by Grace Palmer
She needed a distraction.
“Have you read that book before?”
Liza looked up to see a copper-haired woman close to her age bending forward at the waist to closely examine the front cover of the book she was reading.
“Sorry, dear,” the woman said, no doubt seeing the look of surprise on Liza’s face. She stood up and waved her hand through the air. “My book club just read that one a few months ago. Actually, I’m fairly certain that is my copy you’re holding. Aside from a few of the older gentlemen who frequent the shop, I’m the only one who leaves books here. And I’m certainly the only one who reads romances. The older fellows are into the spy novels.”
Liza turned the book around to look at the cover because, frankly, she’d been so lost in her own thoughts she’d forgotten what book she was holding. On the front of the book, a woman in a vibrant pink gown stood on a set of stairs. The dress cascaded down the staircase behind her, and she was looking over her right shoulder, her lips parted seductively.
“The step-back is better than the cover, in my opinion,” the woman said, her hand held to the side of her mouth like it was a secret, though she was speaking at normal volume.
The “step-back,” as she’d called it, was a sort of secondary piece of cover art on the first page of the book. It showed the same woman from the cover, but the sleeves of the dress were now slipping down around her shoulders, and a man with blond hair in a dark suit held fast to her hand as they ran down the staircase. It was clear, whatever they were running from, they were doing so in a hurry. It certainly made Liza want to read the book and find out what was going on.
While studying the image, Liza noticed a name written in pen on the back side of the cover: Georgia Baldwin. She turned the book around so the woman could see it. “Is this you?”
“Guilty,” Georgia said with a kind, confident smile. “I loved the book so much I wanted everyone to read it. I’m afraid you’re likely the first person brave enough to pick it up, though.”
“Everyone is fine with falling in love and getting married and having kids, but heaven forbid you read a book about it,” Liza said. “My ex-husband always made fun of me for reading romance.”
“Mine, too. Which is one of the many reasons I’m fine with the ‘ex’ in his title.”
Both women laughed, and Liza felt immediately lighter than she had only a minute earlier. No matter how she described the divorce to people, their reaction was somber and apologetic. Liza didn’t want them to throw her a party or anything, but having even one friend who wasn’t happily married would have been a solace. Someone who’d understand that, even though there were downsides, there were upsides, too. One of them being that Liza could now indulge her imagination in a romance without her intelligence and taste being questioned.
Cliff would never insult her directly, but he’d roll his eyes whenever she watched the adaptation of Pride and Prejudice again. I’m not sure how much more there could be to take in. They hate each other, they love each other, and then they get married. The end.
“That one is amazing,” Georgia said, pulling out the chair across from Liza. “The author really knows her Regency-era history, and she writes beautifully. I swear, my heart flutters when the two protagonists even brush fingers. It’s so romantic.”
“I really want to read it, but I’m not sure I’ll have the time.”
“Take it with you.”
Liza glanced towards the counter, her rule-following ways reacting on instinct.
Georgia followed her gaze and laughed. “I donated the book, so I’ll clear it with Vivienne if you’re worried about it. Besides, like I said, no one aside from the women in my book club ever takes the romance books I leave. I’d rather you have it than let it sit here gathering dust.”
It was only a mass-market paperback, after all. Even if Liza did start to feel guilty about it, she could bring it back and buy her own copy of the book for the price of a cup of coffee. “Okay, thanks. I think I will take it.”
“Great. You can write your name in right under mine.” Georgia smiled, and then her brow creased in a momentary frown. “What name would you write in, anyway? I completely forgot to ask.”
“Liza Hall. I’m house-sitting for Mrs. Albertson while she’s out of the country.” By this point, Liza assumed everyone in the town of Willow Beach knew everyone else’s business. They’d likely all know Mrs. Albertson, and at least as far as Georgia was concerned, Liza’s theory wasn’t wrong.
“Oh, that’s right. So you’ll be here with us for a while, then? She’s supposed to be gone six months, I think?”
