5. Greta #2
“There aren’t many places like this left on the Cape,” Francine went on.
“I raised my son, Holly’s father, here while running this inn.
And this place is a large part of her history, too.
I can’t in good conscience let someone like Mr. Sullio take over and tear it down without at least one last fight. The Cranberry is an old dame. Like me.”
Despite the odds, Greta decided to believe what Francine had said, especially when the snow began to thaw and Holly arrived on the scene.
Holly was as sprightly as her grandmother, and bold in her thinking.
Soon the inn underwent a series of small projects that had everyone stirred up in ways exciting and uncertain.
There wasn’t a lot of money, but Francine invested all she had left, and knowing that, everyone rallied.
Rooms were reconfigured. New guest experiences were adopted.
A summer wedding was put on the calendar: something they’d never hosted before—and Francine had reservations about—but Holly was determined to try.
By then Greta was so engrossed with Holly’s new farm-to-table vision for Harvest’s dining room that any fear of the Cranberry House being sold for development seemed little more than a bad dream.
Now, with the June sun high outside her kitchen window and another night of Harvest being booked, Greta was back to feeling on solid ground.
In fact, the only quake beneath her feet was of the variety she had sworn off: Oliver Owens.
Gardener god. Friend to all creatures, preferably of the wild variety.
As shy as he was handsome. So shy that when he’d quietly started at the inn as head gardener just over a year ago, she’d barely noticed him.
While Linus strutted about the inn in his fancy suits, groveling to guests and complaining to staff, Oliver kept his head down out of sight and out of doors in the gardens.
Greta had a sense he preferred it that way: produce over people.
As much as she appreciated her patrons and worked at their pleasure, she, too, found refuge behind the scenes.
Her kitchen provided her the same haven she imagined his gardens did.
There was order in her polished pots, art in her plating, a symphony of flavors on the tongue.
That pleasure of simple things was common ground she shared with Oliver.
That, and the Dutch double door that connected her kitchen to Oliver’s garden.
Though he was responsible for managing all of the inn’s property, including the perennial beds and lawns and shrubs, the vegetable garden’s proximity to her kitchen door kept them crossing paths.
Even before the tomatoes were ripening or the squash blossoming, Oliver made regular use of that side door.
Sometimes he blamed the weather: he came for a cup of coffee on a chilly morning or an iced tea on a hot afternoon.
Sometimes he caught a whiff of fresh bread or scones in the oven: “Greta, what is that magic you’re baking?
” That always elicited a giggle. (And she was not a known giggler.)
Often he’d linger and they’d make small talk about his childhood in Vermont and his parents who still lived there. About fresh ideas she had for the menu, most of which he encouraged and all of which she’d make him try.
Yes to the lemon squares with cranberry zest.
Probably not to the mint sauce on ribeye.
And just once, dear God, no!, to the pickled clams she assured him her family in Sweden would not turn their noses up at. She still disagreed with him on that one.
Greta found herself anticipating his pop-ins like one looks out the window for any sign of the sun on a cloudy morning.
She liked comparing notes on demanding guests.
She especially liked to joke about the fact that they could predict Linus’s approach from the squeaking of his faux Prada loafers, though that took some prodding: Oliver was nicer to Linus than he should be, she told him.
She could be a little nicer, he told her. And Greta wasn’t offended.
But lately, their easy banter had become strained.
Now, when Oliver swung by the kitchen, Greta found her cheeks flushing.
And when that happened, sometimes his did, too.
She’d started to fidget in his presence, her hands playing absentmindedly with the string on her pin-striped apron or the handle of a spoon.
Just the other day she almost dropped a knife on her foot, she was so jittery when he came in for a cup of coffee.
But then there were Oliver’s big brown eyes with those doe-like lashes. And the gladiolas he left in a mason jar on her counter before she got in to work. Greta was doomed.
Leave it to pain-in-the-ass Linus to be the first of the staff to notice.
He’d been standing by her prep counter one afternoon, running through dinner reservations while she engaged in her usual ignoring of him, when Oliver stumbled in through the back door.
“I need help!” he’d said. He was clutching his hands to his stomach.
Alarmed, Greta rushed over. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but I think this little guy might be.” She leaned in close as he opened his palms, revealing a little gray animal with a pointy whiskered nose and a hairless pink tail.
“Oh, it’s a baby opossum!” she breathed, delighted.
“It’s vermin,” Linus said, moving to the other side of the prep island. “Quick. Get it out of the kitchen.”
“Wait,” she told Oliver, throwing Linus a look. She inspected the little opossum as Oliver lifted it gently to the light. It blinked and squeaked. “It doesn’t appear injured, but it’s very small. Where did you find it?”
“By the garden gate. I’ve seen a mother opossum about the shed with a few babies on her back, but there’s no sign of her now.”
“What do we do?” Greta worried. She could not have animals in the kitchen, of course, but neither would she turn it away. “He looks cold.”
“He is,” Oliver said, wrapping the baby back up and tucking it against his chest.
Linus shuddered. “What are you thinking? You’ll catch fleas. Or worse!”
“It’s how you bring their body temperature back up,” Oliver replied calmly. “It’s critical.”
Greta regarded Oliver. “You seem to know a lot about opossums.”
He shrugged. “I used to volunteer with a wildlife rescue in high school. My mom is a huge animal lover.” Apparently, so was her son.
“What can I get you?” She could feel Linus levitating behind them. “I want to help, but we probably shouldn’t do it in here.”
“I know,” Oliver assured her. “I could use a dish towel, if you don’t mind. Something soft to wrap him in?”
From a drawer Greta plucked the softest, thickest hand towel she had, in red tartan.
Even Linus hovered as Oliver wrapped the baby opossum in plaid.
“He looks rather Scottish,” Greta said.
“Once I get him warm, I’ll see if he seems strong enough to leave him by the gate, in case the mom looks for him. If not, I’ll try to locate an animal rehabber.”
When Oliver left she found a little box. Then she put two dish towels in the microwave to warm them.
“Look at you.” She’d forgotten Linus was still in the kitchen.
“What?” She didn’t have time for sarcasm. She had dinner to prep, and now she found herself wondering what baby opossums drank. Maybe pet formula?
Linus was shaking his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”
“Linus, I have a lot to…”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“What?” Greta turned, glaring. “I like animals.”
“And Oliver.” He tapped his chin. “Though you’re right, he’s also kind of a big…”
“Out!” Greta barked, pointing to the door.
Linus obliged, his snicker still audible as the door swung shut behind him.
In the sudden quiet of her kitchen, Greta put a weary hand to her head. Linus wasn’t the only thing that was out now.