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She clasps her hands over her chest, pure glee emanating from her blue eyes as if I told her I was giving her a million dollars. “We’ll find you the perfect pair. I know just the place.”
She takes my elbow and leads me through the lobby. Several guests sit on couches, talking and laughing with one another. Beatrice points them out as we pass by, explaining who they are and what they’re in town for. Many of them visit annually, and I can see why they’d want to come back to a place like Sunnyside.
I wonder if I will too.
The dining room is magnificent. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the flowers and trees that surround the inn outside. The large wooden table seats twelve people, and there are smaller round tables lining the perimeter of the room by the windows.
Beatrice takes the seat at the head of the long table, and gestures for me to sit beside her. “Tell me, dear. Are you terribly upset with me over your living arrangements?”
“No. I do feel bad for Bryce though.”
Beatrice waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t you worry about him. He could use the company. If I’m being completely honest, I think this will be good for him.”
My head tilts. “What do you mean?”
Beatrice searches the room like she’s trying to find the right words to say. “My grandson keeps to himself. It pains me to see him like this. He wasn’t always such a grump. I think you two might be looking for the same thing, and I think some companionship might help you find it.”
I want to ask what happened to make Bryce such a recluse, but I don’t want to pry. If she wanted to share more, she would’ve. Still, my mind wanders to the possible scenarios. Whatever it is seems to weigh heavily on Beatrice.
I reach over, and cover her thin hand with my own. “Bryce is lucky to have a grandmother who cares about him like you do.”
She offers me a wistful smile. “We’re lucky to have each other. That boy is the most important thing in my life. As I’m sure your mother felt about you.”
A lump rises in my throat, emotion pricking my gut. “We were a team. We did everything together. It’s strange moving through life without her now. I still get the urge to call her, forgetting she won’t be there to pick up.”
“She’s always with you in spirit. Just like my Benjamin.” Beatrice gestures to the open room. “My husband is woven into these walls, and he’ll always be a part of me. This inn is how I keep his memory alive.”
My heart aches for her. “I want to keep my mom’s memory alive too. I don’t want to forget about her, and move on. I want to make her a part of my life even though she’s not here to share it with me. She’s the reason I came here. She wanted me to live my life to the fullest.”
Beatrice beams. “Then that’s exactly what you shall do.”
The door behind us swings open, and my breath catches in my throat. Bryce makes his way to the table, balancing two large platters on his left forearm. A white apron cinches his waist, and his hair is pulled away from his face in a messy bun. Sweat beads along his skin, the kind of sheen one gets from standing over a hot stove. He deposits the trays onto the table, and my lips part on a gasp at the assortment of appetizers: mini-quiches, stuffed mushrooms, deviled eggs, and pigs in a blanket on one dish, and the other a Pinterest-worthy charcuterie board filled with a variety of meats, cheeses, fruit, and crackers.
“Wow.” My eyes fly up to Bryce. “This looks delicious.”
He gives me a tight nod without making eye-contact, and turns around to disappear back into the kitchen.
Beatrice chuckles as she slides a small plate my way. “The boy is modest. He works magic in that kitchen.”
Beatrice isn’t kidding. I close my eyes upon the first bite of a spinach quiche, and relish in the sweet, buttery taste of the crust mixed with the salty cheese. “Did he make these from scratch?”
She gives me a proud nod. “His grandfather taught him everything he knows about cooking. My Benjamin was a chef.”
The other guests fill the rest of the seats around the table, making small talk, and commenting on Bryce’s delectable hors d’oeuvres. Out of habit, I stand and begin filling their glasses with the water from the crystal pitcher on the table.
Beatrice dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Sit, my dear. You’re not on duty.”
“I’ve got it. You stay and finish eating.” Once the pitcher is empty, I make a beeline for the kitchen. “Just going to fill this up, and I’ll be right back.”
The mouth-watering scent of garlic and lemon surrounds me when I step inside the large kitchen. Unlike the cottage style of the rest of the inn, this room resembles the kitchen of a five-star restaurant, with stainless steel countertops and appliances, pots hanging from hooks, and a set of magnetic chef’s knives along the wall.
But my attention is pulled to the center of the room, where Bryce’s big shoulders hunch over the island, his thick brows pinched together in concentration. With his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, he drizzles a thick cream sauce over a long slab of salmon. He reaches for a handful of green sprouts, and sprinkles them on top for garnish. Then he turns the plate, eyeing it from every angle. He’s careful and absorbed in his work, like an artist while he’s painting.
His deep voice startles me. “You stare any harder, you’ll burn a hole right through me.”
My stomach tenses. “Sorry. I didn’t think you noticed me.”
His obsidian eyes lock on mine. “I notice everything.”
