Room at Heron's Inn

by Ginger Chambers

  “I should. I’ve been coming here every summer for the past eight years. I was their first guest.”

  She ventured, “It’s really tragic about their father.”

  He nodded. “Yes. He was quite a man from everything I’ve heard. Eric’s just like him, so they say.”

  “Who says?” she asked.

  “Allison, for one. She says he has the same quiet way about him—strong inside himself, no need to show off.” He shot her a look from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. “The kind of man a woman should latch on to, if she can…if you know what I mean.”

  The teakettle whistled. Robin took his cup, rinsed it with warm water and added a tea bag. Then she filled it with the heated water and brought it back to the elderly gentleman.

  “Milk or sugar?” she asked.

  “Neither one,” the old man said, pushing slowly back to his feet. “This wouldn’t be a bad place to practice your skills,” he suggested. Then, eyes twinkling, he added, “Your cooking skills, too.”

  Robin blinked, and before she could make a reply he had disappeared into the hall.

  EILEEN CLARKE WAS everything Robin expected, plus a little more. She arrived at the inn exactly a half hour after Barbara’s call, Timothy in tow, and swept through the kitchen like a commanding general. There were no oohs and aahs from her about the cake. Her questions were direct and to the point, even though they did reveal a measure of approval.

  “You realize we’ll need three layers,” she said.

  “For the number of guests you’re planning, that’s correct.”

  “And one of those little bride-and-groom things for the top.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be able to find one.”

  “And a groom’s cake. We do want a groom’s cake.”

  “I thought chocolate hazelnut, with chocolate icing and clusters of pink buttercream rosebuds.” Robin glanced at Timothy and Barbara. The suggestion seemed to please them.

  “Mmm. I don’t know,” Eileen murmured.

  The woman sent Robin an appraising glance that didn’t wholly have to do with the discussion at hand. Robin had thought Samantha to be teasing when she said Eileen had an eye on Eric. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  Eric entered the room by way of the rear stairs. “I wondered where everyone was. Eileen…Timothy? What’s going on?”

  “We’re deciding about the cakes,” Barbara answered, suppressed anxiety raising the pitch of her voice.

  Eric glanced at Robin, gave her a quick, intimate smile, then turned his attention to the cake. Robin saw his eyes widen. He, too, was surprised by the beauty of the cake set before them. White on white with the palest of pinks, lavenders and yellows in a symphony of clustered flowers. He’d seen most of the decorations before, unassembled, but not artfully applied with swirls and pipings of frosting.

  Samantha arrived home from a date and joined everyone in the kitchen. She stopped short when she saw the cake.

  “I don’t know,” Eileen stated, “chocolate for the groom’s cake seems so…so ordinary.”

  “If Robin makes it, there is no way on earth a chocolate cake will be ordinary!” Samantha insisted, coming to Robin’s defense. “Chocolate hazelnut,” Barbara corrected her mother-in-law to be.

  “It’s the groom’s cake,” Eric suggested. “Why don’t we let the groom decide?”

  Timothy glanced at Barbara, at his mother, then back at Barbara. “I think…I think chocolate hazelnut is fine. It sounds delicious, actually.”

  “But will she be able to do it again?” Eileen demanded. “I mean, yes, this is beautiful. But is it a fluke? What will the actual wedding cake be like?”

  “Much the same, only more so, with three layers and a bride and groom on top,” Robin answered. “This isn’t a fluke.”

  Barbara spoke up. “I’d really rather not have a bride and groom. Instead, maybe a few more of these beautiful flowers?” Her eyes pleaded with her brother to intervene on her behalf.

  “Then that’s the way it will be,” he decreed. He smiled at Eileen before collecting her arm to accompany her out of the kitchen. “Now, see?” they heard him say as he walked with her down the hall. “That’s another problem solved.”

  “But do you really think—” Eileen sputtered. “I mean, who is this person? She only showed up here a few weeks ago. Surely we shouldn’t trust—” Her words were cut off by their exit through the front door.

  “Crabby old cow!”

  “Samantha!” Barbara scolded severely. She grabbed Timothy’s arm and hurried him into the hall.

  “Oops!” Samantha said to Robin, grimacing. “But it’s true. She is a crabby old cow. She certainly wasn’t very nice to you.”

  “She’s under a lot of pressure,” Robin observed.

  “She asked for it! In fact, she demanded it. Just because Timothy is her only child and she’s always dreamed of planning his wedding, and just because she says she already thinks of Barbara as her daughter… Do you know, if Eric hadn’t put his foot down, Barbara would be wearing a dress Eileen chose as her wedding gown!”

  “Why won’t Timothy stand up to his mother?”

  “Timothy—” She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “Timothy hates to make waves. One day he may have to make a choice, though, between Barbara and Eileen. I only hope Barbara wins.”

  “You’re concerned about her.”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “But you seem never to worry much about anything.”

  “I think about things. I just don’t dwell on them. What good does that do?”

  What good indeed, Robin agreed silently.