“I’m only here for the first month. My niece set up the arrangement,” Liza said, explaining her work as a caterer and the wedding she is going to be catering in Willow Beach.
“Does the bride’s name happen to be Stacy?”
“I believe so. Do you know her?”
Georgia shook her head. “No, but I run the Willow Beach Inn, and Stacy booked out the entire place for a group of wedding guests.”
“Oh, an inn!” Liza said, clapping her hands together. “I’ve always loved the idea of running an inn. They are so cozy and charming. With what I’ve seen of this town’s Main Street alone, I’m sure your inn is wonderful.”
Vivienne called out Georgia’s name from behind the counter, and tipped her head to a wrapped-up breakfast sandwich and a cup of coffee. Georgia gave her a thumbs-up and stood up. “Why don’t you come see it for yourself? We actually have a book club meeting tomorrow night and it’s my turn to host. We’re reading a nonfiction book about outer space that Alma picked, but believe me, we are going to spend most of the evening eating snacks and drinking wine.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Georgia insisted. “There are seven of us, and we’ve all known each other for years, so we are well overdue for a new member, no matter how temporary. The ladies are all nice and welcoming, and I swear to you I won’t let them badger you with too many questions.”
Liza hesitated. She’d never been a social butterfly. While Cliff preferred spending time with their friends and having people over for dinner, Liza liked a quiet evening by herself. All of her favorite hobbies were best done solo, and she wasn’t a great conversationalist. Even talking to potential clients filled her stomach with knots.
Still, Angela had pushed her to come to Willow Beach to break out of her rut and try new things. A book club with a group of strangers was definitely a new thing. Plus, Liza felt very confident Georgia Baldwin wasn’t dangerous. No murder risk here, that was fairly certain.
“Okay, sure,” she said, pushing past her doubts. “Should I bring anything?”
“Only if you want to. I always bring some leftover muffins from the inn’s breakfast that day, and Alma is famous for her cowboy Chex mix, but neither of us are professional cooks. I’m sure we’d all love to try whatever you make.”
Potential desserts flitted through Liza’s mind, the excitement of making something for a group of people that weren’t clients momentarily overriding her social anxiety.
“Tomorrow night at seven. To get to the inn, just go east down Main Street, left at the intersection, and follow the winding road until it leads you home.”
Liza didn’t mean to, but she smirked at Georgia calling her inn Liza’s “home,” and Georgia caught her.
“That’s the whole point of an inn, right? Even if only for one night or a few hours, it’s everybody’s home.” She turned around and grabbed her order from the counter, and then turned back to Liza. “When you see it tomorrow night, you’ll know what I mean.”
Georgia threw a wave over her shoulder to Vivienne, whose hands were busy washing a coffee pot, so she gave the inn proprietor a smile, and then Georgia tipped her head to Liza and hurried out the door.
Liza watched her go with no small amount of awe. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to a random person in public about anything beyond the long line at the
post office or the rising prices of milk, let alone the last time she’d agreed to go do something social with a stranger.
All at once, a memory hit her:
She was waiting tables at the sports bar and grill she worked at, and a dark-haired, green-eyed man kept ordering refills from her even though his glass was still full. When he asked her out at the end of the night, Liza felt helpless to resist. No one had ever spent thirty dollars on soda he didn’t plan to drink only to speak with her, and she thought that kind of determination deserved some recognition.
For a moment, her heart fluttered the same way it did that night many years ago. As fast as the feeling came on, Liza pushed it down.
That was a lifetime ago, and this stranger was nothing like the last one. Georgia Baldwin wasn’t a green-eyed heartbreaker Liza needed protection from. She was a reader, a fellow divorcee, and a potential friend.
And Willow Beach was a quiet, nice little town. Fully insulated from heartbreak.
4
Angela had arranged for Liza to cater the wedding in Willow Beach, but she didn’t have many details. That was unusual for her, being that she was even more detail-oriented than Liza was most of the time, but Liza assumed it was because Angela was more concerned with the move than with the catering event.
