By Brie Stilton
As my longtime readers know, I don’t venture to the outer boroughs for every flash in the culinary pan. So if I grab my passport and set sail for Brooklyn, you know it’s for a restaurant that’s truly special.
And wouldn’t a restaurant have to be special to deserve the uproar that ensued after a rival newspaper ran Eaton Well’s scathing review? If you answered yes, then you—unlike my fellow critic—are right.
Reservations are essential and can be a bit hard to come by. Since its opening in April, Heavenly Delights has gained a large and loyal following—mostly due to word-of-mouth advertising.
And the word at Heavenly Delights is “dessert.”
Dessert is the first thing you notice when you walk in the door. Don’t be surprised if you find yourself veering uncontrollably toward the refrigerated display case of sweets. Luckily, the smiling hostess is there to welcome you and set you back on course for the dining room.
The decor is elegant and understated in warm gray with black accents, lending an intimate atmosphere that suits romance, celebrating, or just a casual dinner. The servers have mastered the high-wire act of being attentive and informed yet unobtrusive.
I can’t say for sure what happened the night Mr. Wells dined there. Maybe it was a supernatural phenomenon. Mischievous gremlins at work in the kitchen, perhaps? But the little devils were absent tonight.
The Dover sole with beurre blanc practically sang to me from the menu. It’s a dish that can stymie even the most experienced cook in the kitchen. But owner and executive chef Lucie Ferrara doesn’t miss a step. The aroma and plating were intoxicating. The succulent fish was surrounded by fluffy mounds of whipped, golden-toasted potatoes. Every element was perfectly balanced and seasoned.
My companion is a sucker for chicken Parmesan. After sampling nearly every one in the city, he knows his stuff. The verdict on Heavenly Delights’ version? Delizioso.
It was juicy and crisp, with a beautifully seasoned crust and a burst of flavor from a blend of the finest Italian cheeses. Many eateries treat pasta as a throwaway side dish. Not so here. The spaghetti was delightfully al dente and the marinara bold and rich.
Then it was time for the grand finale.
Your waitress will likely recommend the sea salt caramel mousse. It’s a smooth, buttery dream. So take her up on it. And then get another dessert, any one of them, to go—they’re all available for takeout. Eat it on a street corner. Or in the car. Or at home if you can wait that long. That way you can continue this utterly sublime dining experience as long as humanly possible.
As this is a review of a restaurant and not of another critic, I won’t go into detail about how badly Mr. Well missed his mark. But I will offer these words to him: Your readers will forgive you for this misstep in due time, Mr. Well. After all, to err is human.
But Heavenly Delights is divine.
STARRY NIGHT
Beautiful, engaging, stylish—these are the qualities that make Carrie Slayton an ideal reporter for the Chicago Herald society pages. But she’s eager to be taken seriously for more in-depth journalism. When she approaches her editor with an ultimatum, he surprises Carrie by offering her exactly what she wants. There’s just one catch: She must first snag an interview with Finn Dalton, a reclusive author who mistrusts women almost as much as he does reporters. Finding Finn is a challenge; winning him over seems next to impossible. But as the northern lights dance above, a spark ignites between them. Carrie is poised to risk everything for a future with Finn. But can he find the courage to trust her? Or will he allow his heart to remain frozen in the lonely arctic wild?
Character Guide
Carrie Slayton Society reporter at the Chicago Herald. Carrie’s not content with covering yet another charity ball and wants to sink her teeth into more substantive journalism. Her chance to escape the society page is scoring an interview with a man who’s escaped society.
Finn Dalton Author of the runaway bestselling book Alone. A reluctant celebrity who fiercely guards his privacy, Finn refuses all interviews and relishes the solitude of the remote Alaskan cabin he shares with his dog, Hennessey.
Sophie Peterson Carrie’s friend and coworker at the newspaper. The first to realize Carrie is romantically involved with Finn Dalton, Sophie pleads with Carrie to put her career before what she views as a doomed relationship.
