by Hope Ramsay
“I am a doctor.” Dylan pressed the napkin even tighter against his head, his hand covering hers. “Harder,” he said, applying pressure that reignited the weird awareness that had seized her a second ago.
“Right, I knew that.”
“Scalp wounds bleed a lot. It’s scary but not serious.” Kindness rang in his voice.
“I’m so sorry. I’m such a klutz.”
“It’s okay. Accidents happen.”
Who was this man? Had the knock to his head unleashed a kinder, gentler Dylan, or had he morphed into Doctor Dazed?
“Here, I’ve got it,” he said a moment later, taking control of the napkin.
Oh good, he was back in control. Maybe she hadn’t concussed him, but he was certainly a mess. Globules of egg had adhered to his suit jacket and pants, and blood had dripped down his face to stain the pristine collar of his shirt and yellow polka-dotted bow tie.
She took a step back, a remorseful lump forming in her throat and tears filling her eyes. She’d really screwed things up. Mom was going to kill her.
But then Ashley materialized beside her like a guardian angel or something. “It’s okay, Ella. You go into the kitchen, wash your hands, and make another pot of coffee, okay?”
“I’m so sorry. I—”
“It’s fine. Everyone spills something sooner or later,” Ashley said.
Ella turned to look into the innkeeper’s big brown eyes and found only compassion and forgiveness.
“Go. Calm down. Make some coffee and then bring the bucket of cleaning stuff from the closet.”
She turned, giving Dylan, who was being tended by the minister and one of the guests, one last look. Maybe he wouldn’t be scarred for life, which was a good thing, because Mom wouldn’t be happy if she’d damaged Jim’s son.
She hyperventilated as she started another pot of coffee, barely keeping her tears in check. Then she found the bucket in the closet, which contained some foam carpet spray, a sponge, a roll of paper towels, and everything needed for cleaning up a mess.
Spills in the dining room must be an everyday occurrence.
When she returned to the dining room, Dylan was gone, and Ashley was chatting with the few remaining guests. A lot of them had left.
Oh no. This was so bad. Ella’s mistakes this morning had probably earned Howland House a few bad Yelp reviews, or maybe even lost Ashley some repeat customers. Granny would be so disappointed in her, especially since her grandmother had used her connections with the Piece Makers to help Ella find this job.
The thought goaded her into action. Maybe she was a disaster with the stupid coffee maker, but she knew how to clean up messes. Cody had been a champion mess-maker, and she’d been the only one in the band who’d followed behind him, tidying up.
She rounded the table and got down on her knees in order to pick up the egg and bacon scattered all over the floor. She scooped up the bits and pieces, putting them in a garbage bag she’d brought from the kitchen. Down under the table on her knees, her humiliation and embarrassment redoubled. She was fighting tears when Jackie arrived on the scene, poking his head under the table with a metal-mouth grin. “You screwed up big-time, didn’t you?” he said.
“Yeah, I did. I’m so sorry.” Her voice wobbled.
The kid cocked his head and paused as if he’d expected some other response from her. “Hey, it’s okay. You should have seen the time Mom tripped and dropped the Piece Maker’s cake all over the kitchen floor. She had to feed the ladies store-bought doughnuts. She’s never heard the end of that one.”
He slipped under the table and started picking up clumps of egg and bacon that were beyond her reach. “Please don’t cry.”
She stared at the kid. “I’m not crying.”
“Okay, that’s good. The guests don’t want to see you crying. The guests just want breakfast.”
She blinked at his wisdom. Obviously, he’d been living at the inn for much of his young life. She might do well to listen to him.
She scooped up the last bit of egg and tossed it in the garbage, but the carpet still smelled of orange juice, so she reached for the can of carpet cleaner and gave the area a big spray, rubbed it in with the sponge, then blotted up the wet spot until the paper towels ran out.
“I think that’s good enough,” Ashley said when the last towel went into the garbage bag. “And thank you for helping, Jackie.”
