“Very pretty . . . and memorable,” Claire agreed. “What type of food will you serve?”
“I’d call it New American cuisine, with touches of French and Asian influence. A lot of fish, of course. We’ll have about thirty seats,” she added. “That’s small enough for me to change the menu every day, depending on what I find in the market. I want to mainly serve local seafood and produce. There’ll also be a selection of fine wines and some fabulous desserts.”
“That sounds lovely.” Claire imagined the restaurant much like the small, sophisticated cafés in Boston.
“I can’t think of any place like that in Cape Light,” Liza said. “And none right here on the island.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I wasn’t able to find any competition in that niche either, though I don’t know the area that well. There are a few comparable restaurants in Newburyport, but I have the water view and the beachy setting going for me. I’ve been staying in Newburyport the past few weeks,” she explained. “But I wanted to be on the island now that I’m opening. I haven’t had to time to look for a cottage or an apartment yet.”
“It will be hard finding anything this time of year,” Liza said honestly. “We can work out a discount if you would like a long-term stay here.”
“Would you? That would be great. One less thing to worry about.”
Liza smiled at her. “Check that off your list, then. We’ll figure it out when you have a chance.”
Avery finished the rest of her tea, then quickly redid her hairdo, pushing some loose strands back in the bun. She rose and grabbed her handbag, gracing Liza and Claire with a big smile.
She looked much calmer and more refreshed than she had when she arrived. Claire felt satisfied to see that. Claire considered it the very purpose of this inn—to provide a rest stop in peoples’ lives, a welcoming place to renew and restore. Even for the few minutes it took to sip a glass of iced tea.
Avery glanced back at her watch. “Thanks again. You’ve both been so sweet. I’d better head off. I’m meeting an electrician at the café, and I don’t want to stand him up.”
The women said good-bye, and Avery headed off to her car, a small white SUV, parked in the drive at the side of the inn. She waved as she pulled out and turned onto the main road.
“Opening a new restaurant all on her own . . . Pretty brave, if you ask me,” Liza said. “And she’s so young.”
“Yes, she is.” Claire guessed Avery to be her in late twenties, at most. “But she seems very independent. I wonder if there’s some way we can help her.”
“I was wondering about that, too. We can recommend her café to guests and keep a copy of the menu on hand. But maybe there’s something more we can do. Let’s think about it.”
* * *
AS Avery drove north on one of the island’s two main roads, she gazed out at the passing ocean view. She could have picked a lot of places to open her café. She had wanted to find a town outside of Boston, a destination that drew summer tourists, but not one that was too crowded, too expensive, or too built up.
She had been sitting in her dentist’s office, paging through a magazine, when she saw an article about Angel Island and how the north side of the island had been improved to encourage more visitors, with a new beachfront, a boat slip, and a public park. There was a new ferry service from Newburyport that ran throughout the day and evening. Photographs showed the new ferry station house and an old-fashioned wooden boardwalk nearby that ran parallel to a short road with a few quaint-looking shops.
Avery was struck by a chill of inspiration; gooseflesh popped up on her arms. This was it. Angel Island. An opportunity to get in on the ground floor in brand-new summer destination. She had heard of Cape Light and had even stayed over in Newburyport once or twice, on weekend escapes out of Boston. She had heard of Angel Island but had never seen it.
She drove out to Cape Light the next day and then across the land bridge to the island. She told herself she just wanted to explore, especially the area featured in the article. It was a cold gray day in January, and the place looked nothing like the magazine photos. But Avery still felt sold on the idea of starting a business there.
As she walked down the boardwalk, there wasn’t a soul in sight and a stiff, cold wind off the ocean made her huddle in her down coat. She easily found the row of old buildings on Ferry Street, all of them closed up tight for the winter. A sign posted on a shuttered window read FOR RENT OR LEASE right above a phone number. Avery peered in the spaces between the boards that covered the windows and could see it was a deserted ice cream parlor.
It was sort of a wreck inside. It would take time and money to transform the shop into the image she had in mind for her café. But once the freezers and the glass-topped counter where the ice cream was served were pulled out, it appeared to be spacious enough to fit the number of seats she wanted.
Peering in another window, she saw that the shop had a commercial kitchen in back, modest in size but large enough. Out front, there would be enough table space, she thought. She loved the location, and felt something deep in her bones, telling her that this was the spot.
Five months later, Avery still felt sure she had made the right choice. She parked in front then gazed at the blue-gray awning with its artful black script—Café Peregrine. In the window, another eye-catching but tasteful sign: JOIN US FOR OUR GRAND OPENING—THIS COMING WEEKEND. CALL FOR RESERVATIONS.
It was still hard to believe, but she had pulled it all together just in time for the summer season. It was all hers: lock, stock, and barrel, and she was very proud. And scared.
The boardwalk and beachfront were quiet today, but the area had been bustling with visitors over the weekend. Though Avery had been preparing the café for almost four months, she hadn’t yet met all the other shopkeepers on the street. Most of the other businesses had just reopened for Memorial Day, barely a week ago.
