The Inn at Angel Island

Chapter One

OF course, it was raining. Nothing about this trip was going to be easy. Liza Martin already knew that. Why should the weather cooperate?

The drive from Boston to the north shore was hard enough at the end of a workday, the traffic easily making it two hours or more. But the timing couldn’t be helped. A client emergency had erupted at four, just as Liza was heading out of the office, trying to beat the commuter crush and the dismal forecast.

So here she was, on a Tuesday night at the height of the rush hour, driving all the way up to Angel Island in steady rain. She had turned the wipers to high speed and slowed her car to a careful crawl. At least it isn’t snow, she reminded herself, which was not out of the question even in late March in New England.

She hoped the skies were clearer beyond the city. On a night like this, heavy rain and high surf could wash out the land bridge that connected the tiny island to the town of Cape Light, making it impossible to cross the harbor.

When Liza was a little girl, staying with her aunt Elizabeth and uncle Clive for the summer, visitors often came to the island for the day and were then stranded when a storm blew in. Aunt Elizabeth never paid much attention to weather forecasts and never failed to be delighted by these unexpected overnight guests. Those stormy summer nights, with so many interesting people milling around the old house, were among Liza’s fondest memories. Her aunt and uncle must have enjoyed it, too; Liza often thought those nights were what had inspired them to turn their rambling old house into an inn.

Liza slowed for a light, letting the sound of the storm outside bring back those rainy nights on the island when her uncle would play the piano and everyone would sing. They would even move back the furniture in the front parlor and dance when the mood was right, often by candlelight when the power went out or with Aunt Elizabeth shining a flashlight on the keyboard, swaying the beam to and fro in time to the rhythm. There would be card games and ghost stories and shadow shows on the big wall in the front parlor, her uncle’s specialty.

Liza recalled how she would always feel disappointed the next morning to see the sunshine and the clear blue sky. But other charms of the island would quickly distract her, like an early morning beach walk, where she would sift through the odd treasures the wild surf had tossed on the shoreline the night before. She and her brother, Peter, would race each other to the best shells, arguing over the vilest remains of some defunct sea creature. Her aunt would follow, laughing at them and playing judge and arbitrator with endless patience.

How did Aunt Elizabeth manage to put up with us, Liza wondered. And do it so cheerfully? It couldn’t have been easy, though her aunt and uncle always acted as if their season with Liza and Peter was the highlight of their year. They had no children of their own, so perhaps it really was, Liza reflected.

It was hard to believe her aunt would not be there tonight, waiting for her. It had been nearly two months since she had passed on. Liza had come up for the funeral and burial, of course. But she knew that the reality of the situation, the hard truth of it, had not yet sunk in. Some part of her still expected to see her aunt’s tall, willowy form, silhouetted in the doorway, watching and waiting for her.

The memory made Liza feel sad. She knew that she should have come to visit more often. In some way it seemed pointless to go there now. Aunt Elizabeth was gone. It was too late.

A buzz from her BlackBerry cut into her thoughts. Liza quickly answered, speaking through her wireless headset.

“Hi, Liza, it’s Charlie,” a familiar voice replied. “Sorry to bother you, but something came up with one of your clients right after you left. I thought you should know.”

Charlie Reiger, her former assistant and present office rival. She’d figured as much. A glance at the dashboard clock read half past seven. The office was empty by now with only the workaholics and mischief-makers left. Charlie fell into both categories.

“What is it, Charlie? Which account?”

“Berlinger Tires. Harry Berlinger sent back comments on the new ad proofs by messenger. He doesn’t like the colors or the type-face. The boards landed on Eve’s desk, so she passed them off to me. I put the art department on it, and we’re working up a new version for him.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Liza said in a reasonable tone, though she felt herself simmering. “You’ll e-mail the revised proofs to me first, so I can take a look before they go back to Berlinger, right?”

“Sure thing. That goes without saying,” Charlie insisted.

She nearly laughed at him. Right, Charlie. As if I believe that for a second. “Thanks. I’ll keep my eye out,” Liza answered. Charlie double-checked her address on the island, then said good night. Liza clicked off the call, fuming. She hated it when he got his sticky paws anywhere near her clients. It was like leaving a hungry dog alone with a roast beef.

