The Red Door Inn

by Liz Johnson

  It never hurt to take a peace offering.

  He thumped down the stairwell and stopped at the four-paneled white door at the bottom. The last time he’d knocked on a woman’s door, her apartment had been as empty as his bank account.

  But Marie wasn’t Reece. And he had to get close to her for Jack’s sake. No matter what it cost him, he’d make sure it didn’t cost Jack everything.

  He rapped his knuckle on the door twice and waited.

  Nothing.

  Hope curled his toes. Maybe she’d decided to leave.

  He knocked with his whole fist just to make sure.

  “Who is it?”

  His hopes fell at her clear voice, and he leaned a shoulder into the door frame. “Seth.”

  “Please, go away.” She clipped her words despite the soft volume.

  “I thought you might be hungry. I brought you something to eat.”

  When she opened the door, her dark hair was pleasantly disheveled, a gentle wave sticking out above her ear. But the bags under her eyes weren’t as sweet.

  Probably for the best.

  Thinking of her as a pretty woman was bound to throw him off his mission.

  Hugging the door between them, she chewed on her lip as she eyed the carton in his hand. He held it out to her, and she whipped it open like she hadn’t eaten in a month, filling her mouth with giant spoonfuls of the pink yogurt. For a wisp of a thing she could sure put it away.

  Her spoon scraped the sides and bottom, and after one final lick, she handed back the container and spoon. “Thank you.”

  The door was nearly shut before he pressed a flat hand against it. “Hey, wait.”

  Her eyes glowed in the afternoon sunlight from the windows at the top of the stairs. Long lashes framed their innocence as she asked a question without speaking.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. Jack is really interested in the quilts, and his is the opinion that counts here.”

  She blinked twice as her brows furrowed. Uncertainty splashed across her face. “All right.”

  He’d apologized and the best she could give him was “All right”?

  She moved to close the door again, but this time he gave it a solid push, and she scurried into the depths of the room, putting the corner of the bed between them. Eyes wide and wary, she drew tight fists to her stomach like she was planning to slug him.

  He might deserve it, but he’d bet money she didn’t have the gumption.

  One of her fists cocked under her chin as he took another step in.

  Maybe he was wrong.

  He shuffled back to the door, holding up his empty hand in submission. One after the other, her hands dropped to her sides, still curled tightly.

  “Jack wants us to get started picking out antiques and stuff like you said.”

  She glanced around the room like she was looking for someone else to join them. When she came up empty, she said, “I’ll just stay here.”

  “Come on. Jack is running errands, and if he comes back and we haven’t been to the antique store . . .”

  “What? What will he do?”

  Seth tapped the empty carton in his hand with one finger. “I’m not really sure. But it might involve either risking our necks cleaning second-story gutters, or worse, grocery shopping.”

  A little pop of breath jumped out of her like she couldn’t hold it in. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was a pleasant sound, one he hoped he’d get to hear again. She ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging that misbehaving strand over her ear, then fidgeted with the zipper on her sweater. She looked away, then back at him, then quickly away again.

  She was every bit as unsure what to do with him as he was with her. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

  “Tell you what, I don’t want to find out what Jack would do if we don’t get started looking for those antiques. So I’ll make you a deal. Come with me for a quick shopping trip, and I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “Do I have to sit with you?”

  “That’s the generally accepted custom. But hey, if you want to sit by yourself, I won’t stop you.”

  She rubbed her hands together, breathing quickly.

  “So? What do you say?”

  6

  Are you going to get in?” By the time Seth opened the door of his truck, Marie had made it to the rear bumper. “Were you planning on walking to the antique store again?”

  She nodded and shook her head at the same time, sending her hair whipping across her face. As she leaned forward, she took a matching step back, just confirming his suspicion. She did not want to go with him. She’d probably only agreed to make the shopping trip to get a free dinner.

  When was the last time she’d eaten a real meal?

  She couldn’t afford to lose any weight. Her elbows already poked at the sleeves of her jacket, her collarbone sticking out below her neckline.

  Aunt Rose would have tried to fatten her up. Which was exactly what Jack would try to do too. Which meant that was what Seth would do as well.

  “Just get in.” He sighed, pointing to the passenger side of the cab.

  What was it with this girl? She couldn’t stand up to a stiff wind and shook like a lost puppy in a thunderstorm. But she had no problem telling Jack that he’d picked out ugly paint colors.

  Seth hadn’t even been able to do that.

  He couldn’t afford to discourage his uncle, who needed every bit of support Seth could muster. Especially after Rose’s death more than a year before. So he’d been party to the dining room fiasco, slopping moss-green paint across the wide walls, cringing with every brushstroke.

  Before his trip to Halifax, before he’d met Marie, Jack had been nearly ready to give up on Rose’s dream. Ready to throw in the hammer, close up the inn, and retire in a quiet Phoenix suburb.

  Ready to leave Seth with only that empty apartment as home.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He wasn’t ready to go back to—

  “California. Is that where you’re from?” Marie’s question barely made it across the bench seat of his pickup. Her fists grabbed the old fabric, twisting into the cushion as she tried to pull herself up.