Joan Finnegan Dalton Reese Finn’s mother. A native of Louisiana, Joan couldn’t tolerate the cold and isolation of Alaska. Finn has never forgiven his mother for leaving his father and moving away. After spending years reaching out to her son in vain, she believes Carrie might be able to deliver a message that will finally get her son’s attention.
Sawyer O’Halloran Bush pilot and Finn Dalton’s best friend. Sawyer has fended off every reporter that’s come looking for the elusive Finn Dalton. But when Carrie asks for his help and says she knows Finn’s mother, he finally relents and takes the blue-eyed reporter to Finn’s secluded home.
Questions for Discussion
1. Can celebrities really expect to maintain their privacy? Why or why not? In what ways is Finn hypocritical about the value of privacy?
2. When Carrie tells Finn what she learned from his mother, Finn tells Carrie that she’s only heard one side of the story. What are some times in your life that you made conclusions based on one side of a story? What happened when you got both perspectives?
3. Finn says he wrote his book to help combat the obesity epidemic and get people more interested in the outdoors. How might his mission play out in the real world? How can we get people—especially children—to change their sedentary ways?
4. Thanksgiving reminds Finn of the days when his parents were happy together. These happy memories frustrate him and threaten to undermine his rationalization for not keeping in touch with his mother. Why is it that happy memories don’t always make us feel so happy?
5. Sawyer agrees to help Carrie because it’s time Finn “broadened his horizons” (page 31). What does he mean by that?
6. In what ways might their surroundings have contributed to Finn and Carrie falling for each other so quickly?
7. Several characters in the book maintain holiday traditions. Finn displays his mother’s nativity scene. Carrie’s family hosts a Christmas buffet. What are some of your favorite holiday traditions? Where did they originate? How have they evolved over the years?
8. Carrie receives two unusual gifts that, to a casual observer, might not seem like something to elicit much gratefulness. What are some gifts that you’ve received that might have seemed odd to others but meant the world to you?
9. Finn tells Carrie, while they’re sitting across the table from each other, that he’s fighting the urge to text her. That is, after all, the way they’re used to communicating. How have texting and email changed dating and the way relationships unfold? Are the changes positive or negative? Why?
10. Finn’s parents split up because his father couldn’t compromise. How might his parents have been able to stay together? What is the role of compromise in marriage? What are some of the compromises Finn and Carrie have made and will have to make?
11. Finn resents that a woman from his past played games with his heart. Yet he devises a gamelike test for Carrie to see if he can trust her. How would you react if you were in Carrie’s shoes? Would you publish the article? Why or why not?
Christmas Emails
Dear Sophie—
Merry Christmas to my dear friend and party-planning partner. I had to write and let you know that just when I thought my favorite time of year couldn’t get any better, it did. It’s hard to top the carols, hot chocolate, singing in the Christmas pageant, and helping Mom with all the favorite family recipes. But we just received a visit from a very special someone and his mother. You might know him as Paul … and I know my secret’s not safe with you! I can’t wait to tell you all about it. Merry merry to you and yours!
Love,
Carrie
* *
*
Hey, Sawyer
Sorry for the late notice, but you’ve probably noticed I’m not around for Christmas in Fairbanks. I’ve made alternate plans I’m sure you’d approve of. I want you to know you’re a turncoat and a traitor for showing Carrie how to find me—and for that, I’m eternally grateful. My mom sends her best. I hope you’re having a great Christmas. I’m having the best one of my life.
Take care,
Finn
Read on for an excerpt from Debbie Macomber’s
The Inn at Rose Harbor
Chapter 1
Last night I dreamed of Paul.
He’s never far from my thoughts—not a day passes when he isn’t with me—but he hasn’t been in my dreams until now. It’s ironic, I suppose, that he should leave me, because before I close my eyes I fantasize about what it would feel like to have his arms wrapped around me. As I drift off to sleep I pretend that my head is resting on his shoulder. Unfortunately, I will never have the chance to be with my husband again, at least not in this lifetime.
