4. Holly
Holly
What were you thinking?” she huffed, tugging Bruce through the small wooded plot separating the inn from the neighbor.
Assaulted neighbor, he’d proclaimed. Bruce panted happily beside her, his pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
Holly understood her neighbor’s consternation.
Bruce was a giant, and he’d not exactly been invited.
She’d been so upset she’d forgotten to ask the poor neighbor’s name.
So far, opening day was not going as planned.
Back inside her assistant manager, Linus, was practically levitating as he waited for her at the lip of the marble entryway, his brow furrowed in contrast to his perfectly pressed linen jacket. “I cannot work under these conditions.”
Holly would indulge him on opening day; Linus was now her right-hand man, hired years ago out of Cornell University’s distinguished hospitality program by Francine, a fact he rarely let them forget. “Which conditions are those?” she asked him warily.
With Linus struggling to keep pace she hurried through the lobby, past the elegant brass stand housing complimentary umbrellas, past the oversized vase of blue hydrangeas on the Duncan Phyfe pedestal table, pausing only at the pitcher of cucumber-and-mint water for a quick refresher (perfect!), before arriving at the demilune antique desk dubbed the command center where they would soon check in their first guests.
She stopped only to let Bruce off his leash.
“Please keep the screen closed,” she said, nodding to the entryway.
“He’s chosen today to turn into a runner. ” Then, “You were saying?”
Not to be deterred by runaway dogs or Holly’s hurry, Linus cleared his throat dramatically. “You need to speak to her.”
Holly knew exactly which her he was referring to: his nemesis, Greta. “What is it this time?”
“She wants to do a welcome charcuterie for guests.”
Holly flicked through the reservations book, half listening. “Sounds welcoming.”
“Sounds like a public food trough.” Linus made a small gagging noise in his throat for effect.
Ignoring this, Holly counted the requests for early check-in. There were two: the Henderson family and the Russos. She checked her watch.
“What about my ideas for mini clam chowder cups?” he pressed. “Or oysters on the half shell?”
Holly shook her head. “We’ve been over this. Too pricey, too allergic.”
“But a charcuterie? You cannot have all those fresh-off-the-road hands assaulting all those meats and cheeses. It’s inelegant. It’s basic.”
Holly ticked through her final to-do list on the inn’s signature stationery, a new rebranding design that she and Linus had come up with to honor the house’s history: two sprigs of cranberry framing a sailing ship.
Between a staff meeting, a menu review, and checking in with housekeeping before doors opened, there was much still to do.
What she did not have time for was Linus’s grousing.
“Let me get this straight. Greta planned a seasonal charcuterie with produce from our garden, keeping in line with our new vision of farm-to-table dining. I don’t see a problem. ”
“Can I tell you what I see?” Linus didn’t wait for an answer. “Hand, foot and mouth disease!”
Holly sighed. It had been this way with her two most important staffers since she’d asked them to work together on rebranding: each harbored a simmering loathing for the other in their endless power struggle.
If Greta was protective of her kitchen at the back of the house, so was Linus about the front.
But they were different animals. Greta wore Crocs, Linus donned Hermès loafers.
Greta drove a battered old Jeep, while Linus whipped through town on an electric sky-blue moped.
Where Greta could be honed in as a terrier, Linus’s temperament was more of the feline disposition: purring one moment and hissing the next.
Holly had hoped things would improve as their visions came to fruition with opening day, yet they were always in each other’s hair.
“If you’re done,” she told him, “I need you to make a spa reservation in town for Mrs. Russo. She requested a detox scrub.”
Linus shuddered. “That’s what all those guests’ hands will need before they touch the charcuterie.”
Clipboard in hand, she left Linus pouting at the front desk and headed through the parlor. At least he was invested in trying to make their opening day perfect, she told herself. And after a long winter of renovations, the Cranberry finally looked about perfect.
The parlor room, with its parquet floors and plaster frieze of the goldfinch, was the most formal of the inn, and that summer Holly had attempted to soften its Victorian motif with modern comfortable furnishings.
Two sleek sofas upholstered in off-white linen flanked the fireplace, adorned by bolster pillows embroidered with navy-blue whales, custom-made by a designer in Provincetown.
Honey rattan end tables stood at each sofa arm, stacked artfully with history books of Chatham.
