The Red Door Inn (7 page)

Well, he could tease her all he liked. Her idea was a good one. She'd always had an eye for trimming a house. At least that was what her mother's best friend and interior designer Georgiana McWilliams had always said. When Georgiana
had decorated their beach house at the Cape, she'd asked Marie to help.

Seth might be too thickheaded to know it, but he and Jack needed her.

At least Jack knew it.

As she approached the counter where Aretha stood, Seth's chuckles finally died out.

Aretha hung up her phone, a broad smile wrinkling her features. “Did you find some things you like?”

“I was thinking about using writing-related pieces for one of the rooms.”

“Honey, I have the most beautiful Underwood typewriter.”

Marie nodded enthusiastically. “I saw it. And I was thinking about some vintage books and maybe an old wooden secretary to go with it. Any ideas?”

“Plenty, my dear.” She led the way to a wooden bookcase along the far wall. The edges of the shelves had been worn smooth from years of borrowing and returning books. Many of the books still sat there, just waiting to be loaned out once again.

With a tentative touch, Marie brushed her fingers along the red leather spines of Shakespeare and Dickens and Austen. The brown ones on the far end were only a few reads away from losing their threadbare casings, and she dropped her hand before she could add to their wear and tear.

Would she have liked reading the classics in high school any more if they'd been this beautiful?

Probably not.

“Do you have any first-edition Montgomery?”

“Maud?” Aretha spoke as though she were old friends with the author who had made the island famous. “Oh dear.
I can't keep Anne on the shelves. I've had three first editions and fourteen second or third.” She shook her white hair. “But the tourists eat that stuff up. They can pack it into their rollers and carry it back to wherever they come from. It's easier to move than the whole case.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Even if it wasn't what she'd hoped to hear. The beautiful antique bookcase would look stunning in the inn with or without a first edition of the classic island tale.

She flipped the price tag so she could count the zeros there, and her breath caught in her throat.

Nothing could look
that
good.

Aretha patted her shoulder. “I'll keep my eyes open for a first edition for you.”

“I'd appreciate that. Thank you.” Marie pulled an early-twentieth-century
Pride and Prejudice
off the shelf and turned it over. No price tag. “Are these for sale?”

“By the set.”

“How much?” Seth's voice made the women jump.

Aretha looked up into his face, her smile knowing. “For you? We might be able to make a deal. Let me just check my records to make sure I'm not giving them away.”

She wandered toward the back room where they'd looked at the bedding just that morning, leaving Marie to stare at her feet while Seth stared at her.

“Books and a typewriter, huh?”

He sounded so much like Jack, trimming his words until he had to speak only the essential ones.

“And a writing desk too, I hope.” She glanced down the wall, brass and iron pieces lining every inch until there were none to spare.

Which of these pieces would fit in the Red Door? Which would make it feel like home for the guests who would spend their vacations in its rooms? Which would seal memories in their minds, keeping them coming back season after season?

There were iron animals and fireplace pokers. But they were cold and heavy, like the weight of Seth's ever-watchful gaze.

She needed something beautiful and strong. Something that showed Seth that she knew what she was doing. Something like the large brass light right in front of her.

Stepping around a wooden pedestal topped by a porcelain washing pitcher, she hurried to inspect the lantern with its faded gilded edges. “What is this?”

Marie had meant to ask Aretha, but Seth stepped to her side, even as she pulled away. “It's from a lighthouse. See, the light would stay still, and the outside panel would spin like this.” He made a circle in the air with his finger.

“Are there lighthouses on the island?”

Aretha joined them, her laughter booming through the store. “I should say so. There are more than fifty active lighthouses.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but Seth piped up before she could voice her idea. “Let me guess. A lighthouse room.” He didn't have to go on. His tone said it all. He thought it was a ridiculous idea.

“What a splendid idea.” Aretha clearly didn't agree with his assessment. “I have a few other pieces.”

She grabbed Marie's hand, pulling her deeper into the maze, and pointed out a captain's wooden box—which contained a seafaring compass—and a ship in a bottle. They danced around the room so fast that Marie's head spun and her chest tightened.

Fighting the panic attack that had, of course, shown up at the worst possible moment, she jerked her hand out of Aretha's grasp to cover her mouth as she sought the air that had turned thin.

Aretha's eyes filled with concern. “Are you all right, honey?”

She nodded, then shook her head. The floor jolted, and she stumbled against the movement. It couldn't all be in her mind. “Restroom?” she asked between her fingers.

“Right inside the back room. Go on. You're whiter than a sheet.”

Marie ran to the room, flipped on the light, and sank to the floor. The cool porcelain of the pedestal sink felt good on her forehead as she breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. She closed her eyes and the world went black, the ringing in her ears blocking out even the sound of Aretha's worried voice.

In about five minutes they would check on her and find her passed out on the bathroom floor.