Until last night, if I did happen to dream of Paul, those dreams were long forgotten by the time I woke. This dream, however, stayed with me, lingering in my mind, filling me with equal parts sadness and joy.
When I first learned that Paul had been killed, the grief had been all-consuming, and I didn’t think I would be able to go on. Yet life continues to move forward, and so have I, dragging from one day into the next until I found I could breathe normally.
I’m in my new home now, the bed-and-breakfast I bought less than a month ago on the Kitsap Peninsula in a cozy town on the water called Cedar Cove. I decided to name it Rose Harbor Inn. “Rose” for Paul Rose, my husband of less than a year; the man I will always love and for whom I will grieve for whatever remains of my own life. “Harbor” for the place I have set my anchor as the storms of loss batter me.
How melodramatic that sounds, and yet there’s no other way to say it. Although I am alive, functioning normally, at times I feel half dead. How Paul would hate hearing me say that, but it’s true. I died with Paul last April on some mountainside in a country half a world away as he fought for our nation’s security.
Life as I knew it was over in the space of a single heartbeat. My future as I dreamed it would be was stolen from me.
All the advice given to those who grieve said I should wait a year before making any major decisions. My friends told me I would regret quitting my job, leaving my Seattle home, and moving to a strange town.
What they didn’t understand was that I found no comfort in familiarity, no joy in routine. Because I valued their opinion, I gave it six months. In that time nothing helped, nothing changed. More and more I felt the urge to get away, to start life anew, certain that then and only then would I find peace, and this horrendous ache inside me ease.
I started my search for a new life on the Internet, looking in a number of areas, all across the United States. The surprise was finding exactly what I wanted in my own backyard.
The town of Cedar Cove sits on the other side of Puget Sound from Seattle. It’s a navy town, situated directly across from the Bremerton shipyard. The minute I found a property listing for this charming bed-and-breakfast that was up for sale, my heart started to beat at an accelerated rate. Me own a bed-and-breakfast? I hadn’t thought to take over a business, but instinctively I realized I would need something to fill my time. As a bonus, a confirmation, I’d always enjoyed having guests.
With its wraparound porch and incredible view of the cove, the house was breathtaking. In another life I could imagine Paul and me sitting on the porch after dinner, sipping hot coffee and discussing our day, our dreams. Surely the photograph posted on the Internet had been taken by a professional who’d cleverly masked its flaws. Nothing, it seemed, could be this perfect.
Not so. The moment I pulled into the driveway with the real estate agent, I was embraced by the inn’s appeal. Oh yes, with its bright natural light and large windows that overlooked the cove, this B&B felt like home already. It was the perfect place for starting my new life.
Although I dutifully let Jody McNeal, the agent, show me around, not a single question remained in my mind. I was meant to own this bed-and-breakfast; it was as if it’d sat on the market all these months waiting for me. It had eight guest rooms spread across the two upper floors, and on the bottom floor a large, modern kitchen was situated next to a spacious dining room. Originally built in the early 1900s, the house looked out on a stunning panorama of the water and marina. Cedar Cove was laid out below along Harbor Street, which wound through the town with small shops on both sides of the street. I felt the town’s appeal even before I had the opportunity to explore its neighborhoods.
What attracted me most about the inn was the sense of peace I experienced the moment I walked inside. The heartache that had been my constant companion seemed to lift. The grief that I’d carried with me all these months eased. In its place came serenity, a peace that’s difficult to describe.
Unfortunately, this contentment didn’t last long, my eyes suddenly flooding with tears and embarrassing me as we finished the tour. Paul would have loved this inn, too. But I would be managing the inn alone. Thankfully the real estate agent pretended not to notice the emotions I was struggling to disguise.
“Well, what do you think?” Jody asked expectantly as we walked out the front door.
I hadn’t said a word during the entire tour, nor had I asked a single question. “I’ll take it.”
Jody leaned closer as if she hadn’t heard me correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’d like to make an offer.” I didn’t hesitate—by that time I had no doubts. The asking price was more than fair and I was ready to move forward.
