Greta
“Where am I supposed to put all this?” she shouted to no one in particular as she navigated crates of champagne that had been delivered and left right in the middle of her prep area. She kicked a crate with her Croc.
Paul feigned deep interest in his brussels sprouts at the prep station. Linus, who was adding to the kitchen congestion at the espresso machine, wanted in.
“Ooh. What kind of champagne?”
“Let’s find out.”
“Let’s not.” But Linus was already prying open the lid of the nearest box.
He retrieved a bottle. “Huh.”
“What?” Now she needed to know. “Show me.”
Warily, Linus turned the label her way. Dom Pérignon Rosé.
“Oh, come on!”
The door swung open and Holly joined them, sidestepping through the boxes. “What’s going on?”
“Champagne problems,” Linus said. He held the bottle out.
Holly let out a low whistle. “What’s this vintage cost per bottle?”
Linus was already scrolling. “Oh my.” He looked at Greta warily.
“About five hundred,” she answered for him. Well. At least the champagne selection wouldn’t screw up her menu. Now she had to make sure she didn’t, either.
Yesterday, when Sissy Sutton had finally let go of Oliver’s neck, he’d stumbled back for a better look at her. The expression that followed had haunted Greta ever since. Wide-eyed wonder.
For the second time that week, Greta was doomed. And it had all taken place in her kitchen.
“Ollie, what are you doing here?” Sissy asked, as if he were the guest in her place of work. “My God, it’s been…”
“One year and five months,” he’d replied too quickly. As if Oliver were a recovering addict counting his days of sobriety. Or had it been Ollie? Greta wasn’t sure who the hell had answered Sissy’s question, but it wasn’t the Oliver Owens she knew.
Holly and Linus had quickly vaporized for the same reason Greta had wanted to.
They were all privy to a clearly private moment.
Only Greta had nowhere to go, so she’d been forced to abandon her own kitchen and go outside and climb in her car and turn on the AC.
From the staff parking lot she had full view of her kitchen door to the side yard.
Oliver only ever used that door. Only this time he didn’t.
Not for sixteen and a half minutes more, talk about an addict keeping count.
When she’d gone back into her kitchen, there was no sign of Oliver.
Not as she pushed through dinner prep. Not even later, as she wiped down the kitchen and returned clean pots to their hangers and utensils to their drawers.
His truck was still in the parking lot, but he was nowhere to be seen.
When Holly came in to say good night, she studied Greta.
“Big day, today,” she said, and it took Greta a moment to realize she’d meant the tasting.
“You outdid yourself, and I really think you saved the Sutton reservation for us.”
The sad truth was Greta wished she had never seen Sissy Sutton.
She certainly didn’t want credit for “saving” their reservation the upcoming weekend.
Why had she called Oliver into the kitchen to hear Sissy’s praise in the first place?
If she hadn’t, he might have walked right by the window and kept going about his business, and Sissy would have gotten in her car and driven herself all the way back to Boston, none the wiser that Oliver (Ollie) Owens was at the Cranberry.
Now, as they navigated Sissy’s boxes of wedding crap, Greta steeled herself.
She’d not seen or spoken to Oliver since, but she was a professional.
She had a job to do. And she was not going to let any man, with or without an opossum or the best Krim tomatoes she’d ever tasted or the most ethereal brown eyes get in the way.
In addition to the champagne the Suttons had sent over, there was a slew of other boxes of liquor ordered for the wedding weekend.
“Isn’t the rehearsal dinner for just thirty people?
” Linus asked, following Greta down the hall to the library.
“There’s enough booze here for a semester in a frat house. ”
“Apparently we are the family hub for the weekend.”
They stacked the liquor boxes and several containers of nonperishables in the library against one of the empty bookshelves. “Good thing Sissy didn’t see this room,” Linus said. “She’d want it redone and used for a bridal brunch.”
Holly smiled. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. It’s the perfect space for private parties.” Then, “What I’d love to do is get these bookcases refinished and filled so I could host a book club or an author event here. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
It would be, but right now there were boxes to get, and Greta didn’t have time for any more big ideas about how to change the inn. But the boxes weren’t the only thing waiting for her in her kitchen. Oliver stood in the doorway.
“Hey,” he said sheepishly.
Greta was relieved to see him, but she couldn’t shake Sissy clinging to his neck. Or the fact he hadn’t said a word since. “Need more formula?” she asked.
“No, I fed him earlier, thanks.” He paused uncomfortably. “Things look busy in here.”
“Yeah. Moving all of Sissy’s boxes,” Greta told him. “You know, for her big day.”
When he didn’t say anything, Greta decided she needed to. “So you guys know each other?”
This made Oliver look more uncomfortable. “We used to. It’s been a while.”
Greta did not say, one year and five months, as he had the day before. Instead she kept her mouth shut. Let Oliver fill the silence, she thought. When he finally did, it was not what she expected.
“About our dinner plans… would it be alright if we postponed?”