Perfect.

Seth would pick her up, holding on to her until she awoke. Until she promptly had another attack from being that close to him.

Just perfect.

That scenario didn't work in her imagination, and she certainly couldn't let it play out in real life. Pushing her feet beneath her, she grabbed the sink to pull herself up. The oval mirror on the wall said exactly what Aretha had. Panic had robbed her of all color.

Splashing water on her face helped a little, and she sipped from a cupped hand until she could swallow normally.

Then came the knock on the door.

“Are you all right?” Not Aretha.

Taking a shaky breath, she turned the knob and faced Seth. “Much better.”

His eyebrows furrowed, his lips tight. He didn't believe her.

“Ready to go?”

He stared at the top of her head as she staggered past him, hoping she could ignore the rope around her chest until they got back to the Red Door.

“Aretha's just finishing ringing up your antiques.”

“My what?”

He didn't bother to answer, and she saw why when she reached the counter. Aretha smiled as she wrapped the ship in a bottle in brown paper and tucked it into a cardboard box.

“Mr. Sloane here has already taken your typewriter out to his truck. And I have the compass, lighthouse lamp, and ship right here for you.” She motioned to a second box. “We took the liberty of selecting a few classics to get your book room started. And he said you were to have that blue and green quilt. That was your favorite, wasn't it?”

Marie's chest loosened as her gaze traveled between Aretha and Seth. It finally settled on Seth's grumpy grin. “If Jack says you get antiques, then who am I to put a stop to it.” He picked up the box of books. “Besides, you have pretty good taste.”

“Now you just come back here when you're ready for more.” Aretha patted her hand. “Oh, and I almost forgot. I have another little gift for you.”

“For me?”

“For all of you.” Aretha's smile broadened as Seth's forehead wrinkled in confusion. She pulled a thin paper bag from under the counter and laid it on top as though it contained
the crown jewels. “After you left this morning, I remembered that I had a photo album of The Crick—that's what most of the locals call this area—from almost seventy-five years ago. And what house do you think was featured in one of the pictures?”

Marie's heart stopped for a long second as she held her breath. It couldn't possibly be the Red Door.

But it was. There was no mistaking the gabled roof and wide porch. Even in black and white, it was Jack's inn. Except it wasn't entirely in black and white. Someone with a steady hand had painted the front door. Red.

Her stomach lurched as Seth leaned over her shoulder to get a better view, his mouth open and eyes narrowed. “So it was red back then?”

“It sure seems that way.” Aretha looked more than satisfied with herself, tucking the picture back into its protector before holding it out to Marie. “I thought you might like this.”

With still trembling hands, she accepted the gift. “Jack. I'm sure Jack will appreciate this. Thank you.”

“Well then,” Aretha said. “We'll see you back here soon.”

Yes. They'd have to come back. Soon. After all, she hadn't gotten any real furniture. Of course, it would be easier to finish painting before the rest of the furniture went in, but she'd promised Jack. She had to show him that she could do the job, get the inn everything it needed. She'd earn the roof over her head until she had to go. For now that meant rooms full of armoires and nightstands. Not just decorative pieces.

“We're going to need furniture too.”

Glancing into the back room, Aretha tapped her pursed lips twice. “You mentioned a writing desk, eh? I do have a beautiful one.”

Marie's stomach flipped with anticipation.

Aretha showed her to the piece, but it didn't strike her interest. What did catch her eye was the cherry buffet sitting right beside the desk. Strong and detailed, it would be stunning in the dining room, the perfect place for afternoon treats for the guests.

“What about this?” She ran gentle fingers over it, enamored with the swirled hardware handles and curved legs.

Aretha frowned. “I'm afraid that one is set to go on auction next week.”

S
eth took the bump at the end of the driveway slower than usual, his eyes on the figure in the passenger seat. Marie still hugged her knees under her chin, tucked into the corner as far away from him as possible. She hadn't moved more than the barely-there rise and fall of her shoulders in the seven-minute drive from Aretha's.

“You feeling any better?” He tried to keep his voice low, but it filled the cab, where there had only been silence for the entire drive.

She turned her head, resting her ear against her knees and squinting at him. The faint pink of her lips struck a stark contrast to the ashen tint of the rest of her face. She mumbled something incoherent before hiding her face again and tucking her shoulders up to her ears.

She'd pulled this a few times in the two days he'd known her, turning pasty white and eerily silent. She was either annoyed with him or seriously ill.

If she was sick, it wouldn't do to have her dying on his watch. Jack wouldn't overlook that, and given the recent
animosity between Seth and Marie, Jack might even suspect Seth was responsible. Perhaps it was time to smooth things over, just in case she passed that near-death look and went all the way.

Without saying anything, he hopped out of the truck and walked around to her side, reaching her just as she pushed the door open with a shaking hand.

“Can you make it inside?”