Did he really think he could cut her out of the loop so easily? She would call the client herself as soon as she could. And why hadn’t Eve just called her directly about the problem?

Because that was the way their boss, Eve Barkin, operated. Eve liked to fan the flames of rivalry to get the best work out of her top two account executives. She had even been dangling a promotion between them for months now. Liza knew that she was the obvious choice. She had more experience, the most important clients, and far more creative ideas than Charlie. Everyone in the office said she would get it. But Eve liked to keep life interesting, treating Charlie like a valid contender.

Eve had promised that nothing would be decided until Liza returned to Boston, but Liza hated leaving the office and giving her nemesis a clear field. She only hoped Eve could see through good old Charlie, with his five-hundred-dollar suits and two-hundred-dollar haircuts.

And she hoped the ordeal on the island-settling her aunt’s estate and selling the inn-would be over quickly, so she could get back to her job and her life, which pretty much amounted to the same thing these days.

Liza would only be gone two weeks, but she felt as if she would be away for months. She had definitely packed a month’s worth of work, stuffing her briefcase, a large knapsack, and a portfolio with layouts and sketches. Thank heavens for the Internet and all the high-tech contraptions she relied on. She only hoped the island had good reception.

Sorting out the inn and everything in it was going to be a nightmare, but at least she didn’t have to do it alone. Her brother, Peter, would be here by tomorrow. He lived in Arizona now, a photographer with his own business, struggling lately to stay afloat. He had told her that he was taking on a lot of little jobs, the kind he used to sneer at in better days. These next two weeks were the only break in his schedule for months, which had determined the timing of their visit.

It was probably better for both of them to just get this ordeal over with. There would never be a good time to travel back to Angel Island. To sort through her aunt and uncle’s belongings and put the gracious old Victorian up for sale. There was no good time to go back and be reminded of all the happy summers she and Peter had spent there as children.

Maybe that’s why Liza had rarely returned. She didn’t want to remember. Those memories were bittersweet, even painful at times. Especially now, when her life was not turning out anything like she had expected.

As she traveled farther north, the traffic thinned. Liza finally spotted her exit and turned off the highway, then headed onto a county road toward the village of Cape Light.

She felt half-relieved the awful drive was almost over-and half wished the trip would take even longer.

Except for her last visit, after her aunt died, Liza had not been back to the island in a long time. Maybe once or twice in the last few years? She had felt bad about that and did call her aunt every couple of weeks to stay in touch. She and Peter had lost their parents in a car accident when they were both in college. Her aunt and uncle had been the only close relatives left. Still, once Liza graduated from college and got busy with her own life, it was hard to get to visit them except on holidays.

Once she really dug in at the advertising agency, Liza was always so busy; she almost never took vacation time. Work usually spilled over to the weekends, and her limited free time was always filled with other things. She had better things to do than travel out to this remote, barely inhabited little chunk of land. How her aunt and uncle managed to live here all those years-and seem so happy in this rough, primitive place-she’d never know.

Sure, she had loved it as a child, but as she grew older and her tastes changed, it seemed too quiet and downright dull. There wasn’t even a good restaurant here-or any type of restaurant at all that she could remember.

That seemed selfish, now that she thought about it. But it was true. After Uncle Clive passed away, Aunt Elizabeth seemed to accept Liza’s infrequent visits. She claimed to be busy, too, running the inn with just the help of one full-time employee, a woman named Claire North. Aunt Elizabeth was not the type to make Liza or her brother feel guilty about being inattentive to her. She had always been, and was to the very end, totally independent.

Liza did feel guilty now. Elizabeth had passed on in late January when a bout of bronchitis that had lingered all winter suddenly flared up into pneumonia. Her once-robust aunt was not strong enough to fight it and passed away very quickly.

Or so it seemed to Liza-as if there had been no warning at all. She had been very concerned when she heard that her aunt’s condition had worsened into pneumonia. Still, she fully expected her aunt to recover; Aunt Elizabeth had assured her that she would. Before Liza could manage to get over to the Southport Hospital, the next call had been the worst news of all and a great shock. Leaving Liza stunned… and full of regrets.