“No problem. You want me to get coffee for the guests?” Jackie asked.
“If you would, please.”
The kid scampered away to the kitchen, and Ella changed her opinion of him. He wasn’t a wiseass at all. He was merely a little different.
“Come on,” Ashley said, “the biscuits are warm in the oven, and we still have a few hungry guests to feed. Next time don’t put so many plates on the tray. And don’t run.”
“Right.”
She went back to work, inwardly cringing every time she thought about that horrible moment when she lost control of the tray and knew she was going down. She could see that stupid tray in her mind’s eye, sliding out of her control and heading right at Dylan’s head.
She would never live that moment down. For the rest of her life, when Mom and Jim and the blended family got together for any occasion or holiday, Dylan would inevitably tell the story of the morning when his soon-to-be stepsister tried to take his head off with a breakfast tray.
* * *
The scalp wound was still oozing as Dylan drove himself back home to change his clothes. He hoped to hell he didn’t need any sutures for the damn thing. Scalp wounds were notorious for bleeding like crazy.
He was also a little concerned about the bump forming right above the gash, where one of the plates had nailed him. Thank goodness the china hadn’t broken. Otherwise he might have been injured more seriously, and Ella might be apologizing for the rest of her life.
Why was she so apologetic for what had been an accident? She must have said “I’m sorry” a dozen times. On the other hand, her concern for him had been touching.
No, maybe a better word might be stunning. The unshed tears in her anime eyes had undone him, even though she was different from the women he usually found attractive. Most of the women in his life had been well-put-together Southern girls who never stepped out of the house unless their hair and makeup were perfect. Lauren had been like that.
Born in Charleston and educated at Wellesley and the University of Virginia Law School, Lauren was on her way to becoming a high-powered corporate attorney. And they could have become a power couple if Dylan had remained in Charleston and joined a practice there.
But when he’d told Lauren his plans to return home and practice medicine in an underserved community, she’d dumped him. That had been a year ago. He’d been living like a monk since then, probably because the single women at the club were a lot like Lauren.
Wait a sec. Was he comparing Ella to Lauren? That was just wrong. The blow to his head must have been worse than he thought. He was not allowed to notice Ella. Ever.
He pulled his car into the garage only to discover Dad’s Jeep parked in what had been its usual space for the last year. What the heck? Why wasn’t Dad at the office?
He climbed out of the car and hurried through the back door, finding Dad in the kitchen, surrounded by packing boxes. The smart speaker blared some classical piano piece, and the music beat at his head like the hammers on a Steinway. He came to a sudden, jarring stop as Dad tucked Mom’s favorite casserole dish into one of the boxes.
“What the hell?” he said aloud, screaming above the music. A sudden, ominous vertigo had him reaching for the wall to steady himself.
Dad turned down the music and gave him an assessing stare.
“What are you doing with that casserole dish? That’s Mom’s,” Dylan said.
“What happened to you? You’re bleeding all over the place.” Dad took a step forward.
“And why aren’t you seeing patients?” Dylan asked, his tone accusatory. What the hell?
Was Dad planning to move all of Mom’s stuff to Brenda’s house?
“I took the day off,” Dad said, taking another step forward, his voice calm as ever. “Brenda and I have decided to move in together now that Ella has moved out of Cloud Nine. I came over here to pack up a few things. But you don’t have to worry. I’m not cleaning out the kitchen. We’ve got more pots and pans than either of us have used in years.”
“But that’s Mom’s casserole.”
Dad frowned. “It’s not Mom’s. It’s…well, whatever. If you want it, I’ll leave it here for you,” he said, then closed the distance between them. “Let me see that cut. What happened?”
“I was having breakfast at Howland House with Reverend St. Pierre to talk about the museum foundation, and I got nailed by a plate of eggs.”
Dad gently took one of his arms. “Let’s get you into the living room and take a look. You sit. I’m going to go get my bag from the car.”