She nodded, but as her foot slipped on the side panel, he grabbed her arm to keep her from falling.

Jerking her elbow out of his grasp, she whispered, “I'm fine.” Leaning against the closed door, she took an unsteady breath. Apparently noticing his doubt, she added, “I'll be all right in a minute.”

He wasn't so sure, but arguing with her wasn't going to get them on the road toward a truce. Swallowing the retort on the tip of his tongue, he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced at the bed of the truck. They'd brought in a good haul for their first trip to Aretha's, but it wasn't nearly enough to decorate two full stories, a basement, and five guest rooms. And Aretha's mention of the credenza up for auction next week had definitely caught Marie's attention. Maybe he could tempt her out of her shell with a promise to get it for her.

“I'll take you to the auction on Monday.”

She perked up, pink finally appearing in her cheeks.

“If you want to go.”

She wrapped her fingers into her shirttail, her gaze firmly settled on the ground between their feet. “Yes.” When the word popped out, she looked as shocked as he was. Her eyes grew wide, and she pressed her palms against her cheeks,
burying her fingers into her hair. Completely missing his amusement.

He let his shoulders shake but kept his laughter silent.

No need to counteract their step forward.

“Good.” With that, he took off for the bed of the truck and slid the monumental typewriter toward the tailgate. As he hefted it off the lip of the tailgate, he turned back to where Marie had been, only to find her gone.

“Don't worry about me,” he muttered, lumbering toward the porch. “I've got this.”

It took a flick of his foot and a bump of his hip to get the screen door open. But at least she'd left it unlocked for him.

Voices rose from the parlor as he stumbled over the threshold.

“Don't do that.” Marie's voice carried a note of panic, and his pulse jumped into overdrive.

Was she in trouble? Was someone else in the house?

Storming down the narrow hallway, he crashed into the door frame, chipping the molding at his elbow and sending fireworks up his arm. His grip on the typewriter waning, he bent until he could drop it onto the tarp-covered hardwood floor and cradle his aching arm.

Before he'd even lifted his gaze, he demanded, “What is going on?”

Two blank stares met his when he finally straightened enough to survey the room. Marie chewed on her lips, wide-eyed and unblinking. Jack's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline, his mouth hanging open.

“What's gotten into you, boy?” Jack stepped forward, tipping his chin down and drawing his eyebrows closer together.

Seth blinked several times and pointed over his shoulder, half turning toward the hall. “I heard Marie . . . she sounded . . .”

Jack's grin spread across his face as he scratched at a few days' worth of white whiskers. There was no saving face now. Seth had overreacted. They all knew it. And Jack wasn't going to let it go without a few snide comments.

The old man wiggled his finger between Seth and Marie. “You two finally getting along?”

He wouldn't go that far. He didn't trust the little wisp or like that she'd invaded his recovery time. But it didn't mean he wished trouble on her.

He just wished she'd found somewhere else to stay.

Dodging the question at hand, he motioned around the room. “So what had you all worked up in here?”

Marie didn't say anything—to either of the inquiries—instead she pointed at a bucket of paint. Given the twist of her mouth and the clench of her other fist, the color in question seemed to cause her physical pain.

For good reason.

He jerked his gaze away from it, blinking against the neon yellow glaring from the bucket.

“It didn't turn out quite like the swatch.” Jack shrugged. “But it's okay, isn't it?”

“No. It's most definitely not okay.” The tone of Marie's voice reminded Seth of his first surfing coach, who had kept strict control of her students with the same snap. “This is the parlor. A place for mingling and relaxing. That color”—she jabbed a finger at the offending bucket—“is for obnoxious billboards and ugly gym clothes. That is not serene and inviting.”

Jack rasped his beard stubble again. “Where'd you learn
that?” He voiced the question Seth had been wondering also. She spoke with authority on colors and paint and knew something about antiques. Enough to pick the heaviest typewriter in Aretha's store. The most interesting one too.

She lifted a shoulder, staring at her hands clasped in front of her. “A friend.”

When it was clear that she wasn't going to elaborate, Seth laid a hand on Jack's shoulder. “I guess it doesn't matter so much right now. Just trust me when I tell you that her taste is better than yours.”

He'd never intended to be on Marie's side about anything, but the girl wasn't afraid to speak her mind. And this time, at least, it had saved them having to repaint the entire room. As long as she was here, he might as well let her be useful.

“So what should we do?” Jack said. “We've got to get paint up in here soon.”

“Let's go into Charlottetown tomorrow and pick up some other paint.”

“We've got church tomorrow.”

Marie frowned at Jack's announcement, but he didn't seem to notice.

“Perhaps on Monday?” Jack suggested.

Seth hiked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of his truck. “I said I would take her to the antique auction in Cavendish on Monday.”