  Samantha yawned. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed early tonight. See you in the morning.” She started for the rear stairs but stopped with her foot on the first narrow step. “That cake looks as if it belongs on the page of some fancy bride’s magazine. It’s a pretty amazing job for an amateur.” She didn’t wait for a reply.

  ROBIN COULDN’T SLEEP. She tried for the next two hours, but she couldn’t force her mind to rest. She swung her legs over the side of the soft mattress and searched with her toes for her slippers. Maybe a drink of water would help. Water from downstairs, so she could walk off some of the tension. Wrapping her silk robe tightly around her, she crept down the hall to the servants’ stairwell.

  A tiny light bulb threw weak light against the high, close walls. The steps were built tightly together and turned three times before finally reaching the kitchen. Robin was thankful she wasn’t claustrophobic.

  She filled a small glass with water and took several sips, only to find it wasn’t what she wanted after all. Restlessly, she crossed to the French doors that opened into the garden. One was slightly ajar.

  She hesitated. Was someone else having difficulty falling asleep that night? The worst possibility was Frank Whittaker. If it was Frank, she didn’t want to talk to him. She started to turn away but stopped when she saw the silhouette of a man much taller and more athletic than Frank could ever hope to be.

  Eric looked up and saw her, then looked away.

  It would have to be her decision whether or not to join him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE TOOK A LONG TIME to decide. And even then, once she started outside, she did so hesitantly, as if he were a wild animal she had to approach with caution.

  Eric’s jaw tightened, but he remained very still, afraid that if he moved she would be frightened away.

  She padded softly on the flat stones that made up the garden pathway, then stopped several paces away from him—not quite within reach.

  With natural grace, she folded her arms across her chest, her fingers gripping her upper arms. She didn’t look at him but at the roses, whose scent was heavy in the chill, moonlit air.

  Her hair was tousled, her face devoid of even the small amount of makeup she wore each day. And still she was beautiful.

  Eric drew a sharp breath. He couldn’t mess this up. When he spoke it was quietly, conversationally. “I like
to come out here when I can’t sleep. There’s something about a garden at this time of night.”

  She shivered slightly but made no effort to move away. “Yes,” she murmured. “It’s like that even in crowded cities. In a garden, late at night, all the people seem far away.”

  He wanted to ask her, which cities, where she had lived before, what she had done. But again, he didn’t want to scare her away. She was like a butterfly, her gossamer wings poised for flight. She’d come into his life unexpectedly. She could just as easily fly away.

  Several crickets chirped in song. Somewhere, far off, an owl hooted. And beyond it all was the muffled roar of the Pacific.

  “I’m not sure I could ever live in a city again,” he said, “not after this.”

  She glanced at him. “How did you find this place? I mean, you didn’t just look in the want ads.”

  He laughed lightly. “Almost. I tried to pick up where our dad left off. He was a real estate agent. I earned my license and tried to sell property. But I wasn’t very good at it.

  Probably because I only did it part-time, when the kids were in school, and probably because my heart just wasn’t in it. If a client didn’t like a place, I wouldn’t try to convince them otherwise. Take it or leave it, that was my motto.”

  “A rather refreshing attitude for a salesman.”

  “A few people thought so. Most didn’t. I told you, I wasn’t very good. Then one day I was looking through a sales brochure and saw Heron’s Inn. I drove up here, looked around, brought the kids up the next weekend, and we moved here. End of real estate career, beginning of being an innkeeper.”

  “Which you like better, I take it.”

  “Definitely.”

  He plucked a leaf from a low-hanging tree branch. To keep himself occupied, he began to fold it.

  “You did it for David, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “Mostly. But I thought we all needed a change. Allison was married, of course, with the twins. She stayed in Palo Alto. She and her husband had good jobs at one of the computer chip makers there. She still does, matter of fact. The rest of us packed up and headed north.”

  “What did you want to do, originally? I mean, before your father—when you were in college.”

  He tossed the leaf away. “You’re asking a lot of questions.” She started to turn away but he stopped her. His hand slipped from her arm, though, before he could follow through on what he really wanted to do—hold her with all his strength.

  He forced a soft laugh. “It’s okay. I was teasing. If you really want to know, I’ll tell you. But the answer will come at a price. You have to tell me something about yourself. I’ve been the one doing all the talking.” When she made no reply, he continued, “I wanted to be a vet.”

  “A veterinarian?” she repeated, surprised.

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “It’s just—I never thought—you don’t have any pets around.”

  “We had a dog. A Labrador. She died just after turning fifteen over the Easter holidays.”

  “Oh!”

  “When I was growing up, our house was always full of animals. Our mother took in anything on four legs or with wings. She kept an unofficial mini animal hospital, nursing and caring for the creatures until she could find them a good home.”

  “Then it’s no wonder you—”

  “Now it’s my turn,” he interrupted. “Did you ever have any pets when you were growing up?”

  Her body tensed, as it always seemed to when the subject turned to her. But this question had been innocuous enough. Was she tensing for what she thought might come later?

  “A bird, a blue budgie. I named him Mike.”

