The Red Door Inn

by Liz Johnson

  Caden’s gaze leapt to Marie and back to him. “Only if you want happy employees.”

  He shrugged. “They’ve been cranky before. I think I could handle that again if I can keep this all for myself.”

  Her smile was all teeth and charm.

  “What are you doing today?” Marie asked.

  “I have the day off.” She opened her coat to reveal a bleach-stained T-shirt. “I thought I might be of some help.”

  Marie twisted the screw in the back of a cupboard door until the handle popped off. Then she sanded around the edges of the hole, smoothing down the splinters.

  “These are beautiful.” Caden stood next to the stainless steel double oven affixed to the wall. Her fingers brushed the metal handles with a reverence that Marie hadn’t ever seen in a kitchen before.

  She shrugged. “I guess. I never thought about it.”

  “Try learning to cook in an oven older than you are that has a habit of burning both the tops and bottoms of your cakes.” She winked from behind an unruly swipe of blonde bangs. “You’ll gain an appreciation for fine appliances. And Jack has very good taste.”

  “Try never learning to cook at all.” Marie caught her thumb on a rough patch of wood and cringed, popping it into her mouth.

  “Never?”

  Staring at the tip of her finger until the redness subsided, Marie said, “Nope. We had a—umm, I guess I just never had to. And I didn’t really want to either. But my mom’s best friend Georgiana was an interior designer, and she took me under her wing when she worked on our house.” No need for Caden to know it had been their beach house.

  Of course, most houses on the island were on the beach. But the Red Door Inn—although right off the bay—was just half the size of her father’s place on the Cape and intended to house three times as many people.

  Caden looked down at her empty hands. “I feel like I should be doing something. What can I do?”

  “Well, I almost have the handles off the cabinets. Then we’ll give them a quick sanding before we paint them. Do you want to sand the ones I’ve already done?”

  “Sure.” She picked up a sheet of sandpaper and swiped it in a straight line down the front of a cupboard door. “Like this?”

  Marie held up a flat palm facing away from her, making small circles in the air. “Make loose, round motions. You’re not trying to smooth it out, just give it enough texture so the paint will stick to it.”

  “Paint doesn’t stick to stuff naturally? I mean, it doesn’t seem to be sliding off the wall or anything.”

  She waited to see if Caden was serious, so when the blonde turned, her eyebrows pulled together and a pleasant frown in place, Marie nodded slowly. “It does naturally stick to surfaces, but sometimes, if there’s a glossy coat or smooth surface on the bottom, you have to give it a little extra something to grab on to.”

  Caden followed her directions, the scratching stiff and disjointed. “So you learned all of this from your mom’s friend? Did you work for her?”

  The loose metal handles and screws clanked together as she swept them off the counter into a baggie. “Not exactly.”

  “An internship?”

  “I loved design, so I took any excuse I could to spend time with Georgiana.” Marie looked up at the ceiling, searching for the right word. “It was probably more like stalking.”

  Caden chuckled, then abruptly stopped as a fine cloud of dust reached her nose. Her sneeze rattled the cabinets, sending them both into a bout of laughter. After rubbing her nose, Caden said, “Did you go to university for design then?”

  Marie pressed a hand to her chest as a dull ache settled in. Even after ten years, the memory stung of turning down the invitation to attend Parsons The New School for Design in New York. “No. My dad didn’t think design was a prestigious enough career path.”

  The words felt strange as they came out. Like she’d never said them before. Maybe she hadn’t. She’d sure thought it enough times, but no one disagreed with Elliot Carrington, especially not his only child.

  “Really?”

  “Really.” She sighed, the memories close, the regrets closer. She hadn’t stood up to her dad then. In fact, she’d only stood up to him once. Well, running to PEI just to get away from him wasn’t exactly standing up to him. But at least she hadn’t become his pawn.

  Caden’s sanding slowed as she turned to stare over her shoulder at Marie. “So did you go to university?”

