the loop because he didn’t plan to keep her on board.

  That wasn’t implausible. In fact, it was pretty familiar.

  Her father had kept his plans to himself until the truth came out. He’d told her to wait before saying anything. Told her that she should be sure before she ruined a young man’s life. And all the while he’d made plans of his own, plans to use her pain to get the thing he wanted most.

  Jack would do the same to make his inn a success.

  “Jack did his research, looking for chefs trained at the best culinary schools in the area. He asked for recommendations, interviewed four candidates, and finally offered Jules the position of executive chef.”

  “Oh.” She wanted to ask every question rattling around her mind but couldn’t say the words without revealing her own fears. Instead she said, “When does he start?”

  “He’s on payroll April 25.”

  “And where’s he going to stay?”

  Seth ran a palm down his cheek. “We’re still working that out. But maybe the basement apartment.”

  “Right. Of course. That makes sense.” She nodded enthusiastically, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles in her pants again and again. Pushing down the lump rising in her throat. It wasn’t her room. They weren’t giving away her apartment. They were just doing what they needed to in order to open the inn. After all, she wasn’t a permanent fixture at the Red Door. She was a traveler. A stand-in for the feminine touch that Rose would have provided.

  Pressing a hand over the ache in her heart, she welcomed the reminder. It did her good to remember that she was no more a part of Jack’s family than she was her dad’s favorite person.

  Jack would ask her to leave. Oh, he’d be nice about it. He didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. But his priority was making Rose’s dream a success. So he’d ask her to leave someday.

  The only way to save herself the pain of that rejection was to leave before he could tell her to go.

  Seth shot her several furtive glances, his eyes gentle as he turned his truck off the two-lane highway. “So, what else are you going to look for today?”

  “Huh?”

  “Other than the buffet? What are you going to bid on?”

  She held up her fingers to tick off the other things on her list. “Authentic local quilts for every guest room, tables for the dining room to match the buffet—”

  “Tables? As in plural? We already have one.”

  “Yes.”

  His eyebrows arched in an unspoken question.

  “Have you ever even stayed at a bed-and-breakfast?”

  He shook his head.

  “Wait. You’re telling me that you’re refurbishing an old house to become a B and B, and you’ve never even stayed at one?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  She pressed her hands over her face, groaning into them. No wonder he was concerned by all the money she’d spent. He had no concept of how a B and B should feel. Like a home, only better. How the finishing touches made the experience. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Fair enough. But you haven’t told me why we need more than one table.”

  “Picture this. You’re on your honeymoon, and you just want to share secret glances with your new wife. You want to hold her hand and touch her knee under the table.” She waved her hand in front of the windshield, hoping he could imagine the scene. “You want to feed her a fresh strawberry or offer her a bite of your cinnamon roll after she begs you for just a taste.”

  “Hey, if she wanted a cinnamon roll, she should have ordered her own.”

  Marie fought the urge to slug his arm. “She was too embarrassed. After all, you’re newly married, and she doesn’t want you to think she’s going to stuff her face at every opportunity.”

  “All right. Say she wants my cinnamon roll . . . Did your friend make it?”

  “My friend? Caden?”

  “Yeah.”

  Where was he going with this? She whipped her finger around in a circle. “Stay with me here.”

  He nodded. “I am. Just trying to picture this scene. Did the cinnamon roll come from Caden’s bakery?”

  “Yes. Fine. She made it. What does it matter?”

  A lopsided grin broke his focused expression, and
his dimple made him look about fifteen years younger. “Oh, it matters. If it’s from Caden, I’m not sharing.”

  She heaved a sigh, her shoulders deflating. “Seth! Focus here for a second. We’re talking about tables, not sweets.”

  “Fine. But I’m just saying. I’m not going to share.” He winked at her. Great. Now he was teasing her.

  “All right. So you’re with your new bride, and she wants a bite of your waffle.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could pursue his thought. “There are no more cinnamon rolls in this story.”

  His mouth snapped closed, his lips pursed to the side. Finally he nodded. “Go on.”

