Greta
It took a moment of hiccup-crying for her to be able to speak.
By then Linus, Francine, Bee, and Holly were all crowded around her.
Josephine, who’d stayed late to help with cleanup, kept to the edge of their circle as she swept, clucking her tongue sympathetically in rhythm with the broom.
Wisely, Paul stayed out of the way in the wash area, but came out twice.
First he set a cup of hot chamomile in front of her.
The next time he brought her a cookie. Paul was a good egg.
Their responses were immediate and outraged.
“He’s doing what?”
“She can’t possibly.”
“Her poor parents.”
“And Harry.”
“Harold.”
“We have to stop them.”
“Can we?”
Then, after a collective pause for breath, “Should we?”
Buoyed by the support, Greta decided it was time. It was time to tell them the whole story. She started at the beginning.
Earlier that evening, Sissy Sutton had let herself in the kitchen. At first Greta didn’t notice. It was the climax before dinner service, and food was moving fast: off the stove, out of the oven, onto platters.
Just as she was pulling a bubbling skillet of herb-roasted chicken off the range, someone in a white dress appeared at her elbow, like a ghost. “Oh God!” Greta cried, nearly hitting Sissy with the scorching skillet. She swung it back to the stove, almost spilling the contents in the process.
“Sorry,” Sissy said. But she didn’t look sorry and she didn’t move.
Both pissed Greta off to no end. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I need your help,” Sissy said blankly.
Greta set the skillet down and wiped her brow with the edge of her apron. “We’re full on in here, if you haven’t noticed.”
Sissy handed her an envelope. Usually clients waited until after the dinner to tip the staff, and it was Holly who handled this sort of thing.
“I’ve been trying to reach him all night,” Sissy said. “He’s not answering calls or texts.”
This was not a tip.
Curious, Greta examined the envelope. It was inn stationery, the sailboat with the crest of cranberries encircling it. Oliver was written in scrawled hand across the front.
Greta handed the envelope back. “I can’t help you.”
Sissy looked like she’d been slapped, but Greta had bigger fish to fry. Literally. Like the poached cod that was going to overcook if she didn’t get it out of the oven now. “Excuse me, I need to get to my oven and you need to return to the dining room.”
Sissy sidled to the left, but did not otherwise budge. “But I need you.”
“What you need,” Greta told her, pulling the heavy dish of steaming fish out and setting it on the counter, “is to move before you ruin your pretty dress.”
“Please.” Sissy slipped into the narrow space between Greta and the island, blocking her from the fish. She was going to get either spilled on or burned, or—as it was looking more and more likely—throttled.
Her big brown eyes were wide with desperation. “You’re my last hope.” She held out the envelope to Greta once more. “He needs to read this.”
If she insisted on playing, Greta would play. “Has it occurred to you there’s a reason you can’t get through to Oliver?”
“Yes. Because he’s a better person than I am, and maybe you are, too.”
This was not the answer Greta had expected.
“Sorry,” Sissy added. “But it’s true. Oliver is the best person I have ever known. He’s kind and caring and thoughtful and honest. I’m pretty sure he’s avoiding me because he thinks what I’m about to do is wrong. And he may be right about that.”
Greta did not know exactly what Sissy was about to do. Still, everything coming out of the girl’s mouth so far was dead true.
“Oliver is the kind of person I wish I was,” Sissy went on. “And deep down I have a feeling you know that about him, too.”
This was perhaps the only thing Greta Nyqvist had in common with Sissy Sutton.
Oliver was a good person. Maybe the best person she’d met in her young life.
It hurt to acknowledge that truth. Just as it also hurt to realize Oliver was not her person, and probably would never be.
Greta could see that same hurt in Sissy’s eyes now.
Sissy grabbed Greta’s hand. “Look, I’m sorry to drag you into this.
Dinner is amazing, this place is amazing.
And I don’t really know you, but Oliver thinks you’re pretty amazing, too.
So, if you happen to see him, would you please do one last thing for me and give this to him?
I would never ask if it weren’t crucial. ”
It was the last thing Greta wanted to do. She took the letter. “I’m not going looking for him,” she said, staring Sissy straight in her big pleading eyes.
“Only if you happen to see him.” Then Sissy did something she was even more unprepared for. She leaned in and kissed Greta’s cheek. “He was right about you.”
