Love on the Sound Page 6

  “Look, we need to do something, because right now I couldn’t get you a part on a local cable access TV show, let alone another film. The offers weren’t exactly pouring in before this. Meet me at my office tomorrow morning. I’ll call Lissa,” he said, referring to Ben’s publicist. “And, Kendra. We’ll figure this out. Meanwhile, just stay put.”

  “I don’t have a choice; reporters are camped out in front of my gate.”

  “Don’t say a damn word to them. Stay in the house, and be at my office at 8:00 a.m.”

  Ben hung up and scrubbed his face with his hands. He sat back and watched the muted TV, which was playing the footage of his interview yet again. Without the sound, the sloppiness of his hand gestures were accentuated, his unfocused gaze sending out a “lights are on but no one’s home” message. When it came to the part where he got up on the table to dance, his mind flashed back to a memory of his father, breath reeking of whisky, twirling his mother around in a drunken dance, while she struggled against his iron grip. Unsteady, he leaned on her, his weight throwing her off balance, and they careened into the furniture, lurched against the wall, his mother screaming at him to get his fucking drunk hands off of her. Ben, ten at the time, had watched from the doorway unseen as his father finally shoved her away and weaved out the front door, no doubt to get right back into his car and to the bar. He died three years later, while driving drunkenly down the highway at 90 miles an hour. He lost control and careened across the median into a family in their minivan. The family’s van flipped over and caught fire. No one survived.

  Ben looked at the TV and saw his father in the soft line of his jaw, the hard, bitter smile, in the way the woman anchor recoiled away from him in disgust. His hands began to shake ever so slightly, and he abruptly turned the TV off. He forced himself to take deep, calming breaths until the tremors stopped, and then he just sat there, wondering what to do next.

  His stomach felt raw and empty, and he realized it had been almost 24 hours since he’d had anything to eat. In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and peered inside. Cans of beer lined the top shelf. The second shelf held a few moldy packs of cheese, along with a carton of eggs that had expired two weeks ago. Three unidentifiable take out containers huddled together on the bottom shelf. Ben leaned against the door and let the cold air wash over him while he took stock. The fridge, he had to admit, was beyond pathetic. The cupboards yielded a few cans of soup and some chips.

  He rummaged in one of the drawers for the menu for the Chinese take out place, then stopped. Whoever delivered would have to wade through the mass of reporters. And while the mainstream media would know that past the gate was private property, some of the paparazzi wouldn’t hesitate to try to sneak in the grounds. Not to mention, he could envision the delivery kid grilled ruthlessly and the ensuing headlines, “Alcoholic former movie star drowns sorrows in egg rolls.”

  Slamming the drawer closed, Ben closed his eyes and tried to fight back the anger washing over him. What kind of fucking life was this? He couldn’t even get dinner. He went to work to a job that he had once loved, and now…he hated it. He realized he was glad that he’d been fired. No longer would he have to stand in front of the sea of bright lights, people swarming all around him, while he pretended to be someone he was not. He wanted to go to the fucking grocery store without being followed by cameras.

  He would go to the meeting tomorrow held by the people that were managing his career, and what did he have to say? He searched his mind, and came up with nothing. Nothing, except the image of his father melding into the image of his now infamous coffee table dance. Ben thought of his fridge, the only edible content of which was alcohol and sank down onto one of the stools, resting his hands on the cool tile of the island. He saw his future, as clear as if it had already happened. He would go to the meeting and do what Mike told him to do. He would go the talk show route and be exhaustingly charming, funny and contrite. He would do movie after movie, forever grasping for that one big role that was always just out of reach. He had become a product, churning out profits for himself, sure, but also for those around him.

  Outside, the light slowly darkened while he sat motionless, head propped in his hands. The sky was full dark by the time he got up. He knew what he had to do, and now that the decision had been made, he felt freer, lighter, than he had in years. He booted up his computer and sat for a minute. The security firm he’d hired a few years ago had told him about a place—an isolated island, a part of the chain of the San Juan Islands, off the beaten tourist track. A great place to relax and close enough that he could sail to Seattle if he wanted to get back to civilization. He searched his memory and frowned. Lopez? Sure enough, when he searched for Lopez Island, it popped up—a small mound of green surrounded by brilliant blue, choppy water. Ben smiled. It was perfect.