There were so many reasons why it was hard to come back here.

Liza suddenly decided to turn down a road that led to Main Street in Cape Light, though staying on Beach Road was a more direct route to the island. She wanted to see if there were any changes in the small town.

Driving slowly and peering out the window, she did spot a few: signs changed over shops and a new fire station. But she had to look closely to notice the differences. For the most part, Cape Light looked very much the same as it had when she was a child.

The lights were still on in the Clam Box, she noticed. The bright red neon letters “OPEN” glowed in a window alongside a faded poster that read, “Try Our Famous Clam Rolls and Blueberry Pancakes-Box Lunches to Go.” That poster had always been there, though Liza wasn’t sure the clam rolls were famous beyond the town limits.

The town’s landmark eatery had been Aunt Elizabeth’s favorite dining spot. Liza didn’t recall the food as anything special, but as a kid, she had loved sitting on the spinning stools at the counter, feasting on hot dogs or hamburgers and fries-or on a hot afternoon, a big, drippy ice-cream cone. She bet the place still looked the same inside, too.

It was half past eight and she was definitely hungry, but she didn’t stop. The rain fell lightly now, and Liza knew that if the bridge to the island was still open, it might not stay that way for long.

When Liza arrived at the bridge a short time later, the yellow gate was up, signaling that it was safe to cross. The water on either side looked inky black and bottomless. The night sky was just about the same color, with thin, low clouds stretched like cottony threads across a glowing crescent moon.

She steered her car onto the two-lane bridge, which had a rail and a paved shoulder, edged by large gray boulders, on each side. A few tall highway lights lit the way, but she still drove slowly down the narrow black ribbon of highway. From the middle of the bridge, she could see the coastline curving around to Cape Light’s harbor and the cluster of lights in the village.

Waves crashed against the rocks on either side of the road, threatening to spill over, and Liza felt a stiff wind push against her compact SUV.

Why the town didn’t build a real bridge to the island, she had never understood. Maybe they wanted to keep it private and challenging to reach. It kept people out. Or maybe it was sheer economics: Because so few people lived out there, or even visited, it didn’t seem an efficient use of taxpayer dollars.

But that was all supposed to change-and very soon, she had heard. Angel Island had just been designated a Historic National Seashore. Improvements were coming, including a ferry service from the nearby village of Newburyport, about ten miles north along the coast. The ferry would land on the beach at the north side of the island, which would be improved with bathhouses, a dock, and a boardwalk, all the amenities day-tripping tourists expected.

Predictions were very positive. More visitors would come, and real estate values would rise. Liza wasn’t sure who would even be interested in coming here. The place still seemed so remote and out of the way. But that was another good reason to sell the inn now, while everyone was still so optimistic.

Fortunately, her aunt had put Liza’s and her brother’s names on the deed while she was alive, so the property automatically transferred to them upon her death and was not part of the probate process. At least they had been spared that hassle. There would certainly be more hassles to come before it was all over; Liza was sure of it.

The ride over the land bridge was brief, the winds stronger across the open stretch of water and just wild enough to hint at the island to come, which had always been rustic and untamed. Liza suddenly realized she hoped the island hadn’t changed much since her last visit.

The inn was a short drive from the bridge. Liza found her way easily, though she had not made the trip in a long time.

She felt strangely excited, driving slowly down the dark, narrow roads. She rolled down the windows, feeling the moist breeze on her skin and smelling the salty air, sensations that brought back a wave of memories.

There weren’t many opportunities to get lost out here. But she was surprised at how clearly she remembered the route. Everything looked exactly the same: the high marsh grass on the roadside, the dark shadows of houses popping up here and there, even the bent old trees that stood like sentinels and served as landmarks, directing her way. Straight on Old Dock Road, veering right on Mariner’s Way, just past the huge willow at the crossroads.

