by Irene Hannon
Climbing the steps to the wraparound porch, Cara admired the artful arrangement of white wicker furniture and the graceful ferns that trailed from hanging baskets under the eaves and overflowed from numerous plant stands set on the wooden floor.
“I see you found the pink elephant.”
At the sound of Marge’s voice, Cara transferred her attention to the front door. Attired in bright green slacks and a harvest-gold V-necked tunic top, the hem edged with beaded, iridescent fringe, the innkeeper pushed open the screen door and grinned. “Come on in.”
If Cara thought the outside of the house had evoked the nineteenth century, she felt as if she’d entered a time warp when she stepped inside. From the authentic period furnishings to the dark wood to the bric-a-brac accents, the interior looked as if it had been transported intact from the 1880s to the twenty-first century.
“Wow! This is amazing.” Cara turned around three-hundred-and-sixty degrees in the foyer, trying to take it all in.
“I can think of other ways to describe it. High-maintenance, for one.”
At Marge’s long-suffering tone, Cara looked at her. “I imagine the upkeep is pretty intimidating.”
The innkeeper gave an unladylike snort. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“Did you ever think about selling it?”
“I used to, when I first got here. But the place is kind of growing on me. Not that it will ever be my style, you understand.”
No, it wouldn’t be, Cara agreed, casting another discreet glance over Marge’s attire.
“It does have a certain appeal, however. And my guests seem to love it. I’ve had people come from as far away as Atlanta to see the place. It has quite a history. Would you like a quick tour before we get down to business?”
“I’d love one.”
Marge hadn’t been kidding when she said quick, Cara realized, as they headed up the grand staircase. The woman swept from room to room upstairs like a whirl-wind. Cara was left with an impression of meticulous, charming decor in the eight guest bedrooms.
Once back on the first floor, Marge led the way to a large parlor, joined by sliding doors to a spacious dining room furnished with small individual tables. Both rooms boasted fireplaces with elaborate marble mantels.
“My aunt had a large cherrywood dining table in here when I inherited the place,” Marge told Cara, gesturing toward the dining room. “It was more authentic, but I cater to couples looking for a romantic getaway, and they prefer having breakfast together.”
“What’s back there?” Cara pointed to another set of closed sliding doors at the far end of the room.
“The library.” Marge crossed the polished walnut floor and parted the doors. “It’s kind of an odd location. I don’t need the space, so I use it for storage. It’s an impressive room, though.”
The original large dining table stood in the center, surrounded by odds and ends of furniture. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all filled with antique volumes. A bit smaller than the dining room, the library had a cozy ambiance. And the deep windows, with cushioned window seats, looked like the perfect place to spend a rainy afternoon.
“Well, that’s the ten-cent tour.” Marge closed the doors again. “And now, to the heart of the house.”
Leading the way through a butler’s pantry, Marge pushed open the door to the kitchen. And once more, Cara was impressed.
No effort had been made in this room to preserve the Victorian character. Stainless-steel appliances and commercial-grade dishwashers and sinks lined the perimeter, and a large stainless-steel prep station formed an island in the center. Off to one side, a small walk-out bay window had been transformed into a cozy dining nook complete with an oak table and chairs. Woven place mats on the table and a colorful bouquet of flowers in a pottery vase invited closer inspection.
Cara gave the working part of the kitchen an appreciative survey as Marge led the way to the table. “This is fabulous.”
“It is something, isn’t it?” Marge reached for a carafe of coffee and filled two big mugs as they took their seats. “I can’t imagine why my aunt went to this kind of expense when all she did was serve breakfast for sixteen people in the morning. Less than that when the inn wasn’t full…which is usually the case, except on weekends.”
“Maybe she had plans to do more.”
