by Liz Johnson
She leaned her shoulder into its side, but it only groaned, taunting her to try again.
She did and got the same result.
Kneeling between the cabinets and island, she put her hands on her hips and huffed a sigh that sent a wisp of hair that had escaped her French braid floating up. And right back into her face.
She needed something long and narrow. With pinchers.
Tongs.
She pulled herself up on the edge of the alternating white and black counter tiles before rifling through the middle drawer next to the dishwasher. Spatulas and spoons tumbled about as she dug for the tongs she usually used to flip bacon. The tangled utensils scraped together, nearly falling onto the floor as she stretched her fingers to find what she was looking for.
Finally she hooked a handle with the crook of her finger and yanked it—and a deformed whisk—free.
Caden arched her wrist and sent the whisk toward the trash can, its wire loops swishing down the plastic liner.
She laughed to herself. “Two points.”
Just as the cast of Mamma Mia! burst into the rousing show closer, she lowered herself back to the floor. The tip of her tongs clicked to the rhythm of the song as she hunched over her prey, eyeing it for the right angle. She moved in slowly, deliberately, trying not to disturb the sheet until it was safely in her grasp.
She just . . . had . . . to . . .
“Rats!”
Even as she bumped the corner of the paper, she recognized her mistake.
The paper fluttered, loosened by her miscalculation, and slid beneath the fridge, completely out of reach.
Just. Perfect.
She scrubbed her hand down her cheek and scratched behind her ear. Maybe if she glared at the spot where the paper had vanished, it would miraculously reappear. That was about as likely as a lobster crawling into her boiling pot.
Two loud footfalls right above her head make Caden jump, and she spun in the direction of the clock on the microwave. Thirty minutes until breakfast time. Fifteen until Marie came to check in and began serving the first course, a fresh fruit salad Caden had prepared the night before.
She’d run out of time to whip up the seafood quiche she’d written onto the large calendar hanging by the door to the dining room. At this point, scrambled eggs and roasted potatoes would have to do.
But first—the allergy list.
Marie sometimes left a copy of the manifest in her office, so Caden hurried down the hallway from the kitchen to the little room between the living quarters and the rest of the inn. Seth, Marie’s husband, had built the nook into the restored home just so that his wife would have a place to manage the inn’s daily goings-on.
Caden tried to step lightly—no easy feat—on the seventy-five-year-old wooden floors. They seemed to creak and moan even when she hadn’t taken a step. It wasn’t until she had almost reached the door that she realized it was partly open, and soft voices echoed within.
“It can’t be as bad as that.” The deep voice belonged to Seth Sloane, but it didn’t sound much like the contractor turned innkeeper who had swept Marie off her feet. It was as thick as the red clay that gave Prince Edward Island its famous color. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help much when he continued. “There has to be something left. We had a good season last year.”
“But we’re only half booked for this summer.” Marie sounded just as strained as her husband. “After this week, we have at least two empty rooms all season.”
“Maybe they’ll fill. Maybe we’ll get another guest for all of June and July. Maybe that princess bride will decide to uncancel her wedding and the whole party will rebook and stay an extra week . . .”
“That’s a lot of maybes.”
Caden held her breath, wishing she could somehow sneak back to the kitchen and ignore the tremor in Marie’s tone, but knowing she couldn’t leave until she had her instructions. She raised her hand to knock just as Seth spoke.
“Maybe if we talk to your—”
“No.” Marie lost all hint of uncertainty, her tone sharper than Caden had ever heard it before. “We’re not—”
Caden spun at Marie’s outburst, the floor shrieking like a never-ending fireworks display.
“Morning, Caden.” Seth sounded both surprised and relieved to suddenly notice her presence.
She turned back, an apologetic smile slapped into place as she pushed the door open a few inches more. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s just that the instructions fell under the refrigerator, and I need to get breakfast going.”
The tightness in Marie’s jaw didn’t release, even as she shot a glare at her husband, who managed an unrepentant shrug. Then she turned to the computer and printed out another page with the guests’ details. Her motions were sharp and controlled, her frown fixed in place.
“Here you go.” Marie’s voice held none of the tension that seemed to permeate the room, but there was a sadness in her eyes that sent Caden backpedaling as fast as she could.
Marie and Seth remained silent as she hurried down the hall, and when the door swung shut behind her, Caden let out a whoosh of air.
Whatever was going on in there, she didn’t want any part of it.
Except that Marie was her best friend.
And what she’d heard sounded like the Red Door might be in trouble.
Which meant they were all in trouble.