  “Sure. I went into the family business.”

  “I didn’t know your family had a business. What is it?”

  Money.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly a business. But her father was an expert at making money. Investing in property, building condos, and leveraging assets. He’d leverage anything he could to make a sweet million.

  She pinched her eyes closed against the image of her dad’s face on that morning in early January. After a week in hiding, a week trying to scrub the filth off her skin, she’d emerged from her suite. He’d acted bored with her, telling her she was overly dramatic. Of course, she wouldn’t go to the police right that minute. She’d wait until the right time.

  He put his foot down, and she let him. She stayed away from the truth because it hurt just to think about it. Because every breath in Boston was like sucking air through plastic. Because she was sure she was truly alone for the first time in her life.

  After her mother died and her father—jealous of Georgiana’s influence on Marie—told Georgiana she wasn’t welcome in the Carrington home, Marie had clung to her mother’s last words of hope. She’d spoken with such conviction of a God who cared for his children.

  But how could a good God, a loving Father, leave her to the devices of a man who would barter her pain for a deal on the property he wanted?

  “Marie?” Caden’s voice was low, concerned. “Are you all right?”

  She shook off the memories and the pain that accompanied them. “Yes. Sorry. Just zoned out for a second.”

  “Are you sure?” She didn’t sound very sure, and her eyes were wary as her sanding stopped altogether.

  “Absolutely.” She plastered a smile in place, hoping it resembled something real, not the grimace that always accompanied the memories. Best to think about something else. Quickly. “Are you about done?”

  “Yep.” Holding up a hand covered in white dust, Caden smiled. “All set for painting, I think.”

  Marie tossed her a wet rag. “Just one more step. We’ve got to clean the cabinets off so there isn’t loose dust.”

  “Okay.”

  In no time at all, they were ready to start painting, and as she poured eggshell-white paint into a tray, Caden said, “I like this white against the brick red of the walls. It stands out from the steel appliances and feels somehow modern and classic.”

  “I was thinking the same thing when I picked these colors.”

  Caden lifted a hand to her forehead and wiped away a bead of sweat before picking up her glass of water.

  “You might want fresh water.” Marie pointed to the floating particles that danced in a rhythm all their own, hovering and bobbing. “Let me get you a new one.”

  As she pulled two water bottles from the fridge, Jack joined them. He leaned against the door frame, crossing his legs at the ankles of his blue jeans. “Having fun?”

  They all chuckled. Preparing to paint wasn’t nearly as fun as actually painting, but it was worth it for a quality finished project. As long as they didn’t end up with multiple hues like the bedroom upstairs had. Of course, they only needed one can of paint for this job, and she’d stirred it. Thoroughly.

  “What do you think of our kitchen, Caden?”

  “It’s beautiful. I was just telling Marie how much I like the colors. It has such a homey feel that I think your guests are going to want to spend more time in here than in the dining room.” She took a quick breath before barreling on. “Maybe you should put in a permanent island with stools so that visitors can eat in here too. I mean, I�
�d have an island, but not so that people can eat at it. There’s just never enough counter space in these old houses, so you have to—”

  She slapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. “I’m really sorry. My mom says I talk too much, and Aretha tells me I give my opinions too often when no one’s asked for them. I just can’t help it. They sneak out sometimes.”

  Jack’s laugh burst out without caution. “Opinions are welcome. What do you think of the room? As a professional?”

  “Oh, I’m not a professional.”

  Marie spoke in her defense. “What do you call those bites of heaven I keep buying from you? Unprofessional?”

  Caden’s round cheeks flushed red, and she looked at the paintbrush in her hand. Swiping a thumb over the clean bristles, she shrugged. “I’m not trained far beyond my dad’s kitchen. My grandma taught me most of what she knows, and I cook for the whole family—all fifteen of us—when we get together. But I always just thought of it as dabbling in the kitchen.”