The beach appeared on the left side of the road, at the bottom of a high bluff. Liza could see the water shimmering in the moonlight. The sky had cleared, and stars sparkled like pinpoints of light in the dark blue sky. There were always so many stars out here; it was really astounding. She could hear the waves rolling in, the sound of the surf muffled and distant, the way it had sounded every night when she fell asleep in her summer bedroom.

Suddenly, on the right side of the road, the inn came into view. Liza stopped a moment and gazed out the window before pulling up the drive. She had always loved this house, three stories high with matching bay windows on the first and second floors. The windows on the second floor were fronted by a balcony, and there was even a turret on the right side of the building not far from the front door.

When Liza was a little girl and had heard the extravagant Victorian called a Queen Anne style, she had instantly known the term was perfect for the house. It was definitely a place worthy of royalty, something right out of a fairy tale.

Set on a large piece of property that sloped toward the road, the house faced the bluffs and the expanse of ocean that stretched out below. In the summertime, the wraparound porch was filled with sitting chairs, Adirondacks, wickers, and straight-backed rockers. During the inn’s busiest weeks, the seats would be filled with guests, from morning to night, sipping lemonade or ice tea, reading or knitting in the shade. Or just gazing out at the sea. But the big porch stood empty now, except for a few cardboard cartons and dark lumps covered with black plastic. The remaining chairs were stored for the winter, Liza suspected.

A light on the walkway leading up to the porch glowed. A sign swung in the wind. “Angel Inn-All Are Welcome.” Her aunt Elizabeth had painted and hand-lettered that sign, Liza recalled, though the scroll of vines and flowers on the border was now hardly visible.

Up on the porch, there was another small light on over the door. Liza couldn’t see too much of the building, but what there was to see was not encouraging. The roof sagged, and the paint was dingy and peeling. There were shutters missing, and others hung broken and dangling. The sight was painful to her. The day her aunt had been buried out here, Liza had driven past the inn without really seeing it, and hadn’t had the heart to stop and go inside.

No sense lingering now, she reasoned. There would be time enough tomorrow in the daylight for a full, depressing inventory.

Liza drove her SUV up the curved drive and parked near the porch. The front door swung open, and Liza saw Claire North silhouetted in the doorway. With Claire’s back to the light and her face in shadow, it was hard to see the older woman’s expression. Was she smiling? Liza wasn’t sure.

She had met Claire only once before, at her aunt’s memorial service, which had been held in the old stone church on the green in the town of Cape Light. Liza knew that her aunt had depended on Claire a great deal and valued her friendship. But in their brief meeting and during a few recent phone calls, Liza found the woman very hard to read. Liza wasn’t sure if that was simply Claire’s personality or some reaction she should take personally.

Liza walked to the rear of the vehicle, pulled out her bags, closed the hatch, and started toward the house. For the first time, she wondered about Claire’s expectations. Did she think Liza and Peter might keep the inn, running it as absentee owners with Claire in charge? Didn’t she realize they would sell it?

Liza and her brother had agreed that it was only fair that Claire hear about their plans right away. Liza was hoping, though, that she could put off that conversation until Peter arrived.

She walked up the porch steps, forcing a smile and a friendly greeting, the one she used to win over difficult clients.

“Hello, Claire. You didn’t have to wait. There was a lot of traffic. I meant to call and let you know I’d be late…”

But she’d forgotten, Liza realized. She had forgotten all about the housekeeper and had not expected her to be waiting here. Claire did not live at the inn, though she had a room on the third floor, where she stayed over in case of bad weather. Her real home was in a cottage on the other side of the island. Liza’s aunt Elizabeth had told Liza that when Claire had first started working for her.

“I didn’t mind waiting.” Claire stepped forward and helped Liza with her bags. Her welcoming smile and warm tone caught Liza off guard. “It must have been a hard drive in all that rain. You must be very tired.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Liza downplayed the aggravating journey.

“Well, come on in and dry off,” Claire urged her. “Any more luggage?”

“Not much. I’ll get it later.” For some reason, Liza didn’t want Claire waiting on her. It made her feel uneasy and a little guilty.

Liza set her big purse and laptop on a hall table. Claire shut the door, then turned to face her. “Your coat is wet. I’ll hang it up for you.”