“Could be. But her health started to decline, and by the end I think she was lucky to be able to manage breakfast.” Marge pulled a tablet toward her and picked up a pencil. “Now, let’s get down to business. Why I agreed to chair the church’s food booth at the community Fourth of July festival is beyond me. I’m more into health food and vegetarian fare than fried chicken. But when I tried to nix the chicken, I was told that it’s sacrosanct.
“However, I’ve got some leeway on the sides. That’s where I thought you might be able to help. The standard menu has been coleslaw, potato salad and green beans with bacon bits. Trust me, I’m open to other suggestions. And I’m running out of time.”
As they tossed ideas back and forth, Cara considered that a few days ago, very little could have pried her away from the safety of Sam’s house. But since their conversation Monday morning over Danish pastry, Cara had done her best to avoid him. Was it possible she’d misinterpreted the brief tender look on his face before he shuttered it? Perhaps it had been no more than a simple play of light.
Yet she’d been uncomfortable ever since. With that, as well as his expression of remorse, which seemed to call for a response she wasn’t ready to give. While they’d continued to eat dinner together, she always retreated to her room or the porch swing afterward. She was only able to relax when he was gone during the day.
However, since today was his day off, he’d be home for at least a few hours. Marge’s call earlier in the week, requesting her assistance with the church booth at the Fourth of July festival, had given her a good excuse to leave the house without making it obvious that she was trying to steer clear of him.
An hour later, after hashing over various options, she and Marge had decided to supplement the fried chicken with Greek pasta salad, Mexican corn bread, chilled marinated vegetables and spiced apples. Cara had also agreed to supervise the preparation of the dishes in the church kitchen during the two days preceding the event.
“We’re going to knock their socks off.” Marge examined the menu, chortling. “The Oak Hill Fourth of July festival has never seen a menu like this!”
“People might prefer what they’re used to.”
“True. But playing it safe is boring. Sometimes people need to take chances, try new things. Explore one of those side roads I mentioned when we met. Besides, now that you’ve agreed to oversee all the preparation, I have every confidence this will be a huge hit. I must confess, I did a little checking on the Internet after church Sunday. Dr. Martin told me you were a chef, but I had no idea you were so accomplished.”
Warmth stole over Cara’s cheeks. She knew there were a number of articles about her floating around in cyberspace, since she’d been featured in several local and regional publications in the past couple of years. But she was surprised anyone in Oak Hill had seen them.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspaper,” she demurred.
“I don’t know. Our Gazette is always a stickler for accuracy. Abby makes sure of that. And I have a feeling the stories I found about you are true, too. Which brings me to another idea I wanted to discuss.” Marge set aside her tablet and fixed a keen eye on Cara. “Remember our conversation on Sunday, about serving dinner at the inn?”
A caution flag went up in Cara’s mind. The conversation Marge referred to had consisted of a couple of sentences, all triggered by an innocuous comment made by Cara. But if she hadn’t liked the gleam in Marge’s eyes on Sunday, she liked it even less now.
“I recall asking if you served dinner.” She gave the woman a wary look.
“And I said it might not be a bad idea. Now that I’ve given it some mor
e thought, I think it’s a great idea. I figured I could open up the library, use the big table for small groups, add some smaller tables around the walls. I have room for more tables in the dining room, too. All told, I think I could seat about fifty. And the kitchen could certainly handle that. Since I don’t use those rooms at night anyway, it would be a perfect arrangement.”
She leaned forward, excitement sparking in her eyes. “My thought is to serve dinner three nights a week, say Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Have a set menu and a single seating, about seven. Gourmet fare, with a mid-western accent, featuring local products whenever possible. I’m sure a concept like this would go over like gangbusters. There’s nothing like it for miles around. What do you think?”
A bit overwhelmed by Marge’s plans, Cara took a few seconds to digest the information. The idea seemed sound, and it would be a good use of the dining room and library in the evenings. Cara could picture the rooms, bathed in candlelight, soft music playing in the background, the tables covered with crisp linen. It would be a superb setting for a romantic dinner or a special-occasion meal.
