Greta
Sissy Sutton. Even her name was utter nonsense. Don’t even get her started on her handle, @savvysissy. (So Greta had looked her up. So what?) From her ridiculous kitten heel shoes (No onewore heels on the Cape. Espadrilles, yes. Wedges, sure. Heels? Never.) to that frilly frock of a dress that barely covered her ass when she threw herself at Oliver to that giant chunk of ice on her ring finger. But the worst was what she’d called him:Ollie!
The Suttons would be arriving in two days, and shipments were already blocking up her cooler, her wine fridge, and her pantry. If that weren’t enough, the inn was still full of seasonal guests and Harvest booked each night. That morning Sissy’s florist had come in from Hyannis to inspect the dining room layout. When she sailed into the kitchen and asked Greta how much refrigerator space she’d have access to for storage, Greta walked into the cooler and closed the door. She still had no idea what Linus told the woman.
“Where am I supposed to put all this?” she shouted to no one in particular as she navigated crates of champagne that hadbeen delivered and left right in the middle of her prep area. She kicked a crate with her Croc.
Paul feigned deep interest in his brussels sprouts at the prep station. Linus, who was adding to the kitchen congestion at the espresso machine, wanted in.
“Ooh. What kind of champagne?”
“God knows,” Greta said, glad for a grouse partner even if it was Linus. “They didn’t even bother to ask me about pairings. Sissy probably ordered some pricey crap that doesn’t go with anything on the menu.”
“Let’s find out.”
“Let’s not.” But Linus was already prying open the lid of the nearest box.
He retrieved a bottle. “Huh.”
“What?” Now she needed to know. “Show me.”
Warily, Linus turned the label her way.Dom Pérignon Rosé.
“Oh, come on!”
The door swung open and Holly joined them, sidestepping through the boxes. “What’s going on?”
“Champagne problems,” Linus said. He held the bottle out.
Holly let out a low whistle. “What’s this vintage cost per bottle?”
Linus was already scrolling. “Oh my.” He looked at Greta warily.
“About five hundred,” she answered for him. Well. At least the champagne selection wouldn’t screw up her menu. Now she had to make sure she didn’t, either.
Yesterday, when Sissy Sutton had finally let go of Oliver’s neck, he’d stumbled back for a better look at her. Theexpression that followed had haunted Greta ever since. Wide-eyed wonder.
For the second time that week, Greta was doomed. And it had all taken place in her kitchen.
“Ollie, what are you doing here?” Sissy asked, as if he were the guest in her place of work. “My God, it’s been…”
“One year and five months,” he’d replied too quickly. As if Oliver were a recovering addict counting his days of sobriety. Or had it been Ollie? Greta wasn’t sure who the hell had answered Sissy’s question, but it wasn’t the Oliver Owens she knew.
Holly and Linus had quickly vaporized for the same reason Greta had wanted to. They were all privy to a clearly private moment. Only Greta had nowhere to go, so she’d been forced to abandon her own kitchen and go outside and climb in her car and turn on the AC. From the staff parking lot she had full view of her kitchen door to the side yard. Oliver only ever used that door. Only this time he didn’t. Not for sixteen and a half minutes more, talk about an addict keeping count.
When she’d gone back into her kitchen, there was no sign of Oliver. Not as she pushed through dinner prep. Not even later, as she wiped down the kitchen and returned clean pots to their hangers and utensils to their drawers. His truck was still in the parking lot, but he was nowhere to be seen. When Holly came in to say good night, she studied Greta. “Big day, today,” she said, and it took Greta a moment to realize she’d meant the tasting. “You outdid yourself, and I really think you saved the Sutton reservation for us.”
The sad truth was Greta wished she had never seen Sissy Sutton. She certainly didn’t want credit for “saving” theirreservation the upcoming weekend. Why had she called Oliver into the kitchen to hear Sissy’s praise in the first place? If she hadn’t, he might have walked right by the window and kept going about his business, and Sissy would have gotten in her car and driven herself all the way back to Boston, none the wiser that Oliver (Ollie) Owens was at the Cranberry.
Now, as they navigated Sissy’s boxes of wedding crap, Greta steeled herself. She’d not seen or spoken to Oliver since, but she was a professional. She had a job to do. And she was not going to let any man, with or without an opossum or the best Krim tomatoes she’d ever tasted or the most ethereal brown eyes get in the way.
In addition to the champagne the Suttons had sent over, there was a slew of other boxes of liquor ordered for the wedding weekend. “Isn’t the rehearsal dinner for just thirty people?” Linus asked, following Greta down the hall to the library. “There’s enough booze here for a semester in a frat house.”
“Apparently we are the family hub for the weekend.”
They stacked the liquor boxes and several containers of nonperishables in the library against one of the empty bookshelves. “Good thing Sissy didn’t see this room,” Linus said. “She’d want it redone and used for a bridal brunch.”
Holly smiled. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. It’s the perfect space for private parties.” Then, “What I’d love to do is get these bookcases refinished and filled so I could host a book club or an author event here. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