  Chapter 4

  As the sun peeked above the edge of the horizon, the gentle waves of Lopez Sound began to brighten from gunmetal gray to a deep midnight blue. Low lying fog still hugged the grassy lawn that sloped down to the rocky beach—another sign of the coming autumn. Amy huddled against the dawn’s chill in the Adirondack chair on the back porch, a mug of steaming tea in her hands, her bare feet tucked under her. The splash of the waves against the beach below, the cries of seagulls, the slight breeze sending the evergreen trees swaying, and the Sound, empty save a few determined fishermen—she breathed it all in, content down to her very bones. In these few early morning moments, the day was hers and hers alone. And to think she used to hate mornings. Amy smiled to herself and uncurled her legs, stretching them out before her.

  She drew in a final bracing breath—the air was definitely getting what she thought of as the back-to-school chill—before getting up and heading into the kitchen. It was the Henderson’s last day, which meant they would either be up even earlier than usual, or they would, for once, sleep past nine. Given the couple’s almost fanatical love of hiking—they had exhausted every trail on Lopez Island and Shaw Island already in their previous four days—she’d bet they’d be up early. All five of the remaining rooms were booked for the long Labor Day weekend.

  Amy unwrapped the pan of fresh cinnamon rolls made by Hannah at the bakery and slid them into the preheated oven. Their enticing smell would soon drift out and up to the rest of the inn. Her guests had placed their breakfast orders the night before, and she quickly reviewed the slips of paper tacked on the bulletin board next to the sink—two orders eggs sunnyside and hash, four orders veggie scrambles, two orders pancakes, one cheese omelet, three opting for just the cinnamon roll and a fruit salad. The fruit salad had to wait as it was for the little four-year-old girl in room six. Erin was severely allergic to dairy products—the slightest contact could result in her airways swelling up within moments. Her mother, Janna, preferred to visit the kitchen and supervise the cooking. It was clearly the family’s first trip of any significance where they’d had Erin’s allergies to contend with, and Amy had been pretty damn nervous herself. It was the kind of situation she hadn’t envisioned when she took the plunge from HR professional to owner of the On the Sound Bed and Breakfast. However, Amy mused as she cracked open several eggs into a bowl and beat them vigorously with a sprinkling of fresh herbs, it had turned out pretty well, if she did say so herself. Not only had she notified all the guests of Erin’s allergy, but she also had notified the restaurants and cafes in the village to be prepared for the family. Judging from the family’s increasingly relaxed and happy expressions, she guessed that she’d won them over, and they’d be returning to the inn.

  Setting the eggs aside, she pulled from the fridge the tray of vegetables she’d cut up the night before, along with the blanched and shredded potatoes. She dumped the ingredients for pancakes into the industrial mixer. Windows lined the back of the kitchen, looking out over the back porch and down to the sea. While the mixer whirred, she checked off her to do list in her head. The sun was higher in the sky, setting the water in the Sound to sparkling and the early morning light r
eflected off the kitchen walls, painted a bright, sunny yellow.

  When she turned the mixer off, she heard a quick series of creaks and tiny footfalls down the main staircase—Erin, Amy guessed, followed by the heavier, cautious tread of Janna. Sure enough, she heard Janna admonishing Erin to be quiet, people were sleeping. Amy turned to greet her guests with a smile.

  “Good morning,” she said as Erin tripped in.

  “Remember, don’t touch anything.” Janna’s voice trailed down the hall. She gave her customary harried smile as she crossed the threshold, crayons and coloring book in hand. “We’re early birds today. I hope it’s not any trouble.”

  “Not at all,” Amy assured her. “All the dairy prep has been done on the counter. The banquette is safe, if you want to take a seat.”

  She gestured towards the booth and table set into the wall at the far end of the kitchen, overlooking the view out to the Sound.

  “Thanks.” Janna steered Erin over to the booth and set up the little girl with her coloring supplies. “Bob was just getting up when we came down, so he’ll be a while yet. I’ll just wait till he comes down before breakfast, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure. Erin, are you hungry?” she called over to the girl as she efficiently stretched plastic wrap over the pancake batter, leaving it to rest.