  “There are little candles and vases of flowers from Jack’s garden on the table. And all you really want to do is touch her face and wipe away the speck of jam stuck to the corner of her mouth. You got it?”

  His head bobbed in slow succession, his features taut but eyes bright.

  “Now imagine she’s on the opposite side of a twenty-person table, and you’re surrounded by strangers.”

  His mouth dropped open. “Got it.”

  “We need to have several table options. Maybe a six- or eight-seater for bigger parties or the people who want to talk with other guests. A couple four-tops and then at least one two-person table.”

  “And they all have to match the cherrywood buffet.” He sat up straighter in his seat, clearly proud of himself for his flash of brilliance.

  She tapped her fist into his shoulder. “Now you’re getting it, Sloane.”

  Her hand dropped to her lap in a flash, fire running up her fingers. She had no business touching him. She hadn’t voluntarily touched a man her own age since New Year’s Eve.

  Her only saving grace was Seth’s utter oblivion as he pulled into the gravel parking lot of the auction grounds.

  “Ready to go find some tables?”

  “Absolutely.”

  As she slid from the truck, she squeezed a fist against the butterflies suddenly swarming in her middle. She hadn’t been to an auction in more than ten years. Since her mom passed and Georgiana was not-so-cordially uninvited to the Carrington estate.

  But an auction had to be like riding a bike. She hadn’t forgotten how to look for the values. She could still read people’s faces, and Georgiana had taught her how to cut her losses when the bids rose too high.

  She’d give Jack her best today, no matter how much longer she worked for him.

  Seth led the way toward stalls of furniture spread across a green lawn. “Is this all for the auction?”

  “I think some of it is just for sale.” Her blood rushed through her veins as she peeked into the first stall to find hangers and stacks of bright quilts in every color palate she could imagine. “We’re coming back to this one,” she said.

  “All right.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his gait relaxed as he strolled down the first aisle.

  “Seth Sloane!” The voice was as recognizable as her famous singing counterpart. Aretha bounced from one of the stalls at the end of the row and clasped Seth’s hand with a firm grip. “Did you come alone? Where are Jack and Marie?”

  “Hi, Aretha.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Marie’s here. But Jack is running other errands. We’re the Red Door contingent today.”

  Aretha leaned around Seth’s shoulder, checking to make sure he had his facts straight. Marie waved the hand that still tingled from the brief contact with Seth in the truck and managed a stiff smile. “It’s good to see you.”

  Aretha held out her hand, the palm facing down and fingers slightly curled. Marie reached out to grip the wrinkled hand, surprised by the strength of the squeeze as Aretha hauled her in for a hug.

  “Sweet, sweet Marie. I’m so glad you made it.”

  “Well, I’m not going to let that buffet go to anyone else.”

  With a wink and a tug, Aretha whisked them into the crowded confines of her booth. “I didn’t think you would. And for about three thousand, I think you’ll get it. But the auction doesn’t begin for another hour.”

  Seth hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “We figured we’d look around a bit. Decide what tables would go with the buffet.”

  “Smart. Was that your idea, Marie?”

  She could only look at her hands, not daring to meet Seth’s gaze for fear she’d burst into laughter. Aretha had all but confined him to the halls of stupidity, and either he’d missed the comment or he didn’t intend to defend himself. “We also need to sign up for a paddle number. Where’s the registration table?”

  “Oh, honey.” The word rolled from Aretha’s lips about as slow as the real deal straight from the comb. “We don’t do paddles here. Your raised hand is your word.”

  Her father’s friend, Gary Stinson of Sotheby’s, would have fallen flat on his back. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Gray hair bobbed back and forth. “No need for it. We stick a hand in the air and make just enough noise to be sure we get noticed.”

  Marie still wasn’t convinced that the older woman wasn’t teasing her when another customer—a paying customer—strolled in to look at the merchandise. “We’ll talk to you a bit later.” Marie waved.

  Aretha winked. “Good luck, kids.”

  “Kids?” Seth’s voice carried only far enough to reach Marie as they neared the end of the aisle. “I haven’t been called a kid since . . . well, since I was a kid.”

