Wind Chime Café (A Wind Chime Novel) (10 page)

She looked up at him and he wished he could tell her he’d changed his mind. He wished he could tell her he’d decided to sell the inn to the resort company and she didn’t have to worry about the bank pulling the plug on her loan. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t turn his grandparents’ inn over to a developer. And a small part of him liked knowing they had that connection, that he had something she wanted, even if he was never going to give it to her.

When Annie looked away, Will set down the bowl he was holding. “Annie.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“I know,” she said, unwrapping a glass with tiny clusters of grapes painted on it.

Will watched her small hands methodically pull out glasses and set the crumpled newspaper aside in neat little stacks. “What are you going to do?”

She pulled out the last glass, lined it up next to the others, and bent down to retrieve another box. “I have a plan.”

Will lifted a brow. “What is it?”

“It’s a surprise.”

His lips curved. He couldn’t help admiring her spirit. After the day she’d had, he wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to crawl into bed and spend the next few days there. Instead, she was down here unpacking as if nothing had happened and formulating a plan to move forward.

Will placed the last set of bowls on the rack and leaned back against the counter, watching her work. So they both had issues. Who didn’t? He wanted to spend more time with her. He wanted to get to know her better. Hell, maybe he could even help her daughter get over some of her fears.

“Listen,” he said, crossing the room to grab another box. “I was thinking of taking my grandfather’s old sailboat out for a spin this weekend. You and your daughter should come with me.”

“I told you,” Annie said, looking up. “I’m not dating you.”

“Don’t think of it as a date. Think of it as a way for Taylor to learn something new.”

Annie paused, her hand suspended over the box. She turned slowly to face him. “How do you know my daughter’s name?”

Will carried the new box back to the counter and set it down. “I might have heard some talk tonight.”

“What kind of
talk
?”

“Listen, Annie.” Will leaned his arms on the box. “I didn’t realize—”

“I don’t appreciate my daughter being gossiped about,” Annie said tightly.

“It wasn’t gossip.” Will straightened, pushing back from the counter. “Not in a bad way, at least. People are concerned. They want to help.”

Annie scooped up the crumpled newspaper, shoving it into a trash bag.

“If you’re going to live here,” Will said, “Taylor should learn how to sail. It could be good for her, a way for her to find some courage and overcome her fears.”

Annie’s eyes flashed as they met his. “What do you know about Taylor’s fears?”

Will gazed down at her. That was a good question. He knew what it was like to survive, to live with the knowledge that everyone else around you had died. He knew what it was like to live with that guilt, and fall asleep every night wondering why.

But at least he had the ability to go after the bastards who’d hurt his friends.

He couldn’t imagine the helplessness Taylor must feel.

“I know,” he said finally, “that sometimes the only way to get over your fears is to focus on something else, something as simple as learning to tie ropes and measure wind speeds.”

Annie picked up the wine glasses; they clinked together as she gathered them into her arms. “Thanks for the advice. I think it’s time for you to leave now.”

“Annie—”

She carried them into the kitchen, setting them on the counter.

“Do me a favor,” Will said, raising his voice so she could hear him. “Ask Taylor before you say no.”

Annie walked back out to the kitchen doorway. “
I
will decide what I will, and will not, ask my daughter.”

Will gazed back at her, at the fiery spark of protection and defensiveness in her eyes. “I wish you would let me help.”

“You could help,” she said, “by selling the inn.”

T
he air was crisp and cool when Annie stepped out of the bank on Monday morning. She’d managed to convince Chase to back her new idea, at least temporarily. He’d agreed that if she could open the café in two weeks, and as long as it was a place for both locals and tourists, it could work. But he’d tightened the terms of the agreement: there was no grace period anymore, no second chances if she missed a payment.

She had to get it right the first time.

Across the street, a scrawny middle-aged man was climbing the steps to her porch. She took in his white T-shirt and loose-fitting black chef’s pants and picked up her pace.

She’d had six responses to the online ad she’d posted on Friday. At first glance, none of the candidates had popped out at her, but she’d invited each of them in for an interview today. The most promising one had been working as a sous chef at a hotel in St. Michaels for the past seven years and was looking to downsize.

“Carl?” she ventured, crossing the street.

The man turned, stubbing out his cigarette and tucking it behind his ear.

She climbed the steps, holding out her hand. “I’m Annie. Thanks for coming by before your shift.”

“No problem,” he said, shaking her hand.

She unlocked the door, leading him into the café.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she offered, walking around the counter to pour herself a cup. She didn’t have much in the way of a budget for hiring staff, and she’d already decided to do most of the waitressing herself. If they were all going to be working closely together, she needed someone she could get along with, someone she could trust, someone who wouldn’t mind an eight-year-old wandering in and out of the kitchen on the weekends.

“No, thanks,” he said, taking in the pink walls and half dozen tables the previous owners had left in the dining room.