“All right then. Tuesday we'll go to Charlottetown for new paint.” Jack looked back and forth between them as though expecting an argument. “Can't wait any longer than that or we'll run out of time to get the walls painted, dry, and the furniture in.”

Marie nodded. “That's good. At least by then we'll have
our central antique pieces and a good idea of complementary colors. But we should talk about tables and dining room linens and curtains and . . . There's so much more to cover.” Her hands fluttered in front of her as her voice rose.

Jack rested a hand on her shoulder. “It's all right. Let's talk about it tomorrow night. Make some lists and divide and conquer.” His gaze swung around to Seth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You'll join us, Seth?”

He held up his hands, backing slowly out of the room. If he didn't get out of there fast, he'd end up roped into spending more time with Marie than he'd already agreed to. He could keep an eye on her and still keep his distance. “I have plenty on my to-do list already. So count me out of that particular brainstorming session.”

Marie's bright blue eyes flitted in his direction, her black lashes long and sweeping. She didn't say anything, but it sure seemed like she was asking him to be there. But he was no good at fabric and color. His expertise was structure and drywall. Let him make it a house. Jack was in charge of making it a home.

And if Jack trusted Marie to help him, so be it. It didn't mean Seth would let his guard down. No matter how pretty her eyes.

Marie pulled her covers under her chin, shivering in the cool morning. Jack had picked her up a set of generic sheets and a scratchy blanket in Charlottetown, but they weren't enough to ward off the Atlantic chill creeping through the basement walls.

Then again, she hadn't been warm in a bed for more than
two months. The memory of being forced onto another bed brought chills from deep within every night. It didn't seem to matter how many layers she wore or how many quilts she pulled up to her chin. The chill always won.

She'd even tried to sleep on the floor once. She'd hoped the hardwood in her bedroom back home would take the teeth from the vile memories enough to give her some rest.

It hadn't.

Now she tried to focus on the worn paperback open in her hands. Tried to lose herself in the story and forget the reasons for the chill.

It didn't work.

Three solid thumps on her door had her shooting out of bed, wrapping the blanket about her shoulders, setting aside her book, and shuffling across the room.

She'd left her white silk robe in Boston. Not that it would have done much to combat the morning air. It had been for show. Like most of her life.

When she opened the apartment door, Jack stood at the bottom of the steps, grinning hard. “We'll leave for church in about thirty minutes. Do you want something for breakfast before we go?”

“Oh, um . . .” She swallowed the hesitation in her voice. “I thought I'd just sleep in this morning. It's been a long couple of days.”

His smile widened. “Sure has been. Long, that is. No time like the present to find some refreshment in the Lord's house.”

She shook her head. Maybe he hadn't understood. “I'd rather just stay here this morning.”

“I'd rather you go with us.” His voice turned rock solid, a bit of the strength visible in his shoulders suddenly audible.

What was his deal? Why was he so intent on getting her out of the house and into a church building? Maybe it was more about not wanting to leave her alone in his precious house. “Maybe I'll just go for a walk this morning.”

His head began shaking even before she'd finished speaking. “I like you, Marie. You're smart and have a good eye. You can stay here as long as you like. But as long as you're here, you'll go to church with us on Sunday mornings.” He couldn't possibly have read the question in her eyes as he gazed into the distance, seeing something that wasn't even there, but he answered her anyway. “My Rose loved the good Lord. And she loved people. She prayed for this house and the people who would stay here for years. Long before we'd ever heard of North Rustico. She'd want to know that the people working on this house love God too.”

But what if Marie didn't love him anymore? What if she couldn't?

What if she couldn't even begin to comprehend a loving God—who was supposed to be her Father—who let terrible things happen?

Jack reached out and cupped her ear, smoothing down her bed head in a motion that her mom had used over and over.

Maybe he could read her mind or see the tension in her shoulders. “Even if you're having a hard time loving him, he's not having a hard time loving you. Come to church with us.”

His voice creaked with age, like the floorboards of the old house. And even though he didn't seem the enforcer type, he'd drawn the line in the sand. If she wanted a roof over her head, she'd go to church with them.

Her stomach clenched, and she waited for the telltale tightening in her chest. If ever a moment called for a panic attack,
this was it. She'd feared the inability to catch a breath, the inevitable dizziness since the attacks had begun just after New Year's Day. But this moment it would save her from sitting in a building surrounded by people praying to a God she could no longer trust.

But it didn't come. Her breaths were as easy and smooth as they'd ever been. Her head didn't swim, and her hands were rock steady.

Wrapping her traitorous arms around her middle, she closed her eyes for a long moment. Jack stood before her, silent except for a small cough.

They remained like that for what felt like hours, and she shifted from one foot to the other.

She couldn't turn her back on the only man who'd ever helped her. He'd asked so little of her in exchange for a safe place to sleep every night. And it was safe. If the way Seth had charged into the parlor at the first hint of trouble was any indication, this home was secure.