  He was looking for a reaction. A smile or a chuckle, but his whisper was too personal, too close. She angled her steps away from him, putting a few extra feet between them before giving him half a grin.

  She needed a little space. Just some breathing room. “I’m going to go check out the pieces up for auction and make note of what might work for—” She stopped herself before ending with the word “us.” After the reminder in the truck, she didn’t need to get attached to anything else. “The inn.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She swallowed, then nodded with an overenthusiastic smile in his direction. “Yes. Doing great.”

  “All right. I’m going to take a look at the booths in the other aisle. I’ll let you know if I see anything.”

  “It’s a plan.” She spun and darted toward the tents where items were lined up behind a fence. A small crowd milled around rows of chairs to the side, waiting for the auction to begin.

  She slipped in at the fence line next to a woman who was near Aretha’s age but without any of the spunk and attitude. They exchanged polite smiles as Marie pulled a notepad and pen from her purse.

  “That’s a very nice armoire,” the woman said, indicating a wooden closet in a medium shade. Its intricate scrollwork seemed at odds with its depth and width.

  “It is.”

  “You in the market for a piece like that?” The woman’s gray eyebrows rose, her stare hard and unblinking.

  Marie leaned toward her and lowered her voice until it was barely a whisper. “I might be.”

  “It may go out of your price range.”

  Auctions were synonymous with head games. This woman just wanted to know who her competition was. But she’d played her hand too early. Now it was clear she wanted that armoire, and she was going to put up the money to get it. In effect, she was warning other buyers not to bid her up because she intended to win the antique regardless.

  “Maybe.” Marie shrugged, letting a hint of a smile lift her lips. “But probably not.”

  As she walked away, she laughed at herself. She wasn’t interested in that kind of bulky furniture. Pieces like that clogged the open feeling of a room.

  When she reached the corner of the fence, Marie spotted her buffet.

  And she spotted someone else surveying the same piece.

  The man wore a blue coat over a white shirt, gray peppering his temples and neatly trimmed goatee. He too jotted notes on a piece of paper in his hand, while his gaze roved and caressed the edges of the century-old item.

  She squinted at him, hoping even from fifty feet away that he’d get the
hint and move on to other pieces on the block.

  He didn’t.

  The even grain of the wood and scrolled brass knobs of the drawers belonged at the Red Door Inn. She’d already envisioned them against the long blue wall of the dining room, where every afternoon Jules Rousseau would offer his éclairs and beignets. And guests would find a reason to return to the Red Door in the warmth of the afternoon for a cool cup of lemonade and a sweet.

  Well, the Jules Rousseau part was new, but the plan hadn’t changed.

  Guests of the Red Door deserved an afternoon treat. And they deserved to pick it up on this piece of furniture.

  She wasn’t going to walk away from the prize without a fight.

  “What are you looking at? See anything you like?”

  She jumped at Seth’s words, the pages of her notebook flapping in the breeze. “I’m—” Well, it probably wasn’t wise to confess that she’d been giving the evil eye to another bidder. “I’m not sure.” She surveyed the whole lot in three seconds and pointed at a square table with four chairs. “What about that? The detail on the back of the chairs complements the hardware on the buffet.”

  He nodded, squinting hard as he shifted to look back and forth between the items. “Sure. If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  He cocked his head so his ear almost reached his shoulder, his gaze settling over her like morning fog on the bay. “You’re kind of feisty today, aren’t you?”

  His words spread warmth through her insides. “Am I?”

  He chuckled. “Well, it looks like the chairs are starting to fill up. Maybe we should find seats.”

  She followed him toward the horseshoe-shaped setup, only glancing over her shoulder at her rival once.

  The first several items on the auction block were of little consequence to them, the mind-game player’s armoire and a set of end tables. Seth gave her a nudge when the nineteenth-century tables were announced, but she waved him off. He raised his eyebrows.

  His lips were almost to her ear when he whispered, “Wouldn’t they look good in the living room?”

  She gulped at the lump rising in her chest and managed to respond, “The Red Door doesn’t have a living room. It has a parlor.”