“That,” she said, returning her attention to her cutting board, “is tonight’s dinner menu.”
Linus jabbed a finger at the entrée special. “This looks like stroganoff.”
“It is not stroganoff.”
“It sounds like stroganoff. I bet it tastes like stroganoff. May I remind you, it issummeron theCapeand our guests expect modern coastal fare? Not 1970s Swedish meatballs.”
Greta paused in her humming. “First, stroganoff is Russian, not Swedish. Second, this dish is sausage, not beef. And as far as I can tell”—here she looked right at him—“there are noballs.”
Linus’s nostrils flared. She would never admit that the sausage, tomato, and cream dishwasbased on the traditional Russian dish… with a few of her own tweaks.
The kitchen door swung open again. “I love the sound of this sausage dish!” Holly said, holding up her own copy of the menu.
Greta beamed. Of course she’d elevated the dish for the inn’s menu. Artisanal pork sausage from the Harwich Port farmer’smarket, crème fraîche, and herbs from their garden for the sauce. All of which would be served on truffle-infused rice and alongside Oliver’s latest batch of gorgeous asparagus. “Thank you,” she said, as Linus made a huffy exit. Then, “Truthfully, I’m a little nervous to hear what our diners think. I know it’s not typical Cape fare.”
“Which is why they come here,” Holly said, winking.
If Francine had offered Greta a warm welcome and free rein of the kitchen, her granddaughter was proving that the apple didn’t fall far. It was a relief. Admittedly, Greta hadn’t known what to expect when Holly returned that winter fresh out of graduate school. None of the staff had, and it had sent a flutter of misgivings through the tranquility of the old inn. Having Holly join them for a few weeks each summer was one thing; having her return as innkeeper was another thing altogether.
The change of guard wasn’t a huge surprise. As much as everyone loved working with Francine,and they really did, it was becoming clear it was too much for her. Even with a seasoned staff surrounding her, Francine was pushing eighty. Far past the retirement age of all her friends, like Bee, with whom she was (mostly) staying now. Bee, who often came by the restaurant or to sit on the porch with Francine, used to tease her all the time. “Good grief, Franny. They’re going to carry you out in a pine box and send you out to sea.” Greta didn’t disagree. She also understood; the inn was not just a business to Francine. It was her home, the place she’d first raised her son, Holly’s father, and later, welcomed Holly each summer. It was where she and her late husband had run a business as well as a home, in a setting so vivid and so invigorating, it was no wonder she didn’t want to let it go.
“If Holly decides she wants this place, then all the better,” Francine had confided in Greta that past winter. They were enjoying mulled cider by the fire after the restaurant had emptied, a luxury the offseason afforded them.
“Are you thinking of retiring?” Greta had ventured. The last thing she wanted to do was insult Francine.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been lucky, I suppose, with good health and even better people to work with.” She’d smiled fondly at Greta. “But I do wonder if it’s time. It would be nice to have a summer off at the beach, like the rest of them.”
She’d paused then, a serious look clouding her expression. Greta knew right away that there was something more; more than aging or passing on the reins.
“Are there other plans you’re considering?” Greta had asked.
Francine had opened her mouth, as if to say more, but then shut it abruptly. Too abruptly for Greta’s convincing. “No, no, dear. Just hard to imagine a next chapter.”
Around that same time, Francine had taken a meeting with a man who strode into the inn wearing a long dark trench coat and a salesman’s expression. “Would you please bring coffee and scones to the sunroom?” Francine had asked Greta. “I have a meeting.”
The meeting went long: soon Francine requested sandwiches and soup, and it ended with her giving the gentleman a tour of the upstairs, which Greta found curious. She watched them through the back kitchen window as he surveyed the dormant garden, all under an inch of snow at the time. His face was serious and unappreciative; Francine’s was drawn.
About a week later, Francine took a call at the front desk, just outside the swinging kitchen door. It was impossible notto overhear, the inn being so quiet that time of year. “I’m not interested in selling after all,” Francine said.
Selling! Greta knew that business had been slowing and she’d noticed Francine slowing, too. But never before had the idea of selling come up. A panic rose in her chest as she went to the kitchen door and pressed her ear to it.
“Your offer is generous,” Francine was saying, “but I’m sorry, Mr. Sullio. I’m just not ready.”
Sullio. Greta recognized the name, but she couldn’t pin it down. Francine had declined his offer, at least for now, but the fresh fear stayed with Greta. A few days later, driving to Orleans for a shopping trip, she saw it on a roadside sign:SULLIO DEVELOPERS. There on the sign was the man in the black suit who’d been at the inn. Suddenly it felt more ominous.
For the first time since arriving in Chatham, Greta’s newfound home felt threatened. It was a cold wind from her childhood blowing back into her life. A sobering reminder that the stable foundation you cobble together, stone by stone, can still be shaken by an outside hand. As with her father’s leaving, and her professor’s assault, Greta found herself freshly embittered at the thought that someone else could change the course of her hard-fought success. If Francine sold the inn to a developer, there would be no more inn. There would be no more Harvest bistro.
Finally she got up the nerve to approach Francine. It was a quiet day, and she found her in the parlor by the fireplace. Greta brought tea for both of them.
“What a treat,” Francine said appreciatively. But there was no hiding the tiredness in her expression.
“Are you feeling alright?” Greta asked.
Francine shrugged. “Just a spat of the winter doldrums, I guess.” She looked around. “It’s especially quiet this year, isn’t it?”
It was all the lead-in Greta needed. “I wanted to ask you about a guest you had recently,” she said, taking the wingback chair beside Francine’s. “A Mr. Sullio?”
Francine had looked surprised to hear his name come out of her chef’s mouth.