Jody almost dropped a folder full of detailed information regarding the property. “You might want to think about it,” she suggested. “This is a major decision, Jo Marie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m eager to make the sale; it’s just that I’ve never had anyone make such an important decision so … quickly.”
“I’ll think about it overnight, if you want, but there’s no need. I knew right away that this is it.”
The instant my family heard that I intended to quit my job at Columbia Bank and buy the B&B, they all tried to talk me out of it, especially my brother, Todd, the engineer. I’d worked my way up to assistant manager of the Denny Way branch, and he feared I was throwing away a promising career. Todd knew that I would eventually be named manager. I had given almost fifteen years to the bank, had been a good employee, and my future in banking was bright.
What the people around me failed to understand was that my life as I’d known it, as I’d wanted it, as I’d dreamed it, was over. The only way I could achieve fulfillment was to find myself a new one.
I signed the offer for the inn the next day and not for an instant did my resolve waver. The Frelingers, who owned the B&B, gratefully accepted my offer, and within a matter of weeks—just before the holidays—we gathered together at the title company and signed all the tedious, necessary paperwork. I handed them the cashier’s check, and accepted the keys to the inn. The Frelingers had taken no reservations for the last couple of weeks in December as they intended to spend time with their children.
Leaving the title company, I took a short detour to the courthouse and applied for a name change for the inn, christening it with its new name, the Rose Harbor Inn.
I returned to Seattle and the next day I gave Columbia Bank my notice. I spent the Christmas holiday packing up my Seattle condo and preparing for the move across Puget Sound. While I was only moving a few miles away, I might as well have been going halfway across the country. Cedar Cove was a whole other world—a quaint town on the Kitsap Peninsula away from the hectic world of the big city.
I knew my parents were disappointed that I didn’t spend much of the holidays with them in Hawaii, a family tradition. But I had so much to do to get ready for the move, including sorting through my things and Paul’s, packin
g, and selling my furniture. I needed to keep occupied—busywork helped keep my mind off this first Christmas without Paul.
I officially moved into the house on the Monday following New Year’s Day. Thankfully the Frelingers had sold the inn as a turnkey business. So all I needed to bring with me were a couple of chairs, a lamp that had belonged to my grandmother, and my personal items. Unpacking took only a few hours. I chose as my room the main floor bedroom suite the Frelingers had set aside as their own area; it had a fireplace and a small alcove that included a window seat overlooking the cove. The room was large enough for a bedroom set, as well as a small sofa that sat close to the fireplace. I particularly enjoyed the wallpaper, which was covered in white and lavender hydrangeas.
By the time night descended on the inn, I was exhausted. At eight, as rain pelted against the windows and the wind whistled through the tall evergreens that covered one side of the property, I made my way into the master bedroom on the main floor. The wild weather made it feel even cozier with a fire flickering in the fireplace. I experienced none of the strangeness of settling into a new place. I’d felt welcomed by this home from the moment I’d set foot in the front door.
The sheets were crisp and clean as I climbed into bed. I don’t remember falling asleep, but what so readily comes to mind is that dream of Paul, so vivid and real.
In grief counseling, I’d learned that dreams are important to the healing process. The counselor described two distinct types of dreams. The first and probably the most common are dreams about our loved ones—memories that come alive again.
The second type are called visitation dreams, when the loved one actually crosses the chasm between life and death to visit those he or she has left behind. We were told these are generally dreams of reassurance: the one who has passed reassures the living that he or she is happy and at peace.
It’d been eight months since I’d received word that Paul had been killed in a helicopter crash in the Hindu Kush, the mountain range that stretches between the center of Afghanistan and northern Pakistan. The army helicopter had been brought down by al-Qaeda or one of their Taliban allies; Paul and five of his fellow Airborne Rangers had been killed instantly. Because of the location of the crash it was impossible to recover their bodies. The news of his death was difficult enough, but to be deprived of burying his remains was even more cruel.
That Wintry Feeling (Debbie Macomber Classics) Page 18