“Okay, thanks.” Liza shrugged off her damp wool coat and handed it over.

Claire hung the coat on a coat tree near the staircase, then positioned the tree closer to a large old radiator.

Very efficient, Liza thought. Though without her coat, she felt a sudden chill. Claire quickly took notice of that, too.

“I’ll turn up the heat a bit. It is a raw night.”

As the housekeeper stepped away to adjust the thermostat, Liza glanced around, feeling a bit stunned by the sights that were so familiar yet, at the same time, almost forgotten. The wallpaper patterned with vines and flowers. The Tiffany lamp softly glowing on an Eastlake-style table. The blue and red Oriental rug beneath her feet. Such familiar and comforting sights. But all a bit faded and worn looking now-the wallpaper peeling at the edges and stained in spots, the rug almost threadbare.

The place even smelled the same, a mixture of sea air, cooking, and her aunt’s special blend of lavender and rosemary. Elizabeth would gather the herbs from the garden and hang bunches in various spots around the house. Liza spotted a bunch, tied with a thin blue ribbon, just beside the doorway.

When she turned, Claire was standing nearby again, looking at her expectantly. Liza didn’t know what to say. Aunt Elizabeth had been very loquacious. She talked enough for two, Uncle Clive always said. Maybe that’s why Elizabeth and Claire had gotten along so well-her aunt had done all the talking?

“Well… thanks for waiting. But it is late. I’m sure you want to get home.” Liza heard the forced, false note of friendliness in her voice. Claire was being so kind to her, it made her feel even more guilty about having to tell her that she would soon be out of a job.

If she leaves now, I won’t have to tell her until tomorrow, Liza realized.

“Are you hungry?” Claire asked, ignoring Liza’s hint. “I’ve fixed you some dinner, just in case.”

Liza was hungry. As much as she wished she were alone and out of this woman’s company, her stomach easily won out.

“I am. I didn’t stop to eat. It was raining so hard, and the places on the highway have such horrible food.”

Claire nodded, seeming satisfied by that answer. She headed down the long hallway to the kitchen that was at the back of the house, and Liza followed, aware of her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. Had she ever worn heels in this house? They didn’t seem right here.

“I made some rosemary bread and chowder with plenty of cod and potatoes. I used the tomatoes from your aunt’s garden. We put them up together last fall, before she got ill.”

By put them up, Liza knew Claire meant preserved them in glass jars. Her aunt had been a devoted gardener and a very practical one, too, cultivating both beautiful flowers and rows of vegetables and herbs, which she and Liza’s uncle would pick and preserve, then eat throughout the winter.

Claire stood at the wide, black cast-iron stove with her back to Liza. Solidly built, Claire wore a long dark blue cardigan over brown wool pants and heavy brown shoes that looked waterproof. A practical outfit for a rainy day in this part of the world, Liza thought. The housekeeper’s fair hair looked as if it had once been blond but was now blended with gray and white strands, all wound in a coil at the back of her head.

Claire lit a burner beneath a large pot. The flame sprung up with a whooshing sound that Liza suddenly remembered. The stove was the same one her aunt had used to cook on, so old it had probably come with the house.

Liza rinsed her hands at the sink and dried them on a towel. The big farm table was long enough to accommodate a houseful of guests. Tonight it had been set with one place: a blue and white cloth place mat, a white linen napkin, silverware, and a water glass.

Liza sat at the spot, which was obviously meant for her. She suddenly realized it was the very same seat she had always sat in as a little girl. Had Claire somehow known that? But how could she?

It seemed an odd coincidence, considering the size of the table and the place Claire had chosen. Not some obvious spot at the head or even a corner. Liza glanced at the housekeeper, who stood at the stove, stirring the chowder, and felt an uncanny chill. She marked it up to her damp clothes and to being so hungry and tired.

“That soup smells good,” Liza said, mostly to break the silence.

“That must mean it’s ready. Or you’re ready to have some.” Claire glanced over her shoulder and smiled briefly. Then she filled a large bowl with chowder and carried it, along with a basket of fragrant bread that had just been taken from the oven, over to the table.

