Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  Erik Larson and I had a short, tumultuous history together. He’d previously been employed on our cherry orchard and had gotten into a bit of trouble. It was Tate, using his cheek-dimples to their fullest effect, who had convinced me to keep the boy on at the inn. Erik, for his part, understood my hesitation and was trying his hardest not to make me regret my decision. I had to hand it to him, he was becoming a model employee. Every task I threw at him he embraced with his eighteen-year-old zeal. If I was simple I would have believed it redemption. But the real motivation behind the remarkable transformation was a pretty eighteen-year-old waitress named Kenna McKinnon, who also worked at the inn.

  Erik was waiting for me to be scandalized. I wasn’t going to bite. “When you say that she’s not traveling alone, are you implying that she’s brought an entourage with her?”

  “No. Well, maybe. She’s got a man with her.”

  Bob, consumed with a searing hot pan of brandied cherries, turned from the stove long enough to give a short hoot of laughter. “And that’s why your tighty-whities are all in a bunch, boy? Because an eccentric old lady’s brought a man with her? I thought you millennials were open to all forms of gender identities and sexual preferences, even the kind where a lady likes a man. And really, it’s none of your business.”

  “Don’t mean to contradict you, Mr. Bonaire, but it kinda is my business, sir. I’m handling the lady’s luggage, and there’s a whole truck and trailer of it. It’s going to take me all night.” This he added with a resigned sigh. “And the man she’s with is too young for her. He’s got a scraggly brown beard and likely a man bun as well. Ms. Lumiere is an old bat of a thing—and she’s only got the one room. I know, because I’ve checked.”

  “A man bun, you say?”

  “Can’t tell for sure, but he looks the type.”

  “And we didn’t put her in one of the double queen suites?”

  “Whitney showed me her room,” he said. “It’s only got the one bed, and it’s on the second floor.”

  It was true. Since Ms. Lumiere was going to be with us for a long time I had decided to put her in one of our cozy couples’ getaway rooms. She’d have a king bed, a generous closet, a dresser, two comfy chairs by a fireplace and an en suite bathroom. Dad had even erected a beautiful white gazebo on the lawn for her to paint under. I looked at the young man’s concerned face and smiled.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” I told him. “And use the elevator for the luggage.”

  “I’m planning on it.”

  “And flash her your dimples,” Bob added, looking amused. “If what you’ve seen through those binoculars is correct, we’ve got ourselves a cougar. Play your cards right, Larson, and she’ll be lavishing you with money and gifts. She’ll maybe even invite you in for a—”

  “No-no-no,” I said, cutting Bob off before he had time to expound on that thought. “Don’t do any of those things!” I took off my apron, slapped it on the counter, and cast Bob a deprecatory look. The man was a gifted chef, but a total rogue as well. We had worked on tonight’s menu together. Bob had pulled out all the stops, insisting on roast duck in a brandied cherry demi-glace with a side of butter pecan baked sweet potatoes and oven-roasted Brussel sprouts. Dessert would be the inn’s signature cherry pie. Silvia Lumiere, cougar or not, was going to be dazzled by her first meal at the Cherry Orchard Inn. Not only was it important to Mom, Dad, and Grandma Jenn that she enjoy her stay, but I strongly felt that the fate of the inn depended on it.

  “Okay, you two, enough. No more speculating on this mysterious young man, Erik. It’s not our job to judge our guests. And you, Bob, just concentrate on dinner, okay? Come on,” I said, pulling Erik out of the kitchen with me. “We have an important guest. Let’s go and give her a warm Cherry Orchard Inn welcome.”

  Although the inn was nearly booked for the coming week, the wide veranda out front was unusually crowded. Cherry Cove was a small, close-knit community, and word had gone around that Silvia Lumiere was due to arrive for her annual summer visit. From the look of it, she was a popular visitor. The entire Cherry Cove Women’s League had turned out with their husbands in tow, and a few of Dad’s closest friends were there as well, enjoying pre-dinner drinks and nibbling hors d’oeuvres. Among this last group, I caught sight of a bright blond head looming above the crowd. His sun-bronzed face was bent in lively conversation. Somehow, in the whirlwind of activity over the last few days, I had forgotten Tate would be here; I had forgotten I’d asked him to come.