  “Well, your dabbling is a far cry better than anything anyone else in this house is doing. So tell us what you think.” Marie gave her an encouraging nod.

  “True.” Jack hit the nail on the head.

  “I might change a few things.”

  “Like?” He stuck his thumbs into his pockets.

  Her hair fell into her face, and Caden brushed it behind her ears and pointed toward the dark stone countertops. “To start with, I would find a way to add more counter space. Baking isn’t for small areas. And any baker is going to have canisters and cookbooks lining the counter. Also, most of the counter area that you do have is far away from the fridge and the oven. If you were cooking a breakfast casserole and prepped it over there”—she pointed at the counter closest to the laundry room door—“then you’d have to carry it all the way over to the oven. That’s at least ten steps, ten chances that you’ll drop it. But if you had a stable island, you could prep it all there, and it’s not even a step to slide it into the oven.”

  Jack tapped his chin as she spoke, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

  Caden didn’t seem to notice Jack’s change in expression. “And then I’d add a hanging rack for your pots and pans. Sure, you’ve got plenty of lower cabinet space, but serving a fast-paced breakfast is all about having the tools you need at hand but out of your way until you need them.” She mimed pulling a pan from over her head. “If I’m going to make a berry compote for my French toast, that has to simmer while I prep the toast. So if I can pull my saucepan and my skillet down just when I need them, that’s perfect.”

  Jack pulled a notepad from his back pocket and scribbled a note on it. “Good idea.”

  “Then if you built in a spice rack on the wall right there next to the refrigerator, you have easy access to the flavors you need most. And most importantly, you need a good trash can.”

  Everything she’d said made perfect sense until that last statement. “How many kinds of trash cans are there?” Marie said. “As long as it doesn’t have a hole in it, isn’t it a good one?”

  “It’s not good enough. You need one with a lid that opens without having to touch it. We have one at the bakery that has a sensor on it. When you wave your hand over it, the lid opens, and you never have to touch it. It keeps you clean and keeps your kitchen tidy even during a rush. At least, that’s what my dad always says.”

  “Smart guy.” Jack kept scribbling.

  “Will you be cooking breakfasts yourself?”

  “Not unless cold cereal has become acceptable fare.”

  Caden shook her head. “I don’t think so. Have you hired your chef yet? If not, there’s a good school in Charlottetown. At Holland College. You might be able to hire a recent graduate.”

  “Thanks. We’re all set. I’ve hired an executive chef from New York.”

  Marie waited for a twinge of recognition to cross Jack’s face as her stomach lurched. But he didn’t seem to realize that the chef’s arrival would mean her departure. Or he didn’t care.

  Jack just continued writing with his stub of a pencil, nodding as Caden offered him another thought on the types of plates they’d need to look for. Dishwasher-safe didn’t look as classic or homey, but they would save endless hours of hand-washing the china that Aretha sold.

  Marie watched them, even as their conversation faded away.

  Did Jack not remember that he’d promised her room to someone else and he hadn’t even told her? Except it wasn’t really her room. She was just temporary help. Jack would send her packing as soon as the chef arrived.

  Marie took a deep breath and swiped her paintbrush down the inside of a cabinet door. He couldn’t ask her to leave if she was already gone.

  15

  Two Sundays later, Marie woke up later than usual. Rolling over on her bed, she stared at the red numbers on the little clock. She never used to wake up before the alarm jerked her from her sleep on the weekends. But ever since New Year’s Eve, she’d been more eager to get out of bed every morning.

  But today she’d slept until well after seven. A little sore from helping Jack lay paving stones in the backyard the day before, she scooted from under a thick blanket, grabbed her only pair of clean pants and a thick sweater, and hugged them to her chest to ward off the basement chill as she ran for the bathroom.

  When she emerged from the steam-filled room half an hour later, the bone-chilling cold was a distant memory. She pulled on thick socks and padded up the stairs, careful not to hit the creaky step. Jack or Seth might still be asleep. She didn’t really know what time they got up. It was usually while she was on her morning run, and that was all she needed to know.

