“The police?” Now she looked like she might cry.
“Just take him away, please,” Ezra said, feeling a little bit bad. “And leave me to my peace.”
“My name is Holly,” the woman said, extending her hand and closing the distance between them. Which meant the dog did, too.
“Please. Keep the animal back.”
Thankfully, she stopped. But not the talking part. “Holly Goodwin,” she went on. “I run the inn next door, the Cranberry House. And this is Bruce.”
Ezra glanced sideways at Bruce who (was this possible?) had the gall to smile at him. “Bruce is our inn dog, and he loves everybody. Again, I amso sorryhe got loose, and I assure you it won’t happen again. If you’ll please allow me to make up for your scare, I’d like to…”
“There was no scare,” Ezra insisted, straightening.
“Still, I’d like to offer you dinner. Compliments of the Cranberry. We have a fabulous chef—Greta—who puts her own Scandinavian twist on things. Everyone loves her food. And I think you might, too.”
“You can’t begin to know what I like,” Ezra said, crossing his arms. It was only morning and already he was finished with this day: The news from his daughter, Amy. The canine assault. And now Holly and Bruce standing in his yard, smiling, intruders both of them.
“I recommend her cucumber-dill gazpacho,” Holly went on, undeterred. “It’s legendary.”
At the mention of gazpacho, Ezra’s heart skipped another wonky beat. He put a hand to it. Gazpacho was Rachel’s summer specialty—now,thatwas legendary. With tomatoes fresh fromtheir side garden and garlic from the farmer’s market. Her secret ingredient was basil. Just recalling it, the bright taste of basil filled his senses. As did the memory of Rachel’s face, watching him as he savored the first bite. Rachel, sitting across from him at the kitchen table, as if she’d be seated across from him every night for the rest of his life. His heart calmed.
“Pick any night you’d like to come, and ask for me: Holly. I will take care of you.”
Ezra felt his insides soften. When was the last time anyone had offered to take care of him?
He dared a last look at the dog. “Will he be there?”
Holly shrugged sheepishly. “Yes. But I can keep him in my office during your meal, if that would make you more comfortable.”
“Well.” Ezra did not commit. Nor did he thank her. His morning was ripe with affronts enough.
To her credit, Holly steered her beast back toward the woods and led him away. “We look forward to seeing you,” she called, smiling over her shoulder one last time. “Big fat apologies, once again.”
Big fat apologies! For the rest of the day, there was no sight or sound of the young woman or the beast. Ezra puttered about the house. He waited for his painting to dry. Later, he made one of his two usual dinners: grilled chicken, a small salad, and a piece of bread. It was marginally more interesting than his other usual: scrambled eggs on toast. As Ezra ate his meal, a little tasteless and a lot dry, his thoughts drifted across the yard and through the woods to the Cranberry House next door. He found himself thinking about the Swedish chef’s legendary gazpacho. Before he slipped into sleep that night, he wondered what the dill twist tasted like.
Holly
What were you thinking?” she huffed, tugging Bruce through the small wooded plot separating the inn from the neighbor.Assaultedneighbor, he’d proclaimed. Bruce panted happily beside her, his pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Holly understood her neighbor’s consternation. Bruce was a giant, and he’d not exactly been invited. She’d been so upset she’d forgotten to ask the poor neighbor’s name. So far, opening day was not going as planned.
Back inside her assistant manager, Linus, was practically levitating as he waited for her at the lip of the marble entryway, his brow furrowed in contrast to his perfectly pressed linen jacket. “I cannot work under these conditions.”
Holly would indulge him on opening day; Linus was now her right-hand man, hired years ago out of Cornell University’s distinguished hospitality program by Francine, a fact he rarely let them forget. “Which conditions are those?” she asked him warily.
With Linus struggling to keep pace she hurried through the lobby, past the elegant brass stand housing complimentaryumbrellas, past the oversized vase of blue hydrangeas on the Duncan Phyfe pedestal table, pausing only at the pitcher of cucumber-and-mint water for a quick refresher (perfect!), before arriving at the demilune antique desk dubbedthe command centerwhere they would soon check in their first guests. She stopped only to let Bruce off his leash. “Please keep the screen closed,” she said, nodding to the entryway. “He’s chosen today to turn into a runner.” Then, “You were saying?”
Not to be deterred by runaway dogs or Holly’s hurry, Linus cleared his throat dramatically. “You need to speak to her.”
Holly knew exactly whichherhe was referring to: his nemesis, Greta. “What is it this time?”
“She wants to do a welcome charcuterie for guests.”
Holly flicked through the reservations book, half listening. “Sounds welcoming.”
“Sounds like a public food trough.” Linus made a small gagging noise in his throat for effect.
Ignoring this, Holly counted the requests for early check-in. There were two: the Henderson family and the Russos. She checked her watch.
“What about my ideas for mini clam chowder cups?” he pressed. “Or oysters on the half shell?”