Liza noticed a small dish of butter near her plate. This was the perfect kind of bread for butter, and Liza did want to indulge, knowing it would melt instantly and taste very good. But she resisted. This was not vacation, and she didn’t want to go home bursting out of her clothes on top of every other inconvenience. She would stick to her usual diet, thank you very much. No butter, no sugar, no empty carbs.

She took a bite of the bread, which was still delicious on its own, then glanced at her dinner again. There was a lot more floating around in the chowder than just some cod and potatoes. Bits of celery-or was that fennel? Some carrot, onions, and herbs. Some shellfish, clams and mussels and even a few plump shrimp. The scent was rich and fragrant, hinting at saffron.

Liza dipped her spoon and took a sip, then closed her eyes, savoring the mixture of flavors. It really was… divine. It was more like a bouillabaisse and very much like the chowder her aunt had made. Had Claire followed the same recipe? Liza wanted to ask her, but for some reason, she held back and simply took another large spoonful.

Claire set a mug of tea near Liza’s place along with a jar of honey. Liza was a coffee person, an absolute caffeine addict, but for some reason, tea was just what she wanted tonight. Somehow, Claire had guessed without asking.

Claire took another mug from the counter near the stove and sat at the table across from Liza and a few seats away, so that they weren’t directly facing each other.

“This soup is very good,” Liza said between bites.

“Put it up this afternoon. The General Store had almost everything I needed. You can’t be too particular about recipes here. You have to learn to improvise.”

Her aunt used to say the same thing. You had to be flexible in the kitchen. If you couldn’t find a potato, a turnip would have to do.

“Thank you for fixing it for me,” Liza said politely.

“It was no trouble.” Claire sipped her tea, then sat with her hands folded on the tabletop.

They had run out of conversation again. Liza took a few more spoonfuls of chowder and a bite of bread, then pushed the food away and sat back. Ten minutes ago, she had felt very hungry. Now she just felt tired, worn out.

Claire glanced over at her. “So, you’ll be here two weeks. Is that right?”

Liza nodded. “That’s right. Two weeks.” Unless everything is settled sooner, she added silently. Meaning Claire North would be out of a job sooner, too.

“At least you’ll have your brother. You won’t be doing this all alone,” Claire said.

“Yes, he’s coming tomorrow.” Peter had not been able to come east for their aunt’s funeral, so he and Claire had never met.

Claire nodded. “Good. I’ll get his room ready.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Liza said honestly. She forced herself to smile back. Claire North was very kind-and making it even harder now to impart the bad news.

Liza sighed and took a long sip of her tea.

“Would you like anything else? There are some oatmeal cookies,” Claire offered.

“No thanks. Not right now.” Liza paused. She felt so tired. It was probably a bad time to talk to Claire about serious matters, but Liza knew if she didn’t say something tonight, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

“There is something I need to speak to you about, Claire,” she began.

“Yes?” Claire turned her head and met Liza’s glance. She didn’t seem nervous, Liza noticed. Perhaps she already guessed what was to come.

“You must be wondering what my brother and I plan to do with the inn, now that we own it.”

Claire’s mild expression remained unchanged, her clear blue gaze serene. Liza was beginning to think that the house could come down all around her and Claire wouldn’t bat an eye.

“We appreciate that you’ve stayed on here, after my aunt’s death, and taken care of the place. But we’ve decided to put it up for sale. We’ve been in touch with a real estate firm in Cape Light, Bowman Realty. We’re hoping to find a buyer and have everything settled within the next two weeks.”

There. That was clear enough, wasn’t it?

Claire calmly sipped her tea. “I thought that might be what you would do,” she said at last. “I guess we’ll see how it goes.”

We’ ll see how it goes? What was there to see? The answer got under Liza’s skin. How blunt did she need to be? Did she have to tell Claire that once they sold the place, she would be out of a job?

Unless someone came in and wanted to keep running the inn and kept Claire on. That was possible of course. Maybe that’s what she was hoping and hinting at? It was extremely unlikely considering the condition of the place. Even Claire North must realize that, Liza reasoned.

“There really is no question,” Liza told her. “The agent we spoke to already has a few clients lined up to see the property. It could happen quickly.”