  It was a little strange even to my own ears, but for the first time in my life, I’d finally figured out that I belonged in Cherry Cove. After years of trying to make a living in Chicago, I realized that I thrived when surrounded by family and friends, working at the place I loved most. But I wasn’t certain Tate was my future anymore. And, quite frankly, it was too much to think about, especially now. I pushed all thoughts of the hunky man aside and redoubled my grip on Erik’s arm, pulling him to the front steps of the inn with me. Because if he spied Tate, I knew he’d abandon me in a heartbeat.

  We were just in time to see the huge white Cadillac Escalade, towing an equally huge white trailer, pull beneath the portico. I was too distracted by the sight to react to the elbow nudge in my side or the look of I told you so. The lady was a portrait painter, after all. She obviously needed a place to put her canvases, brushes and paints. I only hoped she wasn’t planning on keeping them in her modest room.

  The driver’s door burst open and the young man Erik had described nearly to a tee ran to get the door for his passenger. I’d seen plenty of his type in Chicago, tall, pierced, thin, and dressed in a combination of clothes that could only be described as modern hippie. His shirt was blousy, the top buttons left undone to better display his bony chest and the handful of dangly necklaces he wore. His jeans were black, distressed and frayed in strategic places. And, yes, all the long brown hair had been pulled off his bearded face and fastened into a prickly man bun. The guy oozed hip: chill: artsy. But it was the portrait painter herself that I couldn’t pull my eyes from.

  Silvia Lumiere sat perched on her seat, framed in the blackness of the SUV. The moment the evening sun hit her, colors sprang to life—the silver-white of her short, stylish hair; the merry black eyes; the red lips and the vibrant silk wrap of a blue so pure it nearly hurt the eyes to look at it. I had lived in Chicago for six years and marveled that I’d never seen this woman—this plump, petite, pixy of a woman. As the young man helped her out of the car her eyes settled on me. I was genuinely smiling when I welcomed her to the inn, feeling that this small, lively woman just might be the real thing—the talisman that the Cherry Orchard Inn needed to overcome the stigma of death.

  “You must be Whitney,” she said, taking my hand. “Jani’s told me all about you. You’re far lovelier than she described. You look like that weather girl on that morning show. So pretty. My dear, you must allow me to paint you.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say to all the flattery, but I didn’t hate it. Ms. Lumiere flashed an impish grin and put a foot on the first step. It was a small foot, encased in a shimmering silver pump that matched her pixy-cut hair. She then turned to Erik.

  “Fetch me a sour cherry martini, sugared rim and two cherries. Peter will have a fresh-pressed carrot juice with a splash—just a splash, now—of Worcestershire sauce.”

  Erik, suppressing a grin at this last order, gave a nod and was about to run off to the bar when Ms. Lumiere stopped him.

  “And I want my luggage brought to my room immediately … immediately, do you hear? But not the green duffel bag. That will go in Peter’s room. It should be next to mine. And there’s quite a bit so you’ll want to hurry. I suggest you use a luggage carrier.”

  Erik, clearly at a loss of what to do first, hesitated a bit too long. Peter, swooping in at the pause, dropped the keys to the Escalade in his hand.

  “And, like, park the Lade in the way back,
dude. Don’t scratch it, and don’t freakin’ touch the trailer. I handle the trailer. Now, how ’bout those drinks, bro? The lady is parched.”

  The old Erik Larson would have laughed in the guy’s face. The new Erik Larson did something even more terrifying. He simply replied, “Yes, sir,” and then dashed off in the direction of the bar. A wave of relief washed through me, and, perhaps, a little welling of pride as well.

  I turned my attention back to Ms. Lumiere. She was struggling to get up the front steps. It suddenly dawned on me that she was elderly and heavyset, all of it masked by a glittering facade and charismatic smile.

  “I’ve been in the car too long, and the old legs aren’t what they used to be,” she breezily explained as she waved to her fans on the veranda. “Thank Heavens I’ll be on the first floor.”

  My heart gave a silent, chest-crushing lurch. Two rooms! And on the first floor? Holy hand grenades, had I screwed up! I didn’t have any rooms on the first floor. Although the inn wasn’t quite full, all the rooms on the first floor had been booked for weeks. And there hadn’t ever been any mention of a second room until now.

