Love on the Sound Page 8

  There was a pause. “You may make the reservation for John Smith.”

  Amy didn’t bother to muffle her sigh this time. “I’m happy to put that name in the reservation system to maintain his privacy. However, I will be checking your employer’s ID when he arrives, and I need to know his real name. This is a security procedure that I need to follow to ensure the safety of my other guests.”

  “Oh, very well. The reservation is for Ben Morrison.”

  Amy’s jaw dropped, and so did her stomach. Oh, shit.

  “I see you now realize the need for the secrecy,” the woman noted, a smug tone now edging her voice as the silence stretched on.

  “Um, of course,” Amy replied, struggling not be flustered. And, then tried not to laugh when she realized her second reaction was, Well, damn. Should have charged more for the room.

  “Very well. Everything is arranged, then, yes?”

  “Yes, everything will be ready for Mr. Morrison upon his arrival on September 5th. Thank you for booking with On the Sound, and I hope he enjoys his stay,” Amy said, pulling herself together.

  As she hung up the phone, she wondered how Amelia would have handled it if one of People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People—who’d recently apparently gone off the deep end on national TV—arrived at the doorstep of On the Sound. Her first reaction, Amy thought, her lips curving, would have been to lock up the liquor cabinet. It was, she had to admit, a pretty damn good idea unless she wanted Mr. Hollywood belting out show tunes while dancing on the living room coffee table. She thought of reporters, paparazzi, and worst of all, movie star expectations and reached for the phone.

  But…eight weeks, and during the beginning of her slow season, too. No sense borrowing trouble, she told herself as she saved the reservation. Odds were high that he’d end up bored and leave after a few days. In the meantime, she had laundry that wasn’t going to do itself. And with that, she pushed her unexpected guest out of her mind.

  Chapter 5

  When the first day of school rolled around, Amy woke up with a hint of excitement and nerves leftover from her childhood. It didn’t matter how many years had passed since her school days, she still felt the urge to buy new notebooks, colored gel pens—purple were the best—and a hip, new backpack. And, she thought as she studied her closet, she really had a craving for a new outfit.

  Although new outfits went by the wayside in favor of the jasmine climbing her trellis, and the many rosebushes lining one side of her lawn—who knew plants could be so expensive—she needed to drive into town to stock up on supplies, which had the bonus of satisfying her urge to shop.

  She took the main staircase downstairs, pausing to run her hand over the glossy banister and to adjust the framed black and white photos of the inn from years past that lined the wall. The last of her guests had checked out yesterday, with none scheduled to arrive until Ben Morrison on Friday.

  By the end of the week she’d miss having guests around, she figured as she booted up the front desk computer and checked her e-mail. But for now, she contented herself with reviewing her to do list for the week: prepare the garden for fall, scrub the floors, flip mattresses, test out some new recipes. Maybe even clean out her own closet, sell some of her old clothes to the resale shop out at Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. Get that new outfit as a reward for a week of hard work.

  After all, she had to look nice for the movie star. Last night, when she picked out a movie to watch, a tradition for the first night when she found herself facing a stretch without guests, she’d decided on New Americans, the film that seemed to have been the highlight of her new guest’s career. Although she considered herself a movie buff, the film had come out around the time of Kevin’s death, and she’d never gotten around to seeing it. She’d expected the film to be good—it was Scorsese after all—but she hadn’t expected to completely forget while she was watching it that the man who was Sam O’Donnell, struggling, passionate Irish immigrant, had most recently been seen slurring his words and passing out on the Today show. His seeming fall from grace was big enough that even though she wasn’t much interested in reading or watching entertainment news, she’d heard rumors that his career was over. She felt a stir of pity for the man who’d had the bad luck to have a really bad day documented for all the world to see.

  About halfway through her inbox, she saw an email titled, “Mr. Morrison’s Reservation.” Opening it up, she skimmed to the bottom to the signature—Kendra Williams. Ah, the bitchy assistant. Scrolling back up to the top, she began reading. No hello, no how are you, no thank you for your help. Just, “Mr. Morrison instructs me to inform you that he requires the following items for the duration of his stay: Fresh fruit provided in his room daily, organic produce only. Bed linens with a thread count of at least 300. Down pillows. Fresh flowers daily on nightstand—no carnations, no daisies. iPod docking station, with Bose speaker system.”