All night Greta cooked her heart out. She did it for Holly and Francine, for the future of the Cranberry, for all of them.
Oliver was in every damn dish. She whisked beurre blanc with his garlic cloves, drizzled vinaigrette on his greens.
She diced his tomatoes and sautéed his squash and made chiffonade from his herbs.
Even the horseradish for the cod was procured from his damn garden.
Everywhere was Oliver, and burning a hole in her apron pocket, the note from Sissy.
During the brief lull after dinner service, Greta burst outside.
Into the night air she rushed, along the house, across the terrace, staying to the shadows away from the guests.
Down the steep wooden stairs she went, following the sound of the water, until she hit the sand.
There she kicked off her clogs and peeled off her socks and sank her soles into the damp earthy sand.
Then she walked. She walked until she reached the overturned kayaks along the shore, where she sank down onto one.
Here, alone with stars and the moored boats tugging against their buoys, she could read the letter.
Or not. She could give it to Oliver. Or not.
Greta wasn’t even sure she’d see Oliver that night. So shouldn’t she just read the letter?
Greta stared up at the stars, searching for a sign.
When she was a little girl, her mother had taught her all the constellations.
Orion was her favorite. Now, she looked up at the sky until she located his belt.
She followed the stars to his sword. That’s what she needed right now: a sharp sword to cut through the thoughts tangling her mind.
Sissy had entrusted her. No, Sissy had tasked her.
She had tasked Greta with something she had been unable to accomplish herself.
Greta—who had everything to lose. Sissy had Harold.
She had an entire inn teeming with people up on the bluff.
She had over one million followers on Instagram. Why then did she need Oliver, too?
Greta rested her head in her hands. She would not read the note, she decided.
Reading it might cause the piece of herself tucked behind her ribs, that already tender piece that she’d kept safe all these years, to hurt more.
Because that’s what it was doing now. Her heart had hurt ever since Oliver cast his big brown eyes away.
With the note in her pocket, she stood. She could crumple it up and throw it in the sea, but the words were not hers to toss away. Her gut had been right. She’d go back to work and wait and see if Oliver came. If he came, she’d know what to do the moment she saw his face.
An hour later, when dinner service was over and desserts had just gone out and Oliver still had not come by, Greta felt lighter. She’d waited and she’d kept her word. Whatever Sissy had written, Oliver would never know. Whatever came next, it was not on Greta.
When Oliver opened the side door, the part of her behind her ribs ached deeply. She did not wait. “Here,” she said, steeling herself. She reached in her pocket and held the envelope out.
To her consternation, he smiled. “What’s this?” She watched as he turned the envelope over. When he saw the handwriting, his expression fell. That’s when Greta realized the smile had been for her. He’d thought the letter was from her.
“Sissy asked me to give it to you.” Greta bit her lip, wishing he’d go. Not wanting him to go. Dying to know what it said, and also terrified of knowing. It felt heavy, whatever it was. She could tell Oliver felt it, too.
“Should I open it?” he asked.
“I don’t care what you do.” It came out harshly, but suddenly she needed to distance herself from Oliver and Sissy and whatever the words on the page said. Again, her ribs ached.
To her surprise, Oliver did not go. He stayed right where he was and he opened the envelope. Greta held her breath as he unfolded the letter and read it to himself. Once, then again. She thought she might scream when he didn’t say anything. Then he folded it and shoved it in his back pocket.
“You must be wondering what all this is about.”
“No,” she lied, turning to her stove, busying herself. “Not my business.”
“Greta, there are things that should be said.”
She turned around.
“You and I, we had something.” Oliver’s expression was as tender as his tone. “I know you felt it, too.”
Greta did not nod. She could not allow herself to nod until she heard the rest.
Oliver gestured toward the kitchen door, to the noise of the party on the other side, the voices and the laughter. “I think all of that, out there, has messed up all of this, in here. Between us. And for that I am very sorry.”
This time Greta nodded. Oliver needed to know that she knew these things, that she had felt what he felt, and that now, she, too, was also very sorry.
Greta cleared her throat. “What does she want?” It was not really her business, and yet she felt she had the right to ask. It was up to Oliver whether he answered or not.
“Sissy is having second thoughts.” He looked up at the ceiling as if this pained him, too. “She’s not decided what to do yet, but she has asked me to help her. If she decides…”