“It sounds like an idea with great potential, Marge. But I thought you said you weren’t a chef?” Cara lifted her mug to her lips.
“I’m not. But you are.”
Cara had been afraid that was where Marge was heading. “I don’t live here. Like I told you Sunday, I have a good job waiting for me in Philly.”
“I know. But I got the impression from Dr. Martin that you’d be here for a few weeks, and I figured you might be willing to help me get this up and running.”
“What about after I leave?”
“I’ll have to hire a permanent chef. But I’m confident I can find someone, because I plan to make a very attractive offer. Since weekend dinners are likely to bring in business for the inn as well, I’d leave the operation of the restaurant—the ownership, in fact—in the hands of the chef. In exchange for the space and the use of the kitchen, I’d just want a small percentage of the income. Seems like a fair deal to me.”
It was more than fair, Cara agreed. And it was an arrangement she’d grab in a heartbeat if she planned to stay in Oak Hill. All her life, she’d yearned to open her own restaurant. But the long hours and financial commitment of such a venture had been too overwhelming.
With the kind of deal Marge was proposing, however, she would inherit an existing space and have limited hours of operation. The restaurant would provide a nice income without dominating her life. And she could follow her culinary instincts, experiment with ingredients, create her own signature dishes. The prospect was very appealing.
And completely out of the question. She was a visitor in Oak Hill, nothing more. This wasn’t for her. And she wouldn’t be here long enough to give Marge a great deal of help, much as she’d like to assist the woman.
“Opening a restaurant takes time, Marge. I doubt we’d get very far in a handful of weeks.”
“Why not? The space exists. All we’d have to do is add a few more tables. The way you came up with the menu for the church booth, I don’t expect you’d have much of a problem putting together a set menu three nights a week. After that, it’s a simple matter of ordering the food and spreading the word. Being president of the chamber of commerce has its advantages, you know. It would be a piece of cake.”
It was hard not to get caught up in Marge’s enthusiasm. Starting up—and running—a restaurant, brief though it might be, would be a great experience. And it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do while she was here. Besides, she missed cooking. Not to mention the fact that a project like this would give her an excuse to spend quite a few hours away from Sam’s house.
There was one problem, of course. If they managed to get the restaurant up and running before she left, she’d have to go home at night at the end of the evening. If dinner was at seven, as Marge had suggested, she’d be finished far earlier than in a typical restaurant job…but not before dark. And she was still having problems with that.
Yet the town seemed safe. She felt comfortable here. If she wanted to restore normalcy to her life, she had to start going out at night alone sooner or later. What better place to test the waters than Oak Hill? She shouldn’t let irrational fears stop her from taking advantage of this opportunity.
The more she considered it, the more enamored she became with Marge’s suggestion. But she needed to think this through. Perhaps talk it over with Liz, who always offered sound advice.
“Why don’t you give it some thought, Cara?” Marge spoke as if she’d read her visitor’s mind. “I know it’s a lot to take on. And since you’re here for such a short stay, it might not be worth your while. But it could be fun.”
Fun wasn’t a word Cara had used much lately. But she’d like to restore it to her vocabulary. And this would help. Gathering up her purse, Cara slung it over her shoulder and stood. “I’ll think about it, Marge.”
“Good. That’s a start.” The woman rose and walked with her toward the front door. “Meanwhile, I’ll get all these ingredients ordered for the Fourth of July and alert the ladies at the church that they’d better be prepared to roll up their sleeves and learn a few new tricks. This will be their first experience working under a chef.”
“I hope they won’t resent me for barging in on their turf.”
“You aren’t barging in. I invited you. And I expect they’ll be excited about it, once I share a few of your credentials with them. A Paris Cordon Bleu chef, no less! Oak Hill has finally hit the big time!”
Smiling in response to Marge’s enthusiasm, Cara exited the inn and headed for her car. Not until she slid into the driver’s seat, put her key in the ignition and pointed the car toward Sam’s house did she manage to catch her breath.