  Amy scrolled down. Molton Brown Black Pepper Body Scrub. What the hell was that? Freshly ground coffee, beans from Peruvian mountains only. Her lips twitched when she saw the next item: extra large Trojan brand condoms—right, you’re huge, I get it—but the laugh bubbling up was squelched by the items afterwards: Twix candy bar daily, cut up into ½ inch squares, left on a plate outside his room at precisely 2:00 p.m.; shower curtain replaced daily, NOT just cleaned.

  And, then: “Mr. Morrison’s stay is for relaxation and rest, and he is not available for autographs, discussion of his film roles or inquiries into his private life. You will be instructed when your services are needed. Do not disturb Mr. Morrison until such time. Confirm your receipt of this message and your agreement with the above terms as soon as possible.”

  Amy started to type her reply, “Hell, no, I don’t agree.” She stared at the blinking cursor on the screen and took a deep breath, pressing her hands against her flushed cheeks to try to cool down. She was a professional, damn it, and she had to act like one. But, maybe not right this second, she decided as she skimmed the email again and felt her shoulders knot up. She closed out of the email and grabbed her purse before she changed her mind and called Kendra herself to tell Mr. Morrison exactly where he could shove his Twix candy bar, cut up into ½ inch squares.

  “You will be instructed when your services are needed, my ass,” she muttered as she closed the door behind her. She didn’t slam it, because it was the original door to the house with turn of the century stained glass panels, and it wasn’t worth damaging over a Hollywood has-been with a tiny penis complex and an aversion to non-Peruvian coffee. But, she did kick the gravel as she strode through the front lawn path to the garage.

  She didn’t slow down as she usually did to admire the view of the sea as she drove down the street. Out of habit, she waved at the bikers that she passed, but she found when she arrived at Lopez Village that she remembered little about the 15 minute drive across the island.

  She pulled up outside of Hannah Bobannas Bakery and was relieved to see the breakfast rush had passed. A few customers lingered inside the bakery—a tourist sat in one of the purple overstuffed armchairs by the unlit stone fireplace, sipping his cup of coffee and studying a guidebook, and Miley Justin, a local novelist, sat at one of the tables by the window, tapping away at her laptop. Amy lifted her hand in greeting when Miley looked up, and Miley nodded before going back to her work.

  “Hey, pretty lady. How’d the gooseberry tarts go over?” Hannah peered up from behind the display case, where she was sliding the breakfast pastries that remained aside to make room for freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Today, her glasses sported deep red frames around her cornflower blue eyes, and her blonde hair was plaited into two braids. Amy would never have paired the mannish vest and untucked white button down shirt Hannah was wearing with bright red plaid pants, but on Hannah, it worked.

  “My guests loved them,” Amy said, leaning back to study the display case. “And I would love that luscious looking blueberry muffin.”

  “Got some fun new loose-leaf
tea in yesterday—dried berries mixed with rosemary.” Hannah slid the muffin on a small china plate decorated with pink flowers and added a pat of butter.

  Amy drummed her fingers on the counter. “Nope, not in the mood for fancy today. Plain breakfast tea is good enough for me. Hey,” she said before Hannah left to pour the water. “Is your coffee from the Peruvian mountains?”

  Hannah raised an eyebrow. “No, we buy our beans from the shop in Friday Harbor that roasts them on-site, and they source them from Guatemala. Why?”

  “No reason.” Amy rolled her eyes. “Just some ridiculous high maintenance guest that requested it. But, I’m canceling his reservation so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Oooh, I thought you seemed pissed. Spill.” Hannah leaned on the counter, her blue eyes wide. “No wait—hold that thought. I’ll just get your tea, and I’ll join you with my non-Peruvian coffee.”

  “Well, I actually shouldn’t have said anything,” Amy said, feeling a twinge of guilt. Black pepper body scrub, she reminded herself.

  Hannah waved her arm. “That only intrigues me more. You don’t have to tell me his name, and you said he isn’t coming anyway, so what does it matter?”

  Amy hesitated. “I’m actually dying to tell someone,” she confessed.

