The Wash-Ashores
Holly
She glanced back at the steep wooded trail she’d just come down. At the top of that trail, nestled among the pine trees, sat the Cranberry House Inn. Her grandmother’s inn, now hers. Sort of. The inn she’d inherited; only Francine hadn’t died. Yet.
“Just pretend I’m dead and gone,” Francine had said with a shrug. “It’s the only way to find out for sure.”
“You want me to pretend you’re dead?” It wasn’t the first crazy idea her grandmother had come up with.
“You’ve got a master’s degree in business,” her mother reminded her.
“Exactly. Which neither Franny nor Poppy ever had. Between my degree and all my summers spent here, how can this venture not be a good fit?”
Her mother sighed. One trait they did share was a propensity for exasperation. “I hope you know what you’re doing. You can always come home if you don’t.”
That was what her mother had never grasped and Holly didn’t have the heart to tell her; their tidy life in the New York suburbs had never felt like home.
Not like the Cape did. Here is where Holly’s memories ran deepest: it was where she’d learned to sail a Sunfish.
Swim with the tide. Fall in love with Stephenie Meyer’s books.
Fall in love with a summer boy. Learned to drive Poppy’s truck up and down Route 28.
Had the longest relationship of her life so far—with a summer boy named Ben.
And years later, said goodbye to that same summer boy, whose memory chased her.
She glanced across the bay in the direction of Ben’s house, a wave of sadness coming over her: it was still there, even if he was not.
Holly tucked her knees beneath her chin and hugged them tight.
The last time she’d seen Ben he had told her he was getting married.
It was the last time her heart had been broken.
It was also their goodbye. Holly shook her head at the memory.
That was what her mother didn’t understand.
The most important hellos and goodbyes of her life had taken place here.
That sense of home would never change for Holly Goodwin.
When Francine had called her at NYU that fall, just before graduation, Holly understood why before her grandmother even spoke.
It was a quiet understanding they’d always shared, the wish that the inn stay within the family.
It was part of the family, after all. A family made smaller when Holly’s father died suddenly in a car accident when she was only twelve, and again, when Poppy passed two summers before.
Now, it was just the three women who made up the family; three generations of stubborn, strong-willed women who’d borne more than their fair share of loss.
Through those losses the Cranberry House had been there, but like them, it had not gone unscathed.
For years her paint had been peeling away from its decorative trim.
Each summer her porch steps had a little more sag in them.
“Just like my back,” Francine liked to joke.
But the roof was no joke, and something Francine muttered about when she didn’t think Holly could hear.
Then there was the interior; elegant as it was with its original architectural details, it needed a serious spruce.
When she arrived in January, it had taken Holly a month just to convince her grandmother to rip out the tired carpets.
An overdue update to operations proved to be a whole other matter.
Francine still used a guestbook with pen and paper.
Email had been an affront enough; she balked at online reservations and spreadsheets for accounting.
God forbid entering the realm of social media.
It was one thing for time to stand still on the bay, Holly tried to explain to her grandmother; it was another to operate like dinosaurs.
Now, after months of toil, they were ready to open for the season.
Each of the ten bedrooms was luxuriously made up, the grand four-poster beds donned in crisp Egyptian cotton and the marble bathrooms gleaming.
Downstairs, the original walnut parquet floors were polished.
Fresh-cut hydrangeas filled the vases of the lobby, and piano music tinkled softly in the background.
Behind its swinging door, the kitchen would be humming as Greta whisked cranberry scones from the oven and set out ramekins of honey butter and gooseberry jam with tiny silver spoons.
Just outside, Oliver would be whistling as he watered the vegetable gardens and filled baskets with produce for their new farm-to-table menu offerings.
Already the bean bushes and pea trellises were bursting with fresh greenery, their vines laden with heavy pods and string beans.
Rows of romaine and radicchio lined the raised beds like little leafy soldiers, each procession dotted with marigolds to organically keep pests at bay, with garlic and leeks as backup.
Holly knew the heirloom tomatoes would follow, always a guest favorite.
Linus, her uptight assistant manager, would be at the reception desk going over reservations one last time in his latest summer suit, reserving his dazzling smile for the guests despite Holly reminding him the staff could benefit from it as well.
Everything was ready and everyone was in place.
All, except for her grandmother. Francine was shored up a few miles across town at her friend Bee’s house, and God willing, there she would stay.
This was her idea, after all. Now it was Holly’s turn.
Holly glanced back at the wooded trail. Tomorrow morning, the Cranberry House would open its historic doors to the first guests of the season.
The grand old house would sigh happily, just as Holly and Francine did at the start of each summer.
The screen on the front door would slap gently closed behind each arrival, ushering them into its cozy vestibule the way her grandmother used to welcome her.
Into its cool Victorian chambers awash in soothing blue and white tones, where cocktails were served before dinner in the parlor room by the fireplace.
Where the chess table stayed set up by the bay window just waiting for players.
Where the salt air breeze rippled the curtains, and windows stayed open all night.
Time stalled at the Cranberry House and little changed, except for this season. This season Holly was at the helm.
Now, in the last throes of sunset, Holly inhaled the sharp scent of salt air. She scratched the thick brown fur around Bruce’s collar, rousing him from his slumber. “Come on, boy.”