With no sign of Linus, he went to the only place he heard sounds of staffers: the swinging kitchen door. Unsure, Ezra rapped his knuckles against it. The voices and clatters went on. He pushed it ajar and peeked inside.
The kitchen was commercial, but not in that sleek stainless steel way of most restaurants that weren’t too far from an OR.This kitchen had a large butcher block island in the center with warm buttercream cabinetry that wrapped around it on all sides. The counters were some kind of dark granite, the stove a behemoth Viking range. To one side were two steel prep areas, with an assortment of pots and pans hanging from overhead racks. A side door with gingham curtains appeared to open to the yard. It resembled a kitchen you’d find in a private home, warm and inviting, only larger. A woman with a long blond braid and a red bandana worked at the sink, her back to him.
Ezra cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”
She turned from the pot she was scrubbing.
“Sorry to bother you. I was looking for Linus, but since I can’t find him, now I’m looking for buckets.”
“Buckets?” Her brow knit in confusion.
“Jars work. Or bowls, if that’s easier. I only need two.” Then for good measure, “Please.”
“Hang on. You’re a guest?”
“Apologies.” He stepped inside. “I’m Ezra, the neighbor. I’m here to help restore the mural in the parlor.”
This elicited a surprisingly generous grin. “I know who you are. You’re Bruce’s new friend.”
Hearing his name, Bruce barked.
“So it seems. You must be the chef who created that heavenly dinner I enjoyed a few nights ago.”
She ducked her chin. “Greta. Pleased to meet you.”
“Truly. That was quite a meal. Not only delicious, but…” He paused. “Reminiscent. Of so many things.”
“Really?” This seemed to surprise her.
“Really. It made me remember things I haven’t thought of in years.” Just saying it now stirred the childhood dust in hisbrain. “My grandmother, my childhood friend.” He stopped. “I’m getting off track. I was hoping to locate a container for a small amount of water.”
“You’re the reason Linus asked for jars. Will that do?”
As Greta retrieved the jars, a man appeared at the side door.
Greta’s face fell when she saw him.
“Just grabbing some formula,” the young man said, ducking past her for the fridge. He held a satchel around his shoulder.
“I can warm it for you?” Greta suggested. Ezra heard hopefulness in the offer. Too much of it, for his comfort.
“No worries,” the man said. He seemed in a hurry.
“Oliver, this is Ezra,” Greta said. “He’s painting the goldfinch for Holly.”
“Retouching,” Ezra began to explain, but Oliver’s gaze had fixed itself on Greta. Even from the door, Ezra could see the sad-eyed want in his eyes. He wondered if he should leave.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Oliver said, and then, as if the trance was broken, he quickly let himself out. All the oxygen in the kitchen seemed to follow.
“No bother,” Greta murmured in his wake. She looked down at the jars in her hands. Then, as if remembering him, back at Ezra. “Oh. Right. Here you go.” When she handed him the jars, he couldn’t help but notice the tremble in her hands.
“Thank you. For the jars and the dinner the other night.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, but her smile did not reach her eyes this time, and the result on him was surprisingly affecting.
Ezra left the kitchen, his senses once more overcome. The goings-on of the busy inn were one kind of distraction, but what he’d witnessed in the kitchen seemed a rather personal one. And none of it was any of his business, he reminded himself. Hewas there for one reason only; getting involved meant stirring emotions, and Ezra needed to avoid feeling anything for anyone except this project.
Fortunately, the parlor had emptied. The good beach weather was certainly to blame, but Ezra didn’t notice the high sun outside the window or the salt air breeze coming in through the bay window. So deep was his focus that he did not even notice Holly come up behind him.