  “Of course you are. Go, sit.” Hannah shoved the muffin towards her.

  Hannah plopped down across from her and slid the mug of steaming tea over. She let out a sigh and slipped her feet out of her shoes for a brief wiggle and stretch. “You first, and then I’ll tell you my horror story about the kayaker who screamed at me yesterday because he found sunflower seeds in his cookie.”

  “No.” Amy paused before taking a sip of her tea. “He didn’t.”

  “I assure you, he did. That’s pretty much the gist of the story, too, so I guess I was greedy and jumped in right ahead of you.” Hannah glanced over when the bell on the café door jingled, announcing the arrival of Nell Stewart, operator of one of the island chain’s two-seater plane touring outfits. “Hey, foxy lady. Nice haircut.”

  “Hey yourself. Don’t get up; I know what I want. Hi, Amy,” she added as she strode across the café and behind the counter. Her black hair, formerly chin length, had been cut short, pixie style, and framed her olive skinned face, setting off her full lips and calling out her cheekbones.

  “I want the coffee that’s set to ‘stun,’ not ‘kill,’” Nell said, talking around a mouthful of bran muffin.

  “Take the second pot, then. And, use a plate unless you want to sweep up those crumbs you’re spilling all over my clean floor. Come over, Amy needs a bitch session.”

  Nell shrugged, and balanced a plate on top of her coffee mug. She dragged a chair over with her free hand. Amy tried not to be envious of her long legs and size 4 body and the fact that she looked gorgeous with no makeup, faded and torn jeans and a loose flannel shirt.

  “Men? Tourists? Family?” She slouched in her chair. “I’m up for all of the above.”

  “One of my potential guests, whose eight week reservation I’m about to decline,” Amy said, tearing into her muffin.

  Hannah choked on her coffee, and Nell raised an eyebrow. “Girl, you’re crazy. You’re still a newbie,” she said with a glance at Hannah. “Wait till you’ve been through one of the Lopez winters with no guests for three months straight, and you’ll sing a different tune.”

  “I’ve been running the inn through three winters. So I’ve gotten the picture, thanks.”

  “Isn’t that annoying?” Hannah patted her hand. “It’s taken all five years that I’ve been here before people stopped calling this the new cafe.”

  Hannah and her husband Tom, the island’s resident contractor, visited the island five years ago on vacation and never left. She’d given up her career as a high school language arts teacher to start the café. And, Tom found he was much happier swinging a hammer and working as the island handyman than being a mechanical engineer

  “Anyway,” Amy said. “I get a call from this VIP’s secretary, who thought my inn was ‘roughing it’ but was going to be kind enough to make a reservation anyway, and oh, by the way, I need to keep the guest identity a secret from all you local yokels. I had to pry his name out of her with a crowbar.”

  Nell shrugged. “I get customers like that once in a while. One time one of the state senators came out to take a tour and was all pissy with me, like I was some dumb hick who wouldn’t bother to vote. So, I took him up and oops, I guess I didn’t realize that he didn’t want to do a few loop de loops. I think he peed himself.”

  Hannah kicked her. “This is Amy’s story; you’ll get your turn.”

  “You can take the teacher out of the classroom....” Nell rolled her eyes. “Still, I don’t think that sounds so bad.”

  “It wasn’t,” Amy agreed. “Obnoxious, but whatever. Eight weeks, right? But then, this morning, I get this e-mail from her.” She recounted the demands, and had the satisfaction of watching Nell’s eyes widen, and Hannah’s jaw drop.

  “You’ll be instructed when your services are needed?” Nell held up both her hands. “My bad, I take it all back. You need to kick her ass.”

  “That’s the worst part,” Hannah agreed. “The worst! Even if my coffee was from Peru, no way would I give it to that asshole.”

  “Dump it on him, maybe.” Nell shook her head. “I hate to admit it, but you topped me, Amy. I can’t compete with that.”

  “Lucky me.” Amy sighed, and checked her watch. “I should get going. I’ve got about fifty roses to deadhead—I think your mom let me get a little carried away, Nell.”

  “She does that.” Janice, Nell’s mom, ran the landscape business.