“Feel free to have a look at the kitchen before we sit down.” She nodded toward the room in the back. “It’s not much, but it should work for the café.”

He walked into the kitchen and came back out a few seconds later. “There’s only one oven.”

“That’s right.”

“Are you going to add one?”

She looked up from spooning sugar into her coffee. There was no room in the kitchen or her budget for a second oven. “No.”

“I can’t cook without two ovens.”

Annie lifted the mug, wrapping both hands around it. “I want to offer a basic café menu of soups, salads, and sandwiches. Can’t most of that be prepared ahead of time?”

“What about desserts?”

“Actually,” Annie admitted, “I was hoping to find someone who’d be willing to make a few desserts at home in the mornings and bring them in when we open.”

“I don’t take work home.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” Carl said, lifting a shoulder. “I was looking to downsize to a smaller kitchen, but this is a few too many steps down.”

Annie winced as he reached for his cigarette. “Don’t you at least want to hear what I’m offering?”

He shook his head, walking to the door. “I think I’ll stay where I am for now.”

Three hours and five interviews later, Annie was on the verge of a panic attack. None of the people she’d interviewed were willing to accept the salary she was offering. Four of them said they couldn’t work in a kitchen that small. One of them said he couldn’t work in a place with pink walls.

She had a fleeting thought about trying to cook herself, but the only dishes she could make were Campbell’s soup casseroles. She laid her head on the counter. What was she going to do if she couldn’t find a chef?

At the knock on the door, she glanced up.

A plump woman in her late-fifties wearing a gray pantsuit and black suede heels walked in. Her dark blond hair was streaked with gray and curled in cowlicks around her kind, round face. “I’m here about the job.”

Annie flipped through the stack of résumés. Hadn’t she already met with everyone? “Did we have an appointment?”

“No.” The woman walked up to the counter carrying a single sheet of paper and a blue box with a pink ribbon around it. “I thought I’d apply in person.”

“What’s this?” Annie asked when the woman set the box down.

“It’s a sample.” She twisted her hands in front of her as she stepped back. “Of my cooking.”

“You brought me a sample?”

She nodded.

Intrigued, Annie turned the paper around to face her. “And this is…?”

“My résumé.”

Annie scanned the words on the page. There was only one job listed, a law firm where the woman had worked as a receptionist for thirty years. Her heart sank. “You don’t have any cooking experience.”

“Not professionally.” She shifted from one foot to the other. “But I do all the cooking for the community events on the island. The ones at the church, the firehouse, all the festivals.”

“You live on the island?”

“Born and raised.”

Annie sat back. She was the first person who’d applied for the job who lived on the island. She thought about what Grace had said yesterday, about outside businesses moving in and pushing the islanders out. She’d like to hire someone from the island. But without any real cooking experience…

The woman pulled a second piece of paper from her pocket. “I have a letter of recommendation.”

Annie took the paper, unfolding it. It was a handwritten note, consisting of one sentence:
“Della’s sweet rolls are to die for.”

“It’s from the Fire Chief,” Della explained.

Annie bit back a smile, peering at the pretty box on the counter. “Is that what’s in the box?”

Della nodded.

Annie opened it, pulling out a perfectly shaped sweet roll dripping with sugary icing.

“Go ahead,” Della urged.

Annie bit into it and her eyes almost rolled back in her head. She groaned as the perfect combination of butter, sugar, cinnamon and vanilla slid over her tongue. “Oh my God.”

Della beamed.

“Okay,” she said, setting the sweet roll down and laughing. “So we’ve established that you can bake. Can you cook?”

Della nodded. “Ask anybody on the island. They’ll vouch for me.”

“Could you cook a meal for, say, thirty people in that kitchen?”

Della walked over to the kitchen, glancing at it through the doorway. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Della gave her a strange look. “Yes, I can cook a meal for thirty people in that kitchen. It’s no smaller than the one I have at home.”

Annie let out a breath, glancing back at the woman’s résumé. “Why don’t you have a seat and let’s talk a little bit about your work experience.”

Della walked back over to the counter. She pulled out a stool across from Annie and eased her ample hips onto it. “What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about what you did at the law firm,” Annie said, taking another bite of the pastry.

Della folded her hands in her lap. “I worked as a receptionist, mostly answering phones, taking messages, organizing schedules and calendars. I used to plan all the social events and parties for the clients.”

“And you were there for thirty years?”

“That’s right.”

Annie glanced down at Della’s résumé again, double-checking the dates. “Wait…your last day was Friday?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you retire?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

Della looked down at her hands. “The firm merged with another company recently, a bigger firm from D.C. The new manager wanted someone more qualified for my position.”

“Someone more qualified?”

Della picked at the light pink polish chipping off her nails. “Someone who looked more like you.”

“Oh.” Annie’s heart went out to her. She knew what it was like to be cast off, what it felt like to be forgettable and easy to replace.