  “Why Mike?” he asked, smiling.

  “I named him for a boy I had a crush on.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nine, maybe ten.”

  “How did it go between you and the real Mike?”

  “He moved away. But I still had Mike the budgie.”

  “Where were you living? In California?”

  “No,” she replied, but he had the distinct impression that wasn’t true.

  “When did you move here? To go to school?”

  “I enrolled at UC-Berkeley after I graduated from high school. Went for a year. Quit. Went for another year. Quit again. This time I’m more serious about it.”

  “What did you do when you didn’t go to class?”

  “This and that.”

  “Things like working in a bakery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you from if you’re not from California?”

  A hard shiver racked her slender frame. “Do you think—could we continue this another time? I didn’t plan to come outside. I’m not properly dressed.”

  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and shifted her weight from foot to foot.

  Eric instantly agreed. He knew very well she was using the chill air as an excuse, but he also knew better than to insist that she stay.

  He followed her into the kitchen, which they then crossed to the servants’ stairs. He knew she didn’t want him to follow her into the stairwell, but she didn’t know how to prevent him. Eric could have held back, found some reason to remain in the kitchen, but he wanted to continue his observation of her. More precisely, he wanted to remain in her company.

  To be closeted together inside the narrow confines of the stairway could have been extremely intimate. She was just ahead of him, the skirt of her bright silk robe swinging from her hips to play about her ankles as she moved from step to step. All he had to do was reach out. Only at the moment, she would probably resist the idea and raise such a ruckus that it would wake everyone in the house. Sound traveled easily at night. Any sound. He’d also, in a saner frame of mind, promised that he would back off in his pursuit. He’d told her he wanted to get to know her. But how could he do that when she held so much back?

  Why? Why was she being so secretive? In a way it was intriguing. But hand in hand with the allure came frustration.

  What did she feel it was so necessary to hide?

  ROBIN CONTINUED TO SHIVER once she’d reached her room. She shivered even under the extra blanket she had thrown across the bed.

  Electricity had coursed through her body as they’d come up the enclosed stairs. She was surprised that he hadn’t felt it. But then maybe he had. He’d looked at her for a long, slow moment once they had reached the third floor, before he turned to go to his room.

  Why couldn’t the past stay buried in the past? Why did it have to come back to haunt people?

  She turned her face into Bridget’s feather pillow and cried, the sound muffled so that no one else would hear.

  DAVID HAD DONE HIS BEST to ignore Robin over the last several days, since her rejection of his invitation to go bike riding. Robin pretended not to notice. Finally, the next morning, while she was washing the vegetables she planned to use in a garden marinade for that evening’s meal, the boy decided to reestablish contact.

  Still dressed in his favorite grungy clothes, his hair a tumbled mass of loose blond curls, a single earring—a silver skull and crossbones at the end of a short chain—dangling from his ear, he sidled up to the counter beside her and showed her his hands, back and front.

  She broke off what she was doing to look at them.

  When she made no comment, he said, “They’re clean. I’ve just washed them. Show me how to do this stuff.” He motioned to the vegetables.

  Robin lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Do I have to have a reason?”

  “Yes, actually, you do.”

  He turned away. “Then forget it.”

  Robin didn’t look after him as he stomped away. She merely said, “Then you must not have wanted to learn very badly in the first place.”

  He immediately halted. “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “It was more of a command. Until Bridget comes back, this is my kitchen, David. I don’t respond well to commands.” />
  “If Eric told you to do something, you’d do it.”

  “Probably. He pays my salary.”

  “You work for our family. I’m a member of the family.”

  “When it suits you,” she amended.

  “I thought you were my friend!”

  “Friends don’t order friends around.”

  He frowned in frustration. “All right, all right. I’m sorry. There. Is that okay? Would you like me to go outside and come back in again so we can start over?”

  Robin surprised him by smiling. “Why don’t you try asking?”

  He blinked, frowned fiercely, then said, “Please?”

  She handed him a carrot. “Start peeling.”

  They worked quietly, side by side. His movements were awkward, unskilled. It took him ages to finish even one carrot, but he persisted. He started and finished another. Finally, he asked, “When are you going to show me how to cut these like you can?”

  “It takes time, David. You can’t expect—”

  “This is boring!” he burst out.

  “You have to train the muscles in your hands and arms. Not even Digby could play the guitar expertly the first time he picked one up.”

  “How do you know?” he demanded.

  “It’s just common sense. I agree that he’s very good. He’s the moving force behind Black Obsession. But I don’t think he’s a genius at the guitar.”

  “Chad Yee is.” He named another member of his favorite band.

  “He may be. But I’ll still bet he had to practice to perfect his ability.”

  She cut an onion in half lengthwise, peeled it, positioned the flat side down on the cutting board, made a series of parallel incisions partway down its length, working from the bulb end toward the root, then started to cut across those cuts. She kept her movements slow and careful, aware that David was watching her.

  “You can go faster than that! I saw you!”

  “I thought you might like to see how I did it.”

  “Can I try?”