  “I’ve got to get ready for the lunch crowd.” Hannah rose and stacked both of their plates and mugs. “I’ll get those pastries you ordered, Amy.”

  “Thanks for letting me bitch.” Amy followed her to the counter. “I’m having trouble deciding how to email her back.”

  Nell, who was now sizing up the lunch offerings in the display case, looked up. “I vote short and sweet: Fuck you.”

  Amy laughed. “That was my first thought, yeah. But I don’t want her bitching to all her friends about how awful I am—even though she’s the awful one. I don’t want to burn any bridges for any future wealthy Hollywood guests.”

  “Do you really want those guests if this experience is any indication?” Nell asked, raising her eyebrow.

  “No, I know what she’s saying.” Hannah rounded the corner with a cardboard box layered with pastries. “You’re freezing these, right?” At Amy’s nod, she closed up the box. “That’s what I thought, so I packaged them in individual plastic bags. I’d recommend wrapping a few layers of foil around them too. The invoice is on top.”

  “You’re great. So, you vote for the polite version of fuck you?”

  “Kill her with kindness, that’s the way. So sorry, but we don’t think that our inn can properly accommodate your client at this time, yadda yaddayadda.” Hannah propped her arms on the counter. “Who knows, she could tell the story to one of her fellow assistants who doesn’t have such a high maintenance boss, and they might think, Bingo, that’s just the place.”

  “You’re always so level headed,” Nell complained. “It’s much more satisfying my way.”

  Amy picked up the box. “I’ll see if I can slip a thinly veiled fuck you in there, just for you, Nell. And, then I think I’ll head out on my kayak.”

  Hannah sighed. “Color me jealous.”

  “Later this week?” Amy asked.

  “You bet. Gotta take advantage of this gorgeous weather while we can.”

  “Nell?” Amy looked over at her, but Nell shook her head.

  “Got stuff to do.”

  Figured, Amy thought. For the past three years she’d been trying to make nice with Nell—she was friendly enough but had erected a firm barrier that all but screamed, “I don’t want to be your friend.” The hell of it was, Amy couldn’t let it go—she liked Nell�
�s no-nonsense attitude. And, Nell was tight with Hannah, so it would be easier if they could hang out and have girls’ night together.

  “All right, I’m off to get supplies…not Twix bars!”

  Feeling better than when she’d arrived, Amy left the café. She’d just reached her car when she heard her name. Turning, she saw Hannah rush up the street and cross over, a package in her hand.

  “I almost forgot,” she said, panting a little. “I made you a mini chocolate torte—your favorite, right?”

  “Yum.” Amy took the little box from her, a bit puzzled. “That was nice of you.”

  “I thought you might be feeling a bit down, and nothing like some chocolate to ease the pain. I wasn’t sure if you’d want company next week or not.”

  At a loss, Amy studied the box, the words Hannah Bobanna printed in curlicue letters across the corner. Hannah laid a hand on hers.

  “Honey? The anniversary is next week, right? I didn’t get the day wrong?”

  Amy stared at Hannah, wide eyed. “I forgot. Oh my God. I forgot.”

  “Oh, honey.” Hannah leaned in and gave her a quick hug. “That’s good. Isn’t it?”

  “I mean, I knew it was coming up, because I made a mental note to call Jack.” Amy blew out a breath at the mention of Kevin’s dad. “It’s been four years.”

  Hannah nodded, her blue eyes soft with sympathy. She shook her head. “And here I go, sticking my foot in it and reminding you the one year you managed to forget.”

  Amy grabbed her hand. “No, no. This is good. Right? I mean…I don’t even feel guilty. I feel…relieved. God. Remember the first year I was on the island?”

  It’d been pouring down rain, just like on the day Kevin died, and Amy had indeed gone in search of chocolate. She’d entered the bakery, and promptly burst into tears when Hannah asked her what she wanted. Horrified, she’d tried to escape, but Hannah had firmly planted her down with a cup of tea, switched the Open sign to Closed, and said, “Talk to me.” Ever since, Hannah had been her closest friend on the island, the one who coaxed her out of On the Sound, the one who introduced her to the local businesspeople, the one who harassed her relentlessly until she finally gave in and pulled out her dusty guitar and played at the café’s open mic night.