It made sense. Liza had catered some of the most high-class functions in Boston. Weddings for heiresses, dinners for CEOs, and charity galas for museums. She could certainly handle a laid-back, small-town wedding.
Still, she wanted to have some ideas to present to the bride and groom at their meeting that evening in case they were the kind of couple who, beyond a few keywords and general vibes for the event, didn’t have any direction.
Before she left the coffee shop, Vivienne mentioned the Willow Beach farmers market happening behind the theater, so Liza left The Roast and followed the trickle of women with reusable produce bags to the market.
The weather outside was crisp and dewy with ocean air, but the stalls lining either side of the brick lot provided a modicum of protection from the heat. Plus, almost the moment she walked into the market, an old man in a bright red stocking cap with a long white beard like Santa Claus handed Liza a paper cup of hot chocolate for one dollar.
The drink was a little thinner than Liza liked it, but it was warm and spiced with cinnamon, so she couldn’t complain.
Most farmers markets Liza knew of stopped running at the end of the warm summer months, but Willow Beach seemed to adjust with the climate. Rather than fresh flowers, stalls sold square hay bales, cheery orange pumpkins, and apple cider by the barrelful. Summer produce gave way to the deep greens, oranges, and yellows of autumn, and even though Liza had moved with a small refrigerated chest full of her own produce, she couldn’t help but pick up a bunch of chicory, a bag of plump grapefruits, and two poinsettias to set on her temporary front porch.
Then, on her way out of the market, an array of beautifully decorated cupcakes caught her eye. A woman bundled in a furry purple coat and matching hat stood behind the cupcakes under a sign that said “Good Stuff Cupcakes.” When Liza approached, she grinned.
“Anything I can get for you?” the woman asked. “Or, rather, anything you want to get for yourself? I’m afraid a fuzzy purple coat wasn’t the wisest purchase I’ve ever made. I think I’m shedding.”
Sure enough, when Liza looked around the booth, she could see short strands of purple fur all over the ground, which explained why the woman was hiding so far back in the shadows.
Liza assured her she wasn’t afraid of a little faux fur, and let the woman surprise her with a cupcake that had candied apple slices across the top and small strips of pastry latticed over top like a mini apple pie. When Liza bit into it, she was met with a gooey caramel center that dripped down her chin, but the cupcake was delicious enough that Liza didn’t mind one bit.
“That’s incredible,” Liza said, not able to hide her shock. “I mean, really amazing. It’s the best cupcake I’ve ever tasted.”
“Thank you.” The woman looked pleased for a moment before a fluff of purple fur caught a breeze and floated up in front of her face. She frowned and swatted it away.
“Do you do weddings?”
“All the time. Why, are you looking to schedule someone?”
“No, not me. I’m actually catering a wedding in the next few weeks, and I’d be shocked if the bride was able to find anyone able to make a better cake than this. If you aren’t already doing her wedding, I thought I’d get your name as a recommendation if she needs one.”
“You’re too sweet,” the woman said. She pointed up to her sign. “I’m Katie, owner and operator of Good Stuff Cupcakes. I’m the premier wedding cake maker in town. What are the couple’s names?”
“I don’t know any last names, but the bride’s name is Stacy.”
Katie snapped her fingers. “Yes, I’m scheduled for that one. She wants a rustic, three-tier white cake with fresh flowers on top. Simple, elegant, and, most importantly, easy.”
“I know what you mean,” Liza laughed. “‘Laid-back’ is a caterer’s favorite word.”
“Well, since we’ll soon be working together, the cupcake is on me,” Katie said.
Liza tried to argue, but Katie waved her away. “Think of it as a thank you for future wedding cake customers you send my way.”
Liza didn’t know how many people in Boston would be interested in booking a cake company who lived hours away, but if any of her customers ever wanted a small-town ceremony, she’d certainly send them to Willow Beach and Good Stuff Cupcakes.