A slamming door on the second floor jolted her into action. Scanning the page in her hand, she made note of two lactose sensitivities and one pineapple allergy. No cheese on the eggs for some of those guests. And the fruit salad was a simple apple, blueberry, and peach concoction. No problem there.
As she whisked a dozen eggs in a glass mixing bowl, she glanced out the kitchen window, enjoying the view of her herb garden and a corner of the bay beyond their neighbor’s back porch and a narrow field of wildflowers.
She’d spent her whole life staring at that same patch of rippling blue. And though the kitchen had changed, the view from the window over the sink was always the same. The morning sun caught the tip of a wave, and it sparkled like a diamond.
Not that she’d ever owned one.
Caden glanced down at her empty ring finger and sighed as she covered the bottom of her skillet with a nonstick spray. It popped against the hot pan, and she poured the beaten eggs over it, bubbles immediately forming in the yellow mixture.
As she stirred the eggs, she risked another glance out the window.
A man stood between the inn and the water. He was far enough away that she couldn’t make out his features or even tell if she recognized him. He certainly wasn’t one of their neighbors, all of whom had a distinct stoop and slow stroll. But there was an appealing easiness to his gait, and she watched him walk the shoreline. As he bent to pick up a small duffel bag, his shoulders pushed at the fabric of his leather jacket. No one in this area wore that kind of coat. A gust of wind fluttered his dark hair, and he ran his fingers through the loose strands in an infinitely male move.
Nope. She didn’t know him.
She’d have noticed a guy like that walking around town. North Rustico wasn’t big enough to hide in.
After all, she’d been trying to hide here for years.
It never worked.
She stirred the fluffy eggs, giving them another dash of salt and pepper. And just a hint of garlic for good measure.
The door between the kitchen and dining room swung in, sweeping Marie’s chipper greeting to the waiting guests with it. “Breakfast will be right out.”
Caden turned and raised her eyebrows in question.
“Breakfast will be right out. Won’t it?” Marie’s brown curls had crossed the line from fun to frazzled, and the apron she looped over her head didn’t help the situation. Whatever she and Seth had been talking about that morning had left her in a knot, so Caden squelched the urge to tease her boss.
“Fruit is in serving dishes in the fridge.”
Marie already had half of them loaded on the
silver tray, scooping them up and whisking back through the swinging door.
Oohs and aahs over the crystal goblets of mixed fruit carried in from the dining room, and Caden couldn’t help the rush of pride through her middle as she plated scrambled eggs and roasted red potatoes, adding a cinnamon roll platter for each table.
With each swing of the door, Marie scooped up more plates, the lines around her mouth easing until an actual smile fell into place.
“This is so good,” one guest mumbled around a mouthful of food. “What’s in these eggs?”
Marie giggled, and Caden’s heart gave a little leap of joy. She could easily imagine her boss sidling up to a table and giving everyone there a saucy wink. Our chef only makes the best.
Except Marie didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything about how Caden hunted out fresh eggs three times a week from the hens at Kane Dairy. She didn’t say that Caden started her day at five each morning to make sure every guest was full and happy before leaving to explore the island. And she didn’t say that Caden had a knack for serving up the best sweet rolls in town.
In fact, Marie didn’t say a word about Caden at all.
“That’s our little secret.” And she left it at that.
A fist in her stomach sent Caden doubling over against the sink, head hanging low and heart even lower.
She loved this job. She loved this kitchen. She loved Marie.
But lately it felt like they might not love her back.
“Excuse me.”
Caden’s head snapped up at the unfamiliar voice, but she had to duck into the laundry room to find the source.
Face-to-face with the man from the beach, she yanked on the strings of her apron as she stared into his unblinking gray eyes. But the bow at her waist caught in a knot. Her fingers suddenly forgetful, she fumbled with the fabric.
He had poked his head through the back door, holding the screen with one hand and his leather jacket in the other, one foot on the ground and the other on the outside step.
The planes of his face didn’t shift, and the muscles at his throat stood in sharp relief to his otherwise relaxed pose. Which she only just realized blocked the bag she’d seen him carrying earlier. His deep brown hair was ruffled, standing on end above his right temple like he’d fallen asleep with his fingers combed through his hair and his head resting in his hand, and his jaw was darkened with at least a day’s worth of beard.
“Are you Marie Carrington Sloane?”
Caden glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see Marie materialize, but she remained alone. Alone with a man who knew Marie’s maiden name. No one used her maiden name.
Especially not Marie.
“No.” She dragged the word out, still jerking at the knot at the back of her waist, desperate to be free of her apron. “Can I help you with something?”