  He almost offered to help after watching her struggle for several long moments. Finally she jumped far enough to wrench herself the rest of the way into her seat.

  When she settled in and slammed the door, he rolled out of the driveway, pulling onto the road lined with classic and refurbished homes to the right. A fishing boat in the bay to his left wove between rows of mussel-sock markers, the late afternoon sun glistening on the ripples in the vessel’s wake.

  As they reached the stop sign at the end of the road, he finally responded to her question. “How’d you know about California?”

  “Your license plate.”

  Right. And she’d probably noticed the outline of the decals that he’d pulled off of the doors too. He wasn’t the best contractor in Southern California anymore. He was just handy with a hammer in North Rustico, middle of nowhere. But at least he could watch Jack’s back from here.

  Her wary eyes tracked his movements as he shifted gears, rolling through the three-way intersection. “What part of California?”

  “San Diego.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. You ever been?”

  She shook her head, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something more, but then she snapped it closed.

  As he navigated past the bakery and the bank, she pointed. “I think the store is right there.”

  “The bank doesn’t appreciate non-customers parking in their lot.”

  “Oh.” Again, she looked like she had more to say, but instead she clung to the door handle with one hand and her shoulder belt with the other.

  “You have something against that door?”

  Her eyes shot in the direction of her death grip. Without looking back at him, she uncurled one finger at a time. “Not really.”

  His laugh burst out before he even realized how funny her com
ment was. “Not really? So . . . maybe just a little bit?”

  Her eyes flashed with either anger or embarrassment. Or, more likely, a combination of both, and he chuckled again as she folded her hands into her lap, back straight as a nail.

  Tempted to tease her again, he bit his tongue as she jumped out of the truck before he’d even put on the brake in front of the antique store. The front door was already closing behind her by the time he reached the cobblestoned front walk.

  “Welcome to Aretha’s Antiques,” a disembodied voice called over the jingle of sleigh bells as he walked in. “I’ll be right there.”

  The maze of artifacts towered above him, blocking his view. Marie had disappeared.

  Probably picking out useless things.

  At least he had control over the money this time. And he refused to let her waste it.

  An overhead light caught the edge of a large brass lantern straight ahead, and he blinked against the flash just in time to step on something that shrieked like it had just lost three of its nine lives.

  “Was that Chapter? Silly thing acts like you gave her a sallywinder.”

  Whatever that was, he didn’t want one.

  The gray-striped cat darted between a matching pair of seven-foot china hutches before he could catch it, but as he wandered farther from the front door, the tabby began purring as if she’d never met the underside of his work boot.

  He rounded a turn in the maze and bumped into Marie, jostling the cat tucked in her arms. Chapter hissed, baring her teeth at him and immediately snuggling back into the warmth of Marie’s embrace.

  “I think you’ve made an enemy.” The corner of Marie’s mouth lifted, and a wicked spark flashed in her eyes.

  So she could smile.

  Her good humor lingered as she ran her fingers between the pointy gray ears, following a black line all the way to the middle of the cat’s back. The hum coming out of the little beast was pure bliss, and Marie’s drooping eyes weren’t far from that either.

  Risking a finger, he moved his hand to follow Marie’s motion, only to be swatted away by a fully clawed paw. He inspected twin red scratches on the back of his hand as Marie let out a full-on laugh.

  “She really doesn’t like you.” Marie hooked a finger under the furry chin and looked into the monster’s black eyes. “Smart girl.”

  Before he could form an adequate retort, a thin woman with silver and gray hair appeared at the far end of the aisle, her hands clasped beneath her chin in delight. “Well, well. Marie, you’re back so soon. And who have you brought with you?”

  Marie flashed her bright white smile toward the older woman, who patted the cat’s back without losing a hand in the process.

  Maybe the creature didn’t like men.

  That was it. It couldn’t have anything to do with being on the losing end of an encounter with his size twelve boot.

  Whatever his fight with the cat, it sure knew how to show off a new side of Marie, whose smile persisted as her gaze shifted from the fur ball in her arms to an antique typewriter on the shelf in front of her, and back to him.

  “This is Seth Sloane.”

  “Aretha Franklin. No relation to the singer.” She reached around Marie and grabbed his hand, shaking it hard. Her eyebrows bounced, and he got the feeling that if she were twenty years younger, her whole body would have been bouncing. “You’re new to the area—well, nearly everyone is new next to an old-timer like me. But I’ve seen you at First Church, haven’t I?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He’d probably seen her at the church too. After all, there were only about a hundred people in attendance on any given Sunday, and he and Jack had been faithfully attending since before the New Year. But unlike her, he stuck out like a thistle in a rose garden. The average age of church members in the area was well over sixty, and most of them looked just like Aretha.

  Thankfully he wasn’t on the island to make new friends his own age. He was there for Jack, and it was good for Jack to connect with his peers. There were plenty of them at First Church of Rustico.

  Besides, the fewer young people he met, the less likely he was to meet single young women hoping for more than he could offer.