  “Peter. Your arm,” she demanded of her millennial hippie. I was about to take the other when Tate, appearing out of nowhere, beat me to it.

  “Ms. Lumiere. Such a pleasure to see you back in Cherry Cove.” His tone was personal and full of sincerity.

  “Oh, Mr. Vander Hagen! What a pleasant surprise!” Her glossy black eyes narrowed in what one might term a coquettish manner as she added, “My, you’re looking as fit and tan as ever.”

  Tate cast me a private wink, then turned to the painter. “And you’re looking as lovely as ever. I see you’ve met Ms. Bloom. You couldn’t be in any better hands. And wait until you taste her cherry baked goods. They’re the best in Cherry Cove. Whitney’s even won the coveted Gilded Cherry trophy this year for her pie.” Tate, pouring on the charm, had whisked the lady up the front steps before she knew it.

  “Look,” he said, “here comes Mrs. Lind.”

  I looked up in time to see Grandma Jenn waltzing out the front doors. She was elegantly dressed in a long, shimmering skirt of light gray and had two sugar-rimmed, sour cherry martinis in her hand.

  “Silvia!” she exclaimed and came forward to greet the portrait painter. “Welcome to the Cherry Orchard Inn, dear.” Gran, ever the hostess, handed Silvia one of the sour cherry martinis. “And who’s your charming young friend?”

  Silvia took the drink and replied, “Peter McClellan, my new

  assistant.”

  “Oh, how wonderful it must be to have such a handsome young man at your beck and call. You’ll be the envy of the women’s league and the arts council to boot! Come along, Mr. McClellan, there are a lot of friends on the porch who are just dying to chat with your talented employer.”

  The moment they left for the veranda I turned to Tate.

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Whit. For moral support, and to make sure the old girl succeeds in making a grand entrance. She’s an artist. Mrs. Cushman told me they all like to have their egos stroked.” This made me smile. Mrs. Cecilia Cushman was Tate’s elderly housekeeper and the closest thing he had to a grandmother. She was in her late sixties and a hoot of a lady. Mrs. Cushman had quite recently moved from Tate’s house by the marina to an abandoned yacht moored in one of his slips. The yacht was named the Boondoggle II. “And I have to wonder,” Tate continued, “in a world of smart phones and selfies if she doesn’t realize that her work is irrelevant.”

  “Irrelevant?” I stared at him. “Is that what you think? I don’t think so at all. A portrait is not so much a picture as it is a work of art. It’s as much about the subject as it is the painter’s interpretation of it. Besides, a portrait doesn’t fade with age, or disappear with your lost cell phone, or get hacked in the cloud and passed around the internet. It endures. Your grandchildren’s grandchildren will look upon it and see you exactly as you were in the very space and time your portrait was painted.”

  He looked at me, a soft smile touching his lips. “I never thought about it that way before. But you’re right. Maybe that’s why she’s a bit of a handful, because she believes she holds the power of immortality in her paintbrushes.”

  I returned the smile. “It’s quite a power to wield. And here we are: you rent sailboats and slips to tourists while I wow them over with cherry baked goods. There’s no immortality in that.”

  “No, but we make people happy, too. Ms. Lumiere, truth be told, usually makes people a bit miserable, but it’s nothing you can’t manage. Didn’t Jani warn you?”

  “Mom never said a thing,” I confided. “I wish that she had. She was so overjoyed at the prospect of Silvia staying with us that it must have slipped her mind.”

  “Or, more likely, she didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Well, I’m a little worried now. Silvia has one room and it’s on the second floor. Hopefully I can find something suitable for Mr. McClellan.” We were walking through the foyer to the front desk when I suddenly turned to Tate with an irrepressible grin. “Erik saw them in the car when they were driving up. He thought they were lovers.”