A nook by the canted bay window housed an antique game table and two vintage cane chairs, a chessboard between them at the ready.
The sash windows with their original ornamental mullions were open just enough to let the salt air whisper in.
The parlor was a favorite with guests, whether to relax with a book or enjoy a cocktail before dinner.
Holly paused to soak in its calming coastal vibe.
The dining room was a world of its own. Despite the inn housing just ten bedrooms, its intimate dining room, now named Harvest, was always teeming thanks to Chef Greta.
It had been easy to convince Francine to let her increase seating by expanding the dining area into the adjacent sunroom, if a little less easy to convince her to open it to the public this summer.
Dressing both rooms in soothing neutral fabrics and paint, with names like Sailcloth and Oyster Shell, had helped marry the two spaces, as did the minimalist elegance of linen-covered tables and upholstered banquettes.
Antique bronze wall sconces evoked a candlelight glow in the evenings, not to be outdone by the sunset, which took a nightly seat at each table, thanks to the bank of French doors that ran along the back leading out to the patio.
Out there, guests could relax in Adirondack chairs overlooking the bay.
Content that everything was set, Holly hurried upstairs with her clipboard, where she was relieved to find that Josephine and her housekeeping team, mostly comprised of her sisters, had finished with the guest rooms. Each four-poster bed was crisply made in embroidered cotton linens, its goose down pillows fluffed; each private marble bath polished.
For a brief moment of insanity, Holly was tempted to invite her grandmother for a final peek before guests arrived.
But no—that was the point of all of this.
A trial run, her grandmother had insisted.
“Just pretend I’m dead and gone.” A request that had proven nearly impossible as Francine hovered during renovations, making faces over paint choices and small noises in her throat over room rearrangements.
Despite having sequestered herself at her friend Bee’s for the summer, her grandmother kept reappearing like a spirit.
With opening day here and no sign of Francine, Holly had to wonder if Bee had tied her down.
When her phone rang, Holly hurried downstairs to the old library, the only unrenovated part of the inn that she now used as her office. She’d been waiting for this call.
Janice Ray’s voice was warm. “You’ll be happy to know the article is edited. I think readers are really going to enjoy it!”
Janice was the owner and publisher of Chatham Life, an upscale lifestyle magazine widely circulated on the Cape and in Boston.
Their summer issue was the biggest of the year, and getting a feature in the magazine was a marketing dream for the Cranberry House.
The headline was “The New Keeper of a Next Chapter,” detailing Holly’s innkeeping role and rebranding of the inn.
“That’s fantastic!” Holly said, looking out over the cove. She needed this publicity, and the timing could not be better.
“We go to print next week. I know how busy you are trying to open over there, but I’m afraid we’re running out of time for your headshot.”
“The fault is mine,” Holly admitted, apologetically. “In fact, we open in mere minutes.”
“How exciting!” Janice paused. “I don’t suppose you can squeeze in a quick photo session today? My photographer, Dan, is in your area doing a last-minute shoot with another subject we’re trying to fit into this issue as well.”
Holly deflated. The Cranberry was spit-polished but she was not. At least her work-weary look would be authentic. “I’m game for today if you are,” she agreed reluctantly.
As she waited for the photographer, Holly studied her reflection in her compact. Her no-makeup look wouldn’t do for the glossy magazine. As much as she hated it, there was no other choice. She called in backup.
“I need your help.”
Hairbrush in hand, Linus cocked his head appraisingly, his eyes traveling from her hair to her face, then down to her shoes before ending with a hard sigh. “Do we have time for a quick shop?”
Holly shook her head.
“Cut and color?”
“Linus.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Fifteen minutes?”
Linus put a hand to his own head. “Good God.”
“Never mind!” she snapped, snatching the hairbrush back. “This was a bad idea.”
“No, no, allow me. I’m no miracle worker, but I do like a challenge.”
He dragged her desk chair to the window for better light, and Holly slumped in it. As he worked on her hair and makeup, Holly tried to relax. She let her gaze roam up and down the bookshelves, admiring the decorative woodwork despite its lack of polish. “Don’t you just love this room?”
“No. It, too, needs a makeover.”
“Don’t be such a snob. Even you can’t deny the architecture.”