  “Yes,” Erin said. “I’m the most starving I’ve ever been.”

  Amy chuckled. “Well, we can’t have that, now can we?”

  She washed her hands thoroughly at the kitchen sink and then pulled out a clean towel from the linen drawer to dry her hands. She’d specifically set aside the fruit she’d use in Erin’s salad in a paper sack in the pantry so that it wouldn’t come in contact with any other ingredients.

  “Oh, crap,” she muttered as she caught a glimpse of the bag of coffee beans on the shelf above, momentarily forgetting she had an audience.

  “Anything wrong?” Janna called from her spot on a stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen. She was comfortable enough now that she’d taken to heart Amy’s many offers to make herself at home and had poured herself a mug of hot water for her tea.

  Amy smiled sheepishly as she came out of the pantry. “No, sorry. I just forgot to start the coffee. It’s a mental block with me, for some reason. So, it’s a good thing Bob’s not up yet.”

  Janna laughed. “He’s the worst about that. You should see him on those rare times when he can’t have coffee first thing. He just sits there at the kitchen table, like this.” She hunched over her mug and let her face go slack, her eyes glazed and staring.

  “Like a slub,” piped up Erin cheerfully, swinging her legs as she streaked her crayon across the page.

  “Slug, honey. Daddy’s like a slug,” corrected Janna.

  Amy measured out the coffee beans for grinding, amused, but also feeling a pang at Janna’s easy affection for her husband. As always, the ache of missing Kevin snuck up on her, less sharp than it had been in the early years, but still there. And, not just Kevin, but those intimate moments that came with being married. She’d found the love of her life once, Amy reminded herself. It wasn’t going to happen again.

  Briskly, she pulled out an antibacterial cleaning cloth from the tub over the sink and wiped down the counter on the island, then pulled a clean cutting board from the cabinet. She scrubbed all the fruit and began chopping with practiced movements. Janna let out a sigh.

  “I can’t believe it’s Friday already. The week has just flown by. Really, Amy, I can’t thank you enough. I haven’t had this relaxing of a vacation since…well, since Erin was born,” she admitted.

  “I’m glad,” Amy said and shot her a grin. “This is the part where I tell you that you’ll have to come back every summer. And, stay for two weeks next time. Oh, and don’t forget to tell your friends. Spread the word.”

  “You can count on it,” Janna said fervently.

  Amy tilted the fruit into a large bowl and tossed it with a generous dash of lemon juice, a sprinkle of sugar.

  “How long have you owned the inn?” asked Janna.

  “I’ve been running it for about three years now,” Amy answered as she scooped out a serving of the salad into a yellow bowl dotted with butterflies. Three years. It was hard to believe that she’d been on the Island that long. She could still remember the day she’d driven off the ferry in the U-Haul, all her worldly possessions boxed in the back, her knuckles white with tension, tempted to turn the truck around and head right back onto the boat.

  Janna reached out a hand for the bowl. “Really? You seem like an old pro. Did you run a B&B somewhere else before this?”

  Amy cleaned off the cutting board and shook her head. Upstairs, the floorboards creaked in the hallway, and she eyed the coffee, which had finished brewing just in time. “No, I worked in human relations before,” she said to Janna, twisting the top off of the coffee carafe. She poured the hot liquid into the serving carafe and inhaled the bitter smell, which she loved even though she didn’t like the taste. “My husband and I inherited the property from his great-aunt, who had lived here and ran On the Sound her whole life. When he passed away, I came up here for a visit, intending to sell it. I fell in love instead.

  “The rest, as they say, is history,” she said with a bright smile, to forestall any sympathetic comment that Janna might have been about to make about Kevin. She reached into the fridge for the creamer and poured it into the silver serving container. She stacked the coffee, cream, sugar, and cups onto the filigreed silver tray she’d found at an estate sale in Seattle for a song—once she’d cleaned off the years of tarnish, the silver gleamed warmly, and it had just the right heft. “How’s the fruit salad, hon?” she asked Erin as she lifted the tray.

  “Good,” Erin said, shoveling bites into her mouth with one hand and continuing to color with the other.