  Aretha’s gaze swept over him, and an unheeded chuckle rose from deep in his stomach. He turned his head to cover it with a cough, but his shoulders still shook.

  He had a feeling that if she were thirty years younger, he’d have had to worry about her more than the other women in town.

  Marie shot him a glance filled with questions, but Aretha asked hers first.

  “So what brings you back so soon? Is everything all right with the map?”

  “It’s perfect,” he said. “Jack loved it.”

  Aretha’s face shone with delight. Marie’s just filled with more questions. He could only offer a lift of his shoulder and half a smile in response. No need to let Aretha in on his rotten behavior.

  “Marie had an idea for decorating every guest room in the inn with a unique piece, so we’re back to see what you’ve got.” For reasons he couldn’t begin to identify, he dug into his pocket and pulled out Jack’s small-business credit card, waving it slightly. “Jack sent me with the money, so let’s get started.”

  “Oh, I have some fabulous ideas!” Aretha clapped her hands, sending Chapter, who was apparently tired of being ignored, jumping to the ground and disappearing beneath a desk.

  A phone rang from the back of the room. “I’ll be right back. Start looking, you two,” Aretha called, already vanishing at the end of the row.

  “Thank you.” Marie glanced at him, then quickly back at the round keys of the typewriter.

  “For what?” He already knew, but he wanted to hear her say it, wanted to hear her say he’d rescued her.

  She couldn’t meet his gaze as she whispered, “You could have told her how stupid I’d been, promising to buy things when I didn’t have any right to.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Their first civil exchange. No slams. No teasing. No scowling. They’d managed to speak politely to each other for three whole minutes.

  Jack would be pleased with the progress. It wasn’t exactly butter-covered lobster tail, but it was better than three hours ago.

  And if Marie didn’t hate him, it made keeping an eye on her all that much easier.

  Who knew? If she smiled at him every now and then like she was grinning at the typewriter, sticking by her side might not be as miserable as he’d thought.

  Marie wanted that Underwood typewriter. The black one shining in the light coming through the window across the store. The one with the round keys and worn letters from years—probably decades—of use.

  She ran a finger along its cool edge. What had been typed on this machine? Had someone written a book or a story on it, hoping to replicate the literary magic of L. M. Montgomery’s island tales?

  “So where do you want to start?”

  Seth’s question jerked her from the image in her mind of Maud Montgomery’s protégé at work on a masterpiece, her story taking shape one keystroke at a time.

  “What do you think about making one of the rooms into a book lover’s retreat?”

  His brows knit together. “Doesn’t that kind of limit the type of guests we could invite?”

  “Oh, it’s not just for people who love books. It’s for anyone who needs a retreat, but we’ll use pieces like this typewriter and maybe an old secretary desk and lots of old leather-bound books.” Her voice rose with each word until she rested her folded hands under her chin. “Can’t you just picture it?”

  His grimace told her that he most definitely could not picture it.

  But she could make him see it. “Stories are part of the island’s heritage. We could theme every room around part of the history. Like the ocean and lobster fishing and . . . and . . .” Clearly she needed to do a bit more research on PEI.

  “And potatoes.”

  “Potatoes?”

  “Sure. There’s a potato museum toward the West
Point Lighthouse. I think Irish immigrants brought them over a hundred years ago.” His face remained completely passive as he pointed in the general direction of the museum. “I think a potato room is a great idea.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly . . .” She bit her lip and stared at her hands. He couldn’t be serious. What color brown would the walls be? Would the mattress be lumpy and the comforter made out of potato sacks? And they’d have to put pitchforks in the corner next to the bed.

  Laughter erupted from somewhere deep inside him, rattling the glass panes of the hutch that he leaned into for support. The guffaws kept coming. “Did you think I was serious?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. When it was clear he didn’t believe her, she walked away in the direction Aretha had gone. The older woman was bound to like her idea and could certainly give her more background on the island.

  Seth’s laughter followed her from aisle to aisle, rubbing every one of her nerves raw. How was she supposed to know about the grand history of potatoes? All she knew about the island she’d learned from reading about a redheaded orphan.

  That didn’t give him the right to tease her. The most he knew about the ocean was probably surfing the Pacific. At least she’d been born and raised on the Atlantic seaboard.

  Well, he could tease her all he liked. Her idea was a good one. She’d always had an eye for trimming a house. At least that was what her mother’s best friend and interior designer Georgiana McWilliams had always said. When Georgiana had decorated their beach house at the Cape, she’d asked Marie to help.

  Seth might be too thickheaded to know it, but he and Jack needed her.

  At least Jack knew it.

  As she approached the counter where Aretha stood, Seth’s chuckles finally died out.

  Aretha hung up her phone, a broad smile wrinkling her features. “Did you find some things you like?”

  “I was thinking about using writing-related pieces for one of the rooms.”

  “Honey, I have the most beautiful Underwood typewriter.”

  Marie nodded enthusiastically. “I saw it. And I was thinking about some vintage books and maybe an old wooden secretary to go with it. Any ideas?”