Dylan’s anger ebbed away, and he allowed Dad guide to him into the living room and down into the comfortable wing chair. He closed his eyes, rested his head on the high back, and waited. Dad returned a moment later, carrying an old-fashioned medical bag. His father was a total throwback who had been known to make the occasional house call even though it made no economic sense. But that was Dad. That was why Dylan loved him so fiercely.
He relaxed and let his dad take care of him.
“That’s going to need a couple of sutures,” Dad said. “And you’ll probably have a scar.”
A wave of nausea slammed into Dylan. The room took a wild spin, and he had to focus on the designer wall clock to keep things steady. “I think I may have a concussion. I’m having vertigo.”
Dad shined a light in his eyes to check his pupil reaction. “Maybe a mild one. I need to take you to the office in order to stitch you up. Hang tight for a moment.”
Dad left and then returned in a blur with a glass of water and a couple of acetaminophen. “Here, take these for the headache.”
Dylan followed orders like a little boy, and then his father drove him to the clinic, using the Honda instead of the Jeep because the Honda had a smoother ride. His father stitched up the wound, but after an hour or so with Dylan’s headache no better, Dad called the imaging center in Georgetown and scheduled a CT scan for later that afternoon.
The scan found no skull fracture or bleeding into the brain. But he had an edema and maybe a slight concussion. The prognosis was good though. He would live.
Chapter Eight
Ella was bone tired when she finally made it up the stairs to her small room under the eaves. In addition to the tray disaster, she’d been through a difficult training session trying to grasp the inn’s reservation system and webpage. She wasn’t a Luddite exactly, but she’d never been great with technology.
This might be an entry-level job, but that didn’t make it an easy one.
She just wanted to go back to sleep even if the clock said noon. She wasn’t cut out for getting up so early. For most of her life, she’d stayed up late performing and slept into the afternoon. This early riser thing was for the birds. Literally.
She collapsed onto the bed and buried her head under the pillow. She had almost drifted off when her phone jolted her back to consciousness. Groggy and disoriented, she pressed the connect button before checking the caller ID.
“Finally.” Cody’s voice came over the line. “What the hell, Ella? You walk out and then you refuse to talk to me. What kind of way is that to act?”
She should disconnect the line, but for some pathetic reason, the sound of Cody’s voice trickled into the deep well of loneliness at her core. He’d never really filled that well, but he could give her a taste of something good from time to time.
His need was seductive. Who else needed her the way Cody did?
“Are you not going to talk to me?” Cody asked.
She thought about his question for a moment, and then, finding courage from some inner source, she said, “I’ll talk to you. But I already know what you want. You want me to come back because you can’t find another decent fiddler.”
“Look, babe, that’s not it, and you know it. I love you.”
Wow. Like she hadn’t heard this before. Cody loved her because she could play the fiddle. That was the beginning and end of his love. But hearing the words out loud still left an unmistakable warm, fuzzy feeling in their wake.
“Please come back,” he said in a wheedling tone that made the fuzzy feeling evaporate.
“No.”
“C’mon, babe. I’m sorry for whatever it is I did that got you riled up.”
What? Did he think she would accept an apology like that? The list of his shortcomings was so long it would take days to enumerate them all.
“I mean it,” Cody said. “I want you to come back home.”
So this was just about what he wanted. What else was new? She took a deep breath and spoke her mind. “Where is home exactly, Cody? An RV filled with a bunch of band boys always on the road?”
“I guess I could work on the house in El Paso.”
He guessed? Boy, she had heard these promises before.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a job here and—”
“You got a gig?” For the first time, he sounded worried.
“Not a gig. A job.”
“Doing what? Waitressing?” He said the word with such scorn that hot anger boiled through her.
“I am a waitress.” Her voice sounded hard and brittle.
“No, you’re not. You’re a musician. The same as me. Come on, we need you in the band. It’s not the same without you.”
He could go screw himself.