Loaded down with fresh produce and full of coffee and desserts, Liza hoofed it down Main Street and back to her cottage, her head zinging with new ideas she couldn’t wait to try out.
Liza always argued she wasn’t a superstitious person when Cliff would point out the ritual she performed prior to every first meeting with a client, but now that he was gone and she wasn’t so defensive, she had to admit that maybe he had a point there.
It stemmed more from her social anxiety than any actual belief that a certain routine would guarantee her success.
Before each meeting, she made up a simple batch of profiteroles as a gift for the client, took a shower—even if she’d already showered that morning—and wrote down her goals for the meeting and the client-caterer relationship in her planner.
For her meeting with Stacy—last name still to be determined—Liza’s goals were simple: find out how many courses Stacy wanted, and try something new.
Even though Liza tried to keep her catering game fresh, it was hard not to have a go-to menu for certain types of events. For instance, she always made roasted tomato and sweet pepper soup with grilled cherry tomatoes for appetizers at autumn weddings. And for gallery openings or museum charity functions, she always made watermelon and feta bruschetta.
She returned to the dishes time and again because they were crowd favorites, but these repeated menus were part of the reason Liza had been in such a funk. Rather than pushing the bounds of her creativity and risking trying something new, she went with the safe option. But Stacy’s small-town wedding was already going to be safe enough, so Liza felt like there was room to do something interesting.
After slipping into a simple black dress and curling the ends of her hair, Liza placed eight profiteroles in a small cardboard box, tied it with a ribbon, and then set out for the address of the Italian restaurant Angela had sent her the day before.
It wasn’t customary to bring your own dessert into a restaurant, Liza knew, but a little sweet treat went a long way in making a good impression and charming new clients. Besides, they didn’t need to eat it at the restaurant, though many clients confided in Liza later that they cracked into the box of goodies in the car on the way home and finished them before they even pulled in the driveway. She wasn’t a trained pastry chef, but she knew her way around a profiterole.
Liza had passed Romano’s that morning on her walk into town to get coffee. She was grateful it w
as on the closer side of Main Street to the cottage because, even in her flats, her feet were aching by the time she arrived at the restaurant.
Romano’s was a casual Italian restaurant with decades’ worth of black and white family photos covering the walls and candles dripping wax in the center of every table. There was one like it in just about every town in America.
But as soon as she walked through the door, Liza was transported to another Italian restaurant years earlier. To a dull-eyed young Cliff offering her a future she wasn’t sure she wanted.
Out of habit, she reached her thumb across the inside of her palm and felt the underside of her ring finger where her wedding ring used to be. When she was nervous, she used to spin the ring around her finger. It had taken her almost two years to drop the habit, but it still reared its head every so often.
The hostess was a young woman dressed all in black with her hair slicked back in a tight ponytail. She asked Liza the name of her party, and for a second, Liza nearly gave her Cliff’s name. Even when Liza made the reservation, she’d always put it under Cliff’s name, knowing he’d be the one to walk up to the hostess stand when they got to the restaurant. She bit her tongue and cleared her throat.
“Liza Hall. It should be a table of three.”
“Yes, of course,” the hostess said, pointing to a spot Liza couldn’t see on her list. “The rest of your party isn’t here yet, but I can go ahead and seat you.”
Liza could wait outside, but she didn’t know who she’d be looking for even if she did. To save everyone the embarrassment, it would be best to take her seat and let the hostess bring the bride and groom to her. So, Liza followed the young woman through the restaurant, weaving between couples leaning over the small tables to whisper to one another and families trying desperately to keep their young children from wiggling out of their seats or throwing spaghetti at their siblings.
Her eyes moved over the rest of the diners in the restaurant, trying to take in as much information as she could about the people, the food, and the atmosphere. If this was the restaurant the couple chose for their consultation meeting, it could mean it was the vibe they were going for in their own wedding. If so, Liza wanted to be prepared.