  She also needed to find something to fill the gnawing in her stomach.

  Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard and poured a generous helping into a plastic bowl. She topped it off with a long splash of milk. The granola made a loud crunch as she chewed slowly, surveying the room. The white cupboards had turned out just as she’d envisioned, and the hanging rack that Jack had asked Seth to install at Caden’s suggestion glimmered in the light of the sunrise.

  “So you decided to join us this morning?”

  She jumped at Seth’s voice, sloshing milk down the front of her sweater. Frowning at the damp trail, she took the washcloth next to the sink and tried to mop it up. It only succeeded in leaving a wider path.

  Oh well. There was no helping it now. She’d just have to wait for it to air dry.

  She shrugged. “Don’t I always?”

  His gaze roamed from the top of her head to her shoulders and back up, his face void of emotion. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it on time today.”

  “Well, I did.” She held up her bowl and shoveled the cereal into her mouth, never taking her eyes off him. After too long, she swallowed a painful bite. “Can I help you with something?”

  One side of his mouth angled up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair down like that.”

  “My hair?” She ran her fingers through the still-damp strands hanging over her shoulders, suddenly wishing she’d pulled it back before leaving the safety of her room.

  “You should wear it like that more often.” He turned up his smile from half-mast to full-blown.

  She held her breath as her stomach performed a complete barrel roll. Hugging her bowl just below her chin and squinting at him, she asked, “Why?”

  “It’s pretty.”

  A war waged in her chest, and she tightened her features to keep it from showing on her face. It had been months since anyone had offered such a simple, sweet compliment, and she longed to accept it. Longed to believe it.

  But the part of her that carried the memories of another man who had said she was beautiful cried out in fear. She couldn’t trust any man who offered such flippant comments. She couldn’t believe he said them for anything but his own benefit.

  Except there was a twinkle in Seth’s eye that suggested he meant it.

  And as she sc
ooped another bite into her mouth, his face turned serious, and his eyebrows pulled together. “I’m sorry for what I said when we were coming back from the auction.” His voice low and insistent, he leaned toward her as though proximity equaled sincerity. “I shouldn’t have been such a jerk.”

  Her stomach clenched, putting a pause on her breakfast. This kind of genuine apology was new to her. Her mom had never done a thing requiring an apology—at least from Marie. And her dad had certainly never offered one for anything—despite his numerous offenses.

  Just when she compared Seth to the men of her past, he surprised her.

  He stood there, the pain in his eyes testifying to his true remorse, even as he fidgeted with a screwdriver that had been left on the counter. Owning up to his mistake. This was what real men did. Not perfect ones. Just ones who recognized their shortcomings and tried to make things right.

  He attempted a grin, which fell flat, then added, “I didn’t mean to tell you so much about Reece. It just sort of came out. And sometimes what she did is still a little too fresh. You know what I mean?”

  Marie nodded around the mouthful she was slowly chewing.

  “Anyway, I just—” He stabbed a hand through his hair before flattening a black eyebrow with a finger. “Well, I’m glad we could finally talk alone. Seems like Jack has stuck to you closer than glue.”

  Her swallow was so loud she was sure he’d go deaf.

  The truth wasn’t that Jack had been sticking to her side. It was the exact opposite. In the almost two weeks since the auction, she’d made it a point not to be left alone with Seth. The easiest way to do that was to stay by Jack. He always had a project, and she liked talking to him, hearing stories about his courtship with Rose. At least that was what Jack called it.

  Working with him kept her entertained and safe from another run-in with Seth. Listening to Jack and Rose’s love story made her forget—if just for a few minutes—why she was even on the island. Why she’d left Boston in the first place.

  And it gave her a glimmer of hope.

  She wasn’t quite sure what she hoped for. But maybe it was a future.