  “They probably are,” he said. “Wouldn’t put it past her. Last year she whispered to me during a rather public event that she wanted to paint me. I was flattered until I realized she meant in the nude. You may not believe it, but I do have my standards. The trick with Silvia, Whit, is that you don’t give her everything she wants. Keep her on the second floor. She’s perfectly capable of using the elevator. Give lover-boy the broom closet if you have to. Chances are good he’s not going to be sleeping in there anyway.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I’ve been subjected to Silvia for the last five summers. I know what I’m talking about.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “We’re having dinner tonight, babe. Remember? Save me a seat.” He turned to go.

  “Where ya going?”

  “To help out a bro. Erik’s got a mountain of luggage to move and I thought I’d give him a hand. Oh, and Whit, if that kid lasts the next week here with that woman, forgive him anything.”

  “Anything?” I frowned. “We’re talking about Erik Larson here. A prodigy of teenage angst and underage partying.”

  “Okay.” He relented with a dimpled grin. “Nearly anything.”

  Five

  W hile Ms. Lumiere drank sour cherry martinis and mingled with her summertime friends on the veranda, Tate and Erik moved three carts of luggage to her room. Her trust in the Cherry Orchard Inn was implicit, and the pull of martinis and free hors d’oeuvres had been too great. While the alcohol flowed, and the guys were stacking luggage like cordwood in her room, I jumped behind the front desk with Margaret and scanned the inn’s reservations. I was trying to find suitable accommodations for Mr. McClellan. Being a modest bed-and-breakfast, we only had ten guest rooms, and six of these were on the second floor. The good news was that our price-reduction rooms were booking fast; the bad news was that there was only one room available, and I hated to tie it up for the duration of the summer.

  Erik materialized beside me and dropped a green duffle bag at my feet. “All done, boss. Mr. Vander Hagen’s parking the Escalade and trailer. He said to tell you he’ll meet you in the dining room.”

  “Thank you, Erik. But I’m going to need you to pick that thing up again.” I handed him a room key. “Please take that to the Pine Suite.”

  His eyes flew wide. “Really? You know it’s nowhere near Ms. Whatsherface’s room, right?”

  “Lumiere,” I reminded him. “It’s the only room we have. It’s not next to hers, but it’s on the second floor. It’s the best I can do.”

  He gave a shrug and slung the large bag over his shoulder. Margaret and I exchanged a look as Erik headed for the grand staircase in the foyer. She shook her head. “It’s like they a
lways say, youth is wasted on the young. Oh dear, here she comes.”

  I looked up from the reservation computer. Silvia Lumiere was walking unsteadily toward me, another dark red martini in her hand.

  “Point me in the direction of my room.”

  I came around the desk with her room keys in hand and gave her my brightest smile. “Ms. Lumiere, what a pleasure it is to have you with us for the summer. Your luggage has already been moved to your room. If there’s anything else you need, please let us—”

  “What?” she cried, looking at the painted key chain. “You have me in a room called the Sailboat Suite? And on the second floor!?”

  I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but the screaming outrage took me by surprise. A moment ago, she had sparkled under the adoration of her friends and admirers. But the charming pixy had gone, swallowed, it appeared, by a diva-troll. A scathing tirade commenced. Didn’t I know she had arthritis? Was I stupid or something? Could a human being possibly be more inconsiderate? Of course, she couldn’t use the stairs! And elevators made her claustrophobic—even the ones that only serviced two floors.

  Margaret, poor soul, had taken the original reservation. She very calmly reminded Silvia that she’d only booked one room, specifically requesting it be on the second floor because of the spectacular view. Ms. Lumiere shot her a look that would have knocked her off her feet had it been backed by anything other than bloodshot eyes. She then insisted that Margaret had gotten it all wrong and was obviously trying to cover her mistake with a lie. When we told her that there wasn’t an available room on the first floor, she about flipped. I appeased her with the good news that we had found a room for her assistant. It was also on the second floor. However, when she learned that it wasn’t right next to hers, she threatened to write a scathing review for the Chicago Sun-Times. What if she needed him in the middle of the night? Were we expecting her to walk all the way down the hall to fetch him? Margaret suggested she use a cell phone, and if that wasn’t an option all she need do was ring the front desk. This helpful tip was met with open disgust. An establishment of our reputation should know better than to upset a guest, she reprimanded. She added a few choice lines before turning her black eyes on me with a malicious twinkle. I could see that she was prepared to take it further if she had to.