Claire didn’t answer. But Liza still wasn’t sure that her point had come across.

She’s been here a long time, and my aunt’s death was a blow. She must be in denial about having to leave, Liza realized.

I won’t say anything more, she decided. Not tonight. Maybe after Peter comes, we’ ll talk to her again and offer her some compensation or a gift.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” Claire asked finally.

“That’s it, I guess.”

Liza rubbed her eyes. This first evening was not going at all the way she had planned. She had imagined meeting Claire and really being able to talk with her, asking questions about Elizabeth ’s last days. But you had to feel comfortable with someone for that kind of conversation, and Liza had a feeling that she had just ruined any possibility for that kind of ease. Instead, she was sitting in this cold, damp kitchen feeling awkward. And she was fairly certain that in two weeks’ time, she would leave here without ever having asked those questions.

It was her own fault. She shouldn’t have to ask a stranger about her aunt. She should have just taken a few days off from work and come out here to visit once she knew Elizabeth was sick.

But it hadn’t seemed that serious. And there always seemed to be some crisis in the office that she couldn’t abandon. And then her marriage had blown up, right in her face. Like a balloon that looked so pretty and harmless one minute, then shocked you with a big bang.

And she was still picking up the pieces of that mess.

Elizabeth had promised it wasn’t serious and she would be better by the time spring came. That’s what her aunt had told her. But Elizabeth must have known something. She just didn’t want to be a bother. Liza should have realized.

Liza suddenly felt she might cry. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.

“I think I’ll have some more tea. I must be coming down with something.” She stood up and carried her plate to the sink, then ran some water and filled the tea kettle. “Can I make some more for you, Claire?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Liza set the kettle on the stove and sat down again at the table. She felt Claire gazing at her but didn’t dare look up to meet her eyes.

“It must be hard for you, coming back here after all this time,” Claire said quietly.

Liza nodded. “It is hard,” she admitted.

“I would like to help you, Liza. Any way I can. Just let me know whatever it is you’d like me to do. I promised your aunt Elizabeth that I would. So you must let me,” Claire added, as if there were some argument.

“Thank you… I appreciate that. I’m going to need your help sorting this place out,” Liza said honestly.

Claire smiled mildly and nodded at her, looking pleased that they had come to this agreement. “If you don’t mind me saying, you ought to get a good night’s sleep. Things might look a little bit better tomorrow.” She rose from the table, her movements economical and surprisingly graceful. “If there’s nothing else you need, I’ll head on home. I made up the room on the second floor for you. Third room down on the right.”

The third room down? Liza wasn’t sure if she remembered correctly after all this time, but she was pretty sure that had always been her favorite room in the whole inn.

She remembered it with sky blue walls and white curtains, and wondered if the decor had changed in all this time. It had a big bay window with an ocean view and a padded window seat.

It was not the room she used to stay in, though. It was always reserved for guests. Though she did sometimes sneak in, when it was vacated, and stretch out on the bed and pretend it was her room. Her aunt would laugh and never got mad at her.

Odd that Claire had picked that room out of so many, Liza thought. Maybe she thought Liza would enjoy the view. But all the rooms on that side of the building had good views.

“Do you know the room?” Claire’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Does it suit you?”

“Sounds fine.” Liza was almost tempted to ask Claire how she had made that choice.

Then the kettle whistled. Liza stood up and shut off the flame, then fixed herself more tea. Claire walked into the foyer and put on a thick parka and gloves, definitely dressing for protection from the elements, not fashion.

She briefly waved to Liza from the front door. “Good night, Liza. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Liza waved back and watched her step out the door. “Good night, Claire.”

The heavy door closed, and Liza felt a sudden stunning silence close in around her. She sipped her tea, conscious of the creaking sounds in the walls and of the wind rattling the windows.

Had she ever been totally alone here? She wasn’t sure about that. She certainly had never spent an entire night alone in the inn. It was a bit… unsettling. Especially since she’d been away from the place for so long. It was familiar, yet strange.

Liza finished her tea, then went out to her SUV and brought in the rest of her bags. She carried the essentials upstairs and soon found her room. Claire had turned on a small lamp that stood on a table near the bay window.