“Postponed or canceled?” She looked him dead-on as she said it, just as surprised by her reaction as she was by the hurt in his eyes.
“Whichever you prefer,” he said. This only made her instantly annoyed with them both—at herself for backing him into a corner like that and at him because she still didn’t have an answer as to why.
Before she could answer, there was a knock at the back door and a man poked his head inside. “Hi, I’m looking for Greta.”
“That’s me. How can I help you?”
“I have a delivery for you.” He was maybe a few years older, in a chambray shirt that brought out his eyes. Arresting eyes, she decided as she looked into them. And not a bad smile, either. “Ben Walters,” he said, extending his hand. “I have your order from Oyster Boys.”
Greta could feel Oliver watching her. She grinned back at Ben. “Love the name. Are you one of them?”
“Turns out I am.” He handed her the slip. “I’ll run out and get the order, if you tell me where you’d like it.”
Greta led him into the walk-in fridge and showed him the ice cooler. When she came out, Oliver was gone.
She was moving the last of the boxes out of the way for Ben’s delivery when Holly and Linus swung into the kitchen. “Anything else you need moved?” she asked.
“Yeah, I have something coming in now, actually. So I need to clear a path to the cooler.”
“Great.” Holly groaned. “Another delivery. Where’s this one coming from?”
“Oyster Boys,” Ben answered.
They turned to see him standing in the doorway, a heavy bag of oysters in each hand.
Holly blanched.
Greta looked between them. “Holly, this is…”
“Ben,” Holly said, her voice barely a whisper. “Ben Walters.”
Ben straightened, a slow smile unfolding across his face. “Hey, Holls. It’s been a while.”
“Have you ever heard anyone call her Holls?” Linus whispered. They were saddled up at the little bar, along with Francine, who’d arrived a moment too late after Ben walked out. Just as Holly disappeared into her library, claiming she’d be “right back.” That was twenty minutes ago.
What Greta wanted to say, but did not, was that Holls sounded just as intimate as Ollie.
It was unfathomable that almost the same scene had played out in her kitchen a day earlier, only with two other sappy characters.
Oh, how she wished she weren’t working tonight.
She could really use a taste of that icy whisky sour Linus was making Francine.
Between shakes, Linus rambled on. “Hollis I can see. It’s got the appropriate girl boss vibe. Holly is how we know her. But Holls?” He wrinkled his nose and cracked an egg. “So middle school.”
“What do you expect? They’ve known each other since they were kids,” Francine allowed. “Ben was her first summer pal. And, later, well… Those two were inseparable. Seeing him again must’ve given our Holly a little shock.”
Greta pushed the plate of warm clam puffs she’d brought out closer and watched as Francine took a bite. Her eyelids fluttered. “Oh, my dear girl.”
It gave Greta pleasure to see people take comfort in her food, and right now everyone seemed to need a good dose of it. “From where I stood, it was a big shock. Is it strange she’s never mentioned Ben before?”
“Yes,” Linus said.
“No. It’s been a long time,” Francine said. “They grew up and away. It happens.” She glanced toward the back hall that led to the library. “Perhaps I should go check on her.”
“After your drink.” Linus, who’d paused his cocktail shaking for the conversation, added the egg white into the shaker and started up again. Greta loved that he was old school with the drink. They watched with reverence as Linus carefully poured the frothy pink concoction into a chilled glass.
“You know, it’s too bad,” Francine mused. “After all their years together, I always thought those two would end up together.”
Greta considered Francine’s words. “I’ve never had a love like that,” she admitted.
“Nor I,” said Linus, a little sadly.
Francine nodded. “I did, and I miss him every day.”
Greta was glad Francine was here. As much as she appreciated Holly’s energy and the fresh direction she was taking them in at the inn, they were so close in age. Francine’s presence offered a learned calm that Greta felt herself missing, the mother bird to their little nest.
“Well, here’s to love,” Linus said. They watched as he drizzled a line of Luxardo cherry syrup across the egg white foam and ran a toothpick through, creating three tiny hearts. Then he slid the glass gently across the bar.
Francine took a sip. “Tastes like love.”
When Linus took a little bow, Greta found herself smiling. Other people might think it was a whole lot of fuss for one craft cocktail, but she got it. Maybe they weren’t such different animals.
“I wish I’d gotten here sooner to see Ben for myself,” Francine said. “I’m betting he’s still handsome?”
Linus nodded vigorously.
Oliver, who was much more Greta’s type (if she had one, which she really did not), was outdoorsy and a bit rumpled, but in a pleasing masculine way.
Ben seemed the opposite: close shaven, preppy, put together.
Perhaps more tightly wound? Not her type, but very easy on the eyes.
She would never have believed he was the shellfish delivery guy. “Maybe too handsome,” she decided.
Francine laughed. “Well. Nothing like a handsome man in your kitchen.”
That was the thing, Greta realized sadly. All summer she had had a handsome man in her kitchen. And just as she’d decided she actually wanted him there, he was already slipping through her fingers.