“This is Rose’s Red Door Inn.” And then, like he wasn’t quite sure, “Isn’t it? They said it was the big blue house between the boardwalk and the water.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes. The one with the red front door. And a sign out front.”
That earned a quarter smile as he let go of the door, holding it in place with his shoulder—a rather broad shoulder at that—and grabbed a brown leather journal from the back pocket of his jeans. It wasn’t much bigger than his palm, but as he thumbed through several pages, she could see that tiny scribbles filled every crevice and corner. Folding the notebook at the spine, his finger ran the lines until he nodded and looked up. “Rose’s Red Door Inn. North Rustico, Prince Edward Island. Marie Carrington Sloane, proprietor.”
He offered only the facts and no commentary. Who talked like that?
“And Seth too.” The words popped out before she’d really considered them, but something about the way he kept saying Marie’s full name made her insides churn and the hair on the back of her neck jump to attention.
He wouldn’t be a guest. They only arrived between three and seven. They never used the back door. And they most certainly never invaded her kitchen.
His forehead wrinkled as he gave his book another once-over, so she expounded. “Seth Sloane. Marie’s husband. Co-owner.”
Squinting harder at the page in his hand, he shook his head.
Well, he could shake it all he wanted. That didn’t make Seth’s presence any less real. Or Caden any more inclined to let this guy loiter on her back stoop. She pressed her hands to her waist and pulled herself up to her full height. Which wasn’t considerable. But what she lacked in height, she made up for in breadth. And she used all the generous width of her hips as she marched toward him, praying that he would just back away.
Then she could go tell Marie about this strange visitor.
But he didn’t budge. He just closed one eye in an almost wink and stared up at her. “Sorry. I didn’t get that note. My editor—Garrett de Root—he made the arrangements.”
“What arrangements?”
His gaze suddenly jumped over her shoulder, and she followed it.
“Caden? Is everything all right?” Marie’s hands were full of empty breakfast dishes, which she carried like she’d spent her college years in the service industry. Although that was far from the truth.
“This guy—” She flung a hand at the mystery man, who promptly stepped inside and reached out his hand.
“Adam Jacobs.”
Marie looked at the stacks in her arms and managed only a shrug. “Adam?”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe Garrett de Root contacted you about reserving a room for me.”
Marie’s half smile turned into a frown. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow. I don’t have an open room tonight.”
Acknowledgments
The characters on these pages aren’t the only ones who helped get this book in your hands. Please let me thank just a few in real life.
Katie Schroder, Amy Haddock, Ashley Hendley, Kristi Smith, Ruth Anderson, and Kaye Dacus. Thank you for forgiving all the times I disappeared into my writing cave and failed to keep in touch. When I crawled out, you were always there cheering me on. True friends are hard to find, and I’m grateful for each of you.
Michelle Ule, early reader and red-pen wielder. Your feedback on the first draft of this book was invaluable. Thank you!
Todd and Mel Hirte. Thank you for your endless support and many prayers. You’ve waited for this book almost as long as I have, and now I’m so happy to share it with you.
Karmen Leggett, English and literature teacher extraordinaire. You selflessly poured into me during my school years, encouraging my love of literature and pushing me to truly grasp grammar. Thank you for your encouragement.
Vicki Crumpton, Jessica English, Michele Misiak, and the whole Revell team. What an honor it is to partner with you on this publishing adventure.
Rachel Kent, the best agent a gal could ask for. Thank you for never giving up on this project. Your prayers, advice, and support mean the world to me. I’m so glad you’re in my corner.
Julia, Emily, Rachel, Jacob, and Caleb. I’m honored to be your aunt. You are my favorite characters!
Micah and Beth and John and Hannah. Thanks for cheering me on all these years. I’m lucky to be your sister.
Mom. Because of your love, I never feared taking a leap of faith. This book is evidence of that.
Dad. Thanks for being a shining reflection of our heavenly Father. It’s hard to imagine God could love me any more than you do.
And, of course, the Great Storyteller. God, your story blows me away. I’m honored to be a tiny part of it. All to your glory.
Liz Johnson fell in love with Prince Edward Island the first time she set foot on it. When she’s not plotting her next trip to the island, she works as a full-time marketing manager. She finds time to write late at night and is the author of nine novels, a New York Times bestselling novella, and a handful of short stories. She makes her home in Nashville, Tennessee, where she enjoys listening to local music, exploring the area’s history, and making frequent trips t
o Arizona to dote on her five nieces and nephews.
LizJohnsonBooks.com
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