The room looked cozy and warm, still decorated in the same blue and white color scheme, though the paint, curtains, and quilt had definitely been updated since Liza’s childhood summers.

Liza put down her bags and gazed around. The room looked the same as the rest of the house-clean but worn out, in need of fresh paint and wallpaper, new rugs and furnishings. It would be a project to update this place, especially at the cost of things these days. Liza couldn’t imagine taking it on and wondered what daring soul would. But there were people out there dying to run a bed-and-breakfast, who were saving their money and taking courses on just how it should be done. People who would see this house as a great opportunity, not the broken-down burden Liza saw.

She sat on the bed, giving a quick test to the bounce, then immediately pulled out her BlackBerry to check messages. There were several voice mails and half a dozen new e-mails. The e-mails were all from the office.

She checked the phone messages first. Her brother’s voice came on the line. “Liza, it’s me, Peter. I’m sorry, but I can’t leave Tucson tomorrow. Something’s come up. I’m going to be stuck here a few more days. Sorry, but I’ll explain when we talk. Call me when you can.”

Liza sat back on the bed. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She needed Peter here to figure things out with her, but obviously, she would have to start without him.

The next message was from the real estate agent Liza had been speaking with, Fran Tulley at Bowman Realty. Her voice was cheerful, as usual. “Just checking in, Liza. I have you down for a meeting tomorrow at the inn at twelve. Call me if there’s any change. I have some possible clients lined up who want to see the place. But let’s talk first.”

Another more familiar phone number came up, and Liza almost deleted the message without listening. Then at the last second, she couldn’t resist.

“It’s me, Liza,” her ex-husband, Jeff, said. “I remembered that you were going out to the island tonight, and I hope you made it okay in the rain. I know it’s got to be a rough trip for you. I hope you’re not alone out there.”

And what if I am? Will you run out and protect me from the creaky boards and worn-out wallpaper? From all the sweet and sad memories?

“Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be around tonight. Well, all week actually. I don’t have any plans. Just call my cell.”

He didn’t have any plans? What did that mean? Just like Jeff to toss out a tantalizing tidbit and leave her guessing.

Liza sighed. She wished she didn’t care what Jeff was doing every night of the week or whom he was dating these days. But sometimes, she still did. He could be so sweet and thoughtful, and they had known each other so long. It was tempting to turn to him. Especially on a night like tonight.

But Liza forced herself not to cave in and call him back. She and Jeff were officially divorced. The last legal documents had been signed, sealed, and delivered. Funny how he was the one who had dragged it out when it was his infidelity that had broken up their marriage. An affair with one of his coworkers, a new hire in the law firm who had been assigned to his department and turned his head. How trite was that?

Liza wouldn’t have known a thing if she hadn’t come home unexpectedly early from a business trip-and found them together, about to enjoy a candlelit dinner that her husband had prepared.

He was quite a good cook; Liza had to hand him that. Good at cooking up excuses, too. But she had eyes in her head. She could see what was going on, though part of her still wanted to believe Jeff’s spin on the cozy scene-that the relationship didn’t mean anything to him and he still loved Liza.

The larger part of her felt hurt and betrayed. She had demanded a divorce, and Jeff had finally agreed, dragging his heels all the way. About two weeks ago, they had both received the final decree. But Jeff kept calling. She clicked off the phone before she let herself listen to his message a second time. She could feel his charm and tender concern wearing her down, making her confused, even at this late date. Here she was, once again, wondering if she had done the right thing after all by ending their marriage.

Liza washed up and put on her nightgown. Then she put a few of her things away, hanging up clothes in the empty closet. She found her notebook computer and a stack of client files and climbed into bed, making a mini-office of the space.

She was tired but wound up. Work was always the perfect distraction from too much emotion. She needed to tie up some loose ends and answer a few e-mails, especially the messages she had noticed from her boss and clients, before she went to sleep.

Angel Island might feel like a world away from Boston, but Liza knew she would be returning soon enough. She had to keep her eye on the ball and keep things running smoothly in her real life, even at this distance.