Her closest neighbor was Sunshine Sundries, which sold everything a person could possibly need for a day by the sea—sunblock, beach balls, rubber shoes, cold drinks, and boogie boards. Avery thought the row of giant, inflatable water toys set up outside the store every day was a little messy looking. But the shop closed at five, and the owners did bring them in every evening. You couldn’t worry about every little thing.
The next store on the street was Angel Island Anglers, a bait and tackle shop with a big display of fishing rods in the window and a handwritten painted sign that boasted NIGHT CRAWLERS, MEALIES, AND RED WIGGLERS. Avery didn’t know what that meant and didn’t want to know.
Surprisingly, there was no real competition for her café in sight. Just one lone eatery at the far end of the row, the Lazy Tuna. A FAMILY RESTAURANT. SOMETHING FOR EVERYBODY, one of the many signs there read.
Avery wasn’t sure why, but even the name the Lazy Tuna annoyed her. How can a tuna be lazy? Was there such a thing as an industrious, motivated tuna? The whole idea of it was just . . . ridiculous.
Lazy or not, the Tuna was her only competition for miles.
And not much, she thought. She hadn’t been able to sneak in and check the place out yet, but she was willing to bet the menu was just as tired and uninspired as the weathered signs, CIRCA 1960.
CASUAL DINING—LUNCH, DINNER, SNACKS & ICE CREAM. REAL HOME COOKING, FROM OUR TABLE TO YOURS. Translation: burgers, hot dogs, gluey chowder, and fries. It was no threat at all to the Peregrine. Her café would attract diners looking for more sophisticated fare, those sailing over from Newburyport on a pleasant ferry ride, just as the sun dipped below the horizon. She had advertised the grand opening in local newspapers, playing up the romance of a beachfront, gourmet dinner. She still had a lot to do this week to prepare for the opening; the Lazy Tuna wasn’t worth worrying about.
Avery let herself into the café. It was hot inside, and she threw open a row of tall French doors she had installed in fron
t, in place of the plate-glass window. She planned to keep them open most nights and set up outside tables under the awning. Which was why she needed someone to install the ceiling fans along with the light fixtures today. And check some other little glitches with the circuit breakers.
Avery had plenty to do while she waited. She hauled three large drawstring sacks of freshly washed linens out of her SUV and began to put them away in the new storage closet that stood near the entrance to the kitchen.
The table linens, purple and marigold yellow, gave bold touches of color to an otherwise spare decor. The wood floors were sanded and bleached white, with white wainscoting halfway up the walls. Above that, the walls were painted a soft blue-gray.
Black-and-white photos that captured local landscapes were hung in boxy, gallery-style frames—the various faces of the sea, bright days and stormy; a flock of terns skittering through the foam at the ocean’s edge; the waving tall grass in the marshes; the Cape Light lighthouse at dusk; and the legendary Angel Island cliffs, a site Avery had yet to visit.
When it came time to buy furniture, Avery had found just the right number of white wooden tables and chairs at an auction, from a café that had gone out of business. She did feel lucky finding the bargain but felt bad for the previous owners. She didn’t even want to imagine her efforts coming to that sorry fate.
She was happy with her choices. The decorating set just the mood she was looking for, relaxed and uncluttered, a beachy atmosphere but still neat and sophisticated. It was different from most restaurants in the area, and the food would be, too.
She heard someone at the door and turned to see the electrician.
“Hello? Anybody home?” he called out.
“Be right with you,” Avery called back. She slipped a few more napkins onto the middle shelf then turned to meet him.
But just as she walked away, the new closet—bursting at the seams—began to sway and tilt toward her. Avery gasped and reached out to push it back. The tall, heavy unit was leaning so much that linens began to fall out. A few landed on her head, and she couldn’t see. She didn’t dare let go and hastily shook them off, like a wet dog coming in from the rain. “Help! This stupid thing is falling down on me!”
The electrician was already on his way and suddenly, right behind her, so close she could feel his strong chest against the back of her shoulders. He stuck out his arms, much longer and stronger than her own, and pushed on the closet.
Avery felt surrounded by him. She felt his breath on her bare neck and against her cheek. She dared a split-second glance over her shoulder. He was intent on his task but caught her gaze for a moment. He had dark eyes, chocolate brown, and dark hair to match. He was so close she smelled his aftershave and saw a shadow of beard on his cheeks.
She quickly turned and looked straight ahead. He was attractive, very attractive, and she felt something arc between them.
Suddenly the closet was in place again, and he stepped back. Avery took a moment to compose herself before she turned to face him. It had all happened so fast. In the blink of an eye. She wondered now if she had imagined it.
But when she finally looked up at him, she knew she hadn’t imagined it. She couldn’t quite believe what she was feeling. She was still reeling from a painful breakup. Ever since, men either seemed annoying or simply invisible. Somehow, in barely five seconds, this unknown rescuer had jumped up on her radar screen.
“Thank you,” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize the cabinet was so wobbly. I shouldn’t have packed so much in.”
Avery knelt to gather the fallen linens. He stooped over to help, giving her another jolt when their hands touched by accident.