  “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make sure none of my other guests turn into slugs like your dad and get them some coffee.” She winked at Erin and headed out into the sitting room, where, as she’d suspected, the Hendersons had settled in at their usual spot by the fireplace with the local paper divided between them.

  “Good morning!” she called out. “How did you sleep last night?”

  “Like a rock.” Richard, ever the gentleman, sprang up to take the tray out of her hands and set it on the coffee table. From the looks of it, they were ready to embark on another day of hiking—both had on their well-worn hiking boots, and Martha was swapping out one of the lenses on her camera.

  “That smells wonderful.” Martha beamed at her. “Is there any chance we could talk you into making us some sandwiches to take with us today?”

  “Of course.” Amy hurried back to the kitchen to start their breakfast, and smiled as she heard more footsteps coming down the stairs. The creaking of the old building and the hum of voices, murmured conversations and clinking silverware combined in the song she’d come to love, the song of On the Sound beginning to come alive around her. She pulled out a frying pan, snapped on the gas heat and jumped into the song, adding the sizzle and crackle of hash browns to the chorus.

  The next two hours flew by in a blur of eggs, pancakes, coffee, small talk, box lunches and sightseeing suggestions. When all of her guests had left for the day, or a few hours, at least, Amy stripped all the beds, then hurried down to the basement to start the first load of laundry. Next she tackled the mountain of dirty dishes. The dishwasher and sink were ideally located underneath the wide windows that overlooked the sea, so that she could watch the sun sparkling off the water and try to guess whose boats were whose as she tackled the mundane chore.

  She had no problem getting in her 10,000 steps every day, she thought as she walked back up to the second floor. She went through each of the rooms, remaking the beds with fresh sheets and restocking the bathrooms with fresh towels. Each room was decorated with a different color theme, which had also made it easier for her to shop for the vintage quilts and furnishings. She’d lucked out with this bat
ch of guests. None of them were particularly messy, so she really only had to straighten up a bit and wipe down the showers and counters. Even so, she was well into the lunch hour before she’d finished.

  No guests had returned yet, but Amy guessed that Janna and Erin would be back in an hour or so for Erin’s nap. Her stomach growled, and she checked on the laundry before making a quick sandwich for herself. Plate in hand, she opened the door next to the pantry, which opened up to a private staircase that led up to the third floor. She had knocked out a wall between two rooms to make an apartment for herself. One room served as storage space for some boxes left over from Kevin’s great aunt Amelia’s effects, a few old lamps that needed repairing, and pieces of furniture Amy had picked up at estate or garage sales that needed refinishing. Two rooms remained empty—possible future guest rooms, but she hadn’t had the funds to renovate them when she opened On the Sound.

  The stairway opened up into the hallway in-between her quarters and the room she was using as her office. Amy bypassed her rooms and headed straight into her office, which was located on the north end of the house, overlooking the front gardens. Walls painted deep blue added cheer to the small room, along with the jaunty yellow and white striped curtains hanging from the windows. A cheap, assemble-it-yourself L-shaped desk hugged the corner, surrounded by windows. Amy had painted it a soft yellow. She hated doing the books and paperwork, and reasoned that the cheerier the room, the less dreary the task would be. Everything was ruthlessly tidy and organized, so that she wouldn’t be tempted to procrastinate by cleaning. To the left of the doorway, two dented filing cabinets held her paper records. The bookshelf to the right of the door held some photos of the Island sights, along with books about accounting and small businesses.

  Amy sat down in her cushioned chair, and took a bite of her sandwich while the computer booted up. She eyed the drooping plant that sat in the corner by the window next to her desk. What was it called? She didn’t know why gardeners insisted on using Latin names for everything, it made it so damn confusing. Her outdoor plant skills were improving, she thought, as she looked out over the lush lawn and late-summer blooms—mainly thanks to the shrewd advice of the local nursery owner she’d hired to help her and because she’d, for the most part, chosen plants that were either low maintenance, or her favorite so that she would be more motivated to care for them. Her indoor green thumb, though, that was another matter, Amy acknowledged, as she noticed the brown shriveled leaves scattered on the floor around the pot.