Marge was amazing, no question about it. Despite her eccentric attire and whirlwind nature, the owner of the “pink elephant” was anything but scattered. With consummate skill and singular focus, she’d maneuvered Cara right where she wanted her. Not only had Cara signed on to oversee the church food booth, she’d agreed to consider helping Marge open a restaurant at the inn.
All of which confirmed the assessment Cara had made on Sunday.
Marge should have been a politician.
Later in the afternoon, Cara peered at her flushed face in the bathroom mirror. Even a tepid shower hadn’t managed to cool her down. Philly could get warm, but she’d never experienced anything like the humid heat of Missouri. After working in the garden all afternoon, she felt like one of the wilted impatiens she’d rescued from the weeds on the side of the house. At least she didn’t have to turn on the oven, since Sam had insisted on picking up dinner when he finished his volunteer stint at the rural clinic.
When she stepped into her bedroom, her gaze fell on the notes she’d jotted down after her meeting with Marge that morning. Cara hadn’t planned to stay in Oak Hill more than four or five weeks, and she’d been in town ten days already. She doubted they’d be able to open before she left. But at least she could help with the planning. And the innkeeper was right; it would be fun.
After pulling on shorts and a sleeveless cotton blouse, Cara tried to tame her hair as she blow-dried it. Always full of natural curl, it had gone crazy in the Missouri humidity. So much for sleek sophistication, she reflected. Giving up the fight, she did her best to secure the unruly locks at her nape with a large barrette, although a few obstinate tendrils eluded her and curled around her face.
Retrieving her latest novel from the nightstand, Cara left her room and headed toward the back porch. If she could manage to catch a breeze on the swing, she’d pass the time until dinner out there. If it was too hot, she’d…
All at once, the pungent odor of garlic assailed her nostrils, and Cara’s step faltered. In a flash, she was transported back to the dark parking lot with Tony. Felt again warm breath on her cheek…cold metal pressed to her temple…strong arms holding her in a vise. Once more she heard the sound of harsh breathing close to her ear. Tasted the sharp tang of f
ear. Saw the anger and defiance in Tony’s eyes. And knew with terrible certainty that there was a very good chance she was going to die.
Dizziness caught her unaware, and Cara dropped her book as she groped for the nearest door frame, trying to steady herself as the floor shifted beneath her feet. Her heart began to hammer in her ears, and she couldn’t draw any air into her lungs. As the hall faded in and out of darkness, a wave of terror crashed over her.
Cara had had plenty of panic attacks since the shooting, but none this severe. And as fear gripped her throat, further restricting her airway, she knew she was about to pass out.
A soft thump in the hallway caught Sam’s attention as he arranged the warm garlic bread in a basket. Cara must be ready for dinner. The shower had been running when he’d returned twenty minutes ago, but it had gone off soon after. He’d been expecting her to emerge any minute.
After a few seconds, when there was no further sound or sign of her, a warning bell sounded in his mind. Setting the bread on the table, he headed for the hall.
The sight that met his eyes stopped him cold. Cara was clutching the door frame leading to the hall bath, bent slightly, gasping for breath, an open book at her feet.
His adrenaline surging, Sam closed the distance between them in a few long strides. When he grasped her shoulders, the tremors that shook her body shocked him. Other than an obvious weight loss and her unwillingness to stay alone at night, Sam had seen little evidence of her trauma since she’d arrived. That had changed in a heartbeat. She was in the throes of a full-fledged panic attack.
“Cara, you need to lie down. Let me help you.” Despite his best effort to keep his voice low and calm, a quiver ran through it. He put his arm around her shaking shoulders, but when he tried to urge her toward the bedroom her legs buckled. Reacting on instinct, Sam bent and slipped his arm under her knees, then swung her into his arms. She seemed oblivious to his presence, her eyes wide with fear as she fought for air, her hands clenching and unclenching in spasms.