“Close call. You were nearly buried alive in a pile of purple tablecloths. What a way to go.” He handed her a napkin, and she nearly dropped it, too busy studying the dimple in his chin.
She stood up, holding the napkins in both hands. “Don’t worry, I would have clawed my way out. I’m opening this weekend. That is, if you can hang the ceiling fixtures and figure out why the mixer keeps tripping the circuit breakers in the kitchen.”
He looked amused at her request. “I’d be happy to try. But my expertise with wiring doesn’t stretch much beyond lightbulbs.”
Avery was puzzled. “You’re not Done-Right Electric?”
He shook his head, looking even more amused at her confusion. “I’m the Lazy Tuna. Down at the end of the street? I’ve seen you coming and going here for a while. Sorry it took so long to say hello. Mike Rossi,” he added, extending his hand.
This was the Lazy Tuna guy? She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it was nothing like this man—so fit and attractive. So close to her own age.
“Avery Bishop. Nice to meet you.” She took his hand and quickly shook it. His grip was firm and strong but restrained, as if he were mindful not to crush her smaller hand in his own. “Thanks for saving me from the purple tablecloths.”
“No problem. The shopkeepers around here have to stick together. We’re a small but hardy bunch.”
She heard his New England accent clearly in that remark but, for some reason, it seemed more charming to her than usual.
“I’m beginning to see that.” The little commercial strip was out of the mainstream. She imagined that the shopkeepers did need to look out for each other.
Mike gazed around with interest. “You’ve done a lot. I can’t even remember what it looked like in here before. Nice job.”
“Thank you. I didn’t have a lot of money to renovate, but I think it turned out well.”
“Very well. Very . . . upmarket.” She sensed an ironic, teasing edge to his compliment but couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Maybe I’m imagining that since his place is so different. Maybe he really does like it, she told herself, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m hoping to make my café a little different from most of the restaurants in the area,” Avery said honestly. A little classier, she really meant.
“I can see that. What will the menu be—French food?” he asked. “Café Peregrine, that sounds French to me.”
“The peregrine falcon migrates to this area every summer. I read about it. That’s where I got the name,” she explained.
“Oh . . . oh, right. I forgot,” he added. “So the menu isn’t French?”
He was curious about her food, wasn’t he? Of course, that’s why he was here, to size up the competition. Well, I was curious about his place, too, she realized. I’m sure he can see we’re not even in the same ballpark.
Avery smiled patiently. “It’s more New American, with some French and Asian touches. It’s sort of eclectic, hard to categorize.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Oh, it will be,” she promised.
She put the crumpled napkins on a tabletop and began to fold them. They were soiled now and needed to be washed again, but she needed something to do. Whenever a guy like him said “French food” or “sounds interesting,” it sounded like a subtle putdown. Not even that subtle, actually.
But Mike’s smile and the teasing light in his eyes were so disarming, she couldn’t be sure. Was he laughing at her, the newbie on the block with the arty photographs and purple tablecloths?
Quite possibly, but not in a mean way. Maybe he was just a down-to-earth, meat-and-potatoes guy who didn’t do sauces. She had met plenty like Mike Rossi before.
“Are you running this place all by yourself?” he asked.
“I am. Owner, manager, and chef, all rolled into one.”
He looked surprised. “That’s an adult portion, if you’ll excuse the pun. Where did you work before?”
Avery was used to this, other people in the business—especially men—doubting she could run a kitchen and the front of the house, as the dining area was called. She wasn’t su
re if it was because of her age, or because she was a woman, or some combination of the two.
“I was in a partnership in Boston, a little café in Cambridge, near Davis Square.”
He looked impressed. “Nice location. I bet you did a good business there.”
“Oh, we did. We were filled every night. For a while.” With Avery’s cooking and Paul’s good looks and charm, the Tulip Café was always crowded. They had been so happy at first, riding a jubilant wave of success and rave reviews. Avery had never known anything more exhilarating than doing the work she loved best, side by side with the man she loved. The man she had hoped to marry.
But Paul had never loved her the way she loved him. Or maybe he started off believing he did, but all the success and attractive women vying for his attention had turned his head, and made him forget his commitment.
It was painful to think about those days, a mixture of happy and sad memories. Avery tried not to think about it at all.
She suddenly realized that Mike was staring at her curiously. “So how did you end up out here?”
Avery shrugged. “My partner and I had some differences. He was turning the place into a singles scene, and I wanted a real restaurant, a quiet spot with some culinary quality.”
That part was true, too, though it was not the entire story. But she had not spent years at a prestigious cooking school and two more in Europe, only to run a kitchen at a place where the food was just a footnote to Happy Hour and the martini of the day.
She spared Mike Rossi the details.
“I decided to go off on my own. It was all for the best,” she concluded, before he could ask more questions about that phase of her life. “I saw an article about Angel Island and how the waterfront near the ferry was being developed. So I came out and looked around. It seemed like a good opportunity, the right place to start something new.”
Mike nodded, looking impressed. “That it is. Are you always so decisive?”
Impulsive, some people might say. But she liked his interpretation better.
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