“Stop calling me, Cody,” she said, then pressed the disconnect button. As she took a couple of deep breaths, her anger ebbed away, leaving a certain clarity in its wake. Cody was right. She could be more than a waitress. But that didn’t mean she had to go back to being a fiddler for an unremarkable warm-up band. Once, a long time ago, she’d been ambitious. What had happened to that Ella?
She didn’t know much about her future, except that music needed to be a part of it. And she’d been neglecting her fiddle recently. She needed to practice.
So she grabbed her fiddle case and headed down the stairs and out the back door. Howland House had a long, broad lawn with Adirondack chairs scattered around, a fire pit, and a small swimming beach with access to Moonlight Bay. At one end of this expanse stood an ancient live oak that had to be three hundred years old at least. Its trunk was massive, and its low-hanging branches made it easy to climb.
Ella had no intention of climbing. But she settled herself on a low branch, took out her fiddle, rosined up her bow, and started playing the “Sailors Hornpipe,” in order to appease any restless nautical spirits. She didn’t truly believe in Jackie’s ghost, but she had promised the boy to come out here and play a few jigs. And after his help this morning, it seemed like the right thing to do.
Besides, playing the fiddle always altered her mental state. The music was her drug of choice, and it never failed to adjust her attitude.
After performing the well-known sailor’s dance, she moved on, playing one reel and jig after the other, most of them Irish. She’d loved playing these tunes from the time she’d first learned them as a young violinist in grade school. Jigs and reels were the student pieces that had helped her master the fiddle.
Mom had always regarded these pieces as trivial learning songs. From the time Ella could remember, Mom had pushed her toward classical music, always hoping that Ella would one day gain a place at one of the nation’s premier music colleges and maybe become a concert master with a big-city orchestra.
But that had been Mom’s dream.
Ella had rejected that dream by the time she turned fourteen. She could still remember the day she’d seen Martie Maguire play fiddle on the country music video channel. It made a huge impression on her to see a woman with chops like that. And Martie was beautiful too. She wanted to become Martie M
aguire.
So while Mom was watching, she practiced her classical music, but on the sly, she played along with the country music station every minute she could spare.
By the time she was seventeen, she had learned a lot by listening and playing along with the likes of Maguire, Natalie MacMaster, and Alison Krauss. She’d also discovered Irish fiddlers like the incomparable Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh.
The first time Cody ever heard her play, he’d told her she’d one day make it to the Grand Ole Opry. It hadn’t been a promise, of course, although she’d taken it that way. She’d been so young and foolish.
Cody’s praise was all it had taken to get her to run away from home. But that had changed last December when she’d started running toward home. Wherever that might be. Could she be a musician and support herself in Magnolia Harbor? She didn’t know.
But maybe she needed to figure it out.
* * *
Ashley had been about to climb the stairs to the third floor when the sound of the fiddle reached her through the open window in the kitchen. The music floated in on the sea breeze, haunting in a way, as if coming from a great distance.
It sent a shiver up her spine at first and turned her around and brought her out the back door. She walked down the path past her rose garden and the cottage, all the way to the lawn on the north side of the property.
At first, she couldn’t see the source of the music, and that sent more shivers cascading up and down her back. Was Jackie’s ghost a fiddler? Then she spied Ella sitting on the lowest branch of the live oak, which, according to Jackie, was exactly where Captain Teal had been spending eternity. Or at least, the last few hundred years since his demise in 1713.
What was she doing up there? Serenading him?
Or maybe she was serenading the guests. A surprising number of them were out on the lawn this afternoon, lounging in the Adirondack chairs, drawn there by the beautiful weather that this morning’s rain had ushered in, as well as Ella’s music.
One of them, Mr. Levine, who’d been coming to Howland House for several years, hurried down the path to meet Ashley. He smiled. “Now I see why you hired that girl. The music is a really nice touch,” he said with a big smile. “You should have her play in the library during your Saturday-afternoon teas.”
