Holly #3
“No, but we do have towel warmers on the walls,” Holly said. The hardwired installation had eaten no small amount of her renovation budget.
“A shame,” Mrs. Sutton said.
“Mummy,” Sissy whispered. “Remind me to bring shearling slippers.”
“What about room service?” It was the only question Mr. Sutton had asked.
“Harold adores room service,” Sissy added.
The tour was not going as hoped. Despite the thoughtful and luxurious touches Holly had worked into the renovation, the inn’s historic architecture and charm seemed to be completely lost on the Suttons.
Like an outgoing tide, she could feel their wedding-weekend reservation slipping away.
And if they canceled now, she would be hard-pressed to fill the entire inn with that short notice, the very thing Francine had fretted over.
“Yes,” Holly lied, scribbling quickly on her clipboard.
“I’ll have an updated room service menu to share when you return. ” The demand list was growing.
With the tour mercifully over, Holly led her picky party back downstairs, pausing to point out a collection of old photographs of the ship merchant’s family and the cranberry boggers, but the Suttons were not interested.
Nor were they touched by the local landscape paintings done by resident artists hanging throughout the lobby.
Originally, Holly had planned to show the Suttons the inn artifacts locked in the trunk, but she strode right past it.
The Suttons wanted valet parking, climate control, and pest management.
Good thing she’d kept Bruce tucked in the library during the tour.
She showed the Suttons to their table in Harvest’s sunroom, with the best view of the bay, and limped out of there.
“How’s it going?” Linus whispered.
“About as well as the Wadena,” Holly huffed.
“The shipwreck?” Linus made a face. “Tragic. I’d best start pouring.”
“Pour heavily. I’ll alert Greta. She’s our last hope.”
When Holly returned to the dining room, Linus’s cocktails had been sucked down at a surprising rate.
“This is the one!” Sissy declared, holding up an almost empty martini glass. “The Bitter Truth. What a name!”
Even Mrs. Sutton was smiling.
The tasting saved them all. Holly had to give it to Linus, who supervised the service expertly, stopping only to compliment Sissy’s handbag in whispers.
“Prada, spring collection, Milan,” she said.
Greta’s dishes were devoured as quickly as they were served. Mrs. Sutton, who’d stated before the tasting began that she was a “light eater,” had polished her plate.
“These tomatoes,” she said dreamily, spearing a small golden orb.
“Those are husk cherries,” Holly shared. “From our garden. Around here they’re known as Cape gooseberries, for their sweet flavor.”
“Divine,” she said, spearing another. “I could eat a whole bowl.”
Holly laughed. “I hope you enjoy our next course as much: local clams.” Holly knew they would: she and Greta had done their homework.
The clams were served casino style with great salty flecks of Canadian bacon and garlic. The sound of slurping filled the dining room as the Suttons, ignoring their cocktail forks, tipped back their shells.
Entrées followed. “This course will be served family style, so you may help yourself to your entrées in order of preference?” It was the one decision Greta had suggested for service that Holly wasn’t so sure of: clearly the Suttons liked to be waited on.
She was relieved when, without hesitation, Mr. Sutton reached for the steak fork and Mrs. Sutton for the cod spoon. Sissy helped herself to the tuna. Relieved, Holly left them to taste in private.
“How do you think it’s going now?” she asked Linus.
“As well as the speed at which the food is going down their gullets.” He looked pleased. “Don’t you just love Sissy?”
Holly did not love Sissy, but she did love the sudden turn of mood. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
The end came after dessert, from which key lime pie was unanimously voted the winner. Holly elbowed him playfully. “How about that?”
“Well, she can’t be perfect,” Linus said, as Sissy stabbed the last forkful and popped it in her mouth.
Holding her breath, Holly rejoined the Suttons. This was it.
“I must say,” Mr. Sutton said, pushing back his chair and exhaling, “the food was unexpected.”
“Oh?” Holly was afraid to ask, unexpectedly good or bad?
“We loved all of it!” Sissy declared, gesturing with her hands. “And I don’t even like clams.”
Holly threw Linus a look, but he’d already ducked out at the word clams.
“The problem is we don’t know which two dishes to choose,” Mrs. Sutton added, fanning herself with a napkin. Holly couldn’t help but notice a drop of butter grease on the front of her crisp white blouse. “I leave it up to Sissy. It’s her rehearsal dinner.” Everyone turned to the bride.
Sissy sighed. “I don’t know. Harold should be here. He’s so much better at making decisions.” She looked at Holly. “Maybe he can come taste everything later this week?”
Holly did not point out that Harold had made his decision by choosing golf, but bit her tongue.
There was no way she was going to offer another tasting if and when he did drag himself off the course.
“With your rehearsal dinner next weekend, I think it would be best to narrow down your menu sooner than later.”
“What about this idea?” Mr. Sutton ventured. “Offer all of it. That way our guests can make their own selections.”
“You mean a buffet?” The Suttons had originally rebuked the mere suggestion of it.
This is a formal wedding weekend. Service must be plated, Sissy had stated in her last email.
“A buffet,” Sissy mused.
“I loathe that word,” Mrs. Sutton said, “but I’d hate to deny our family any of these dishes.”
“Buffet it is,” Mr. Sutton decided, tossing his napkin on the table and standing. “Now we must meet that chef.”
“Of course,” Holly began. “I’ll ask her to come out.”
But Mr. Sutton was already halfway to the door. “I must see this kitchen.”
Like children hearing the bell ring for recess, Sissy and her mother leapt up and followed. Linus trailed like a teacher trying to regain control.
“Is this it?” Mr. Sutton barked, halting outside the swinging door in the lobby. Without waiting, he barged in before Holly could catch up. Poor Greta had no idea what was coming.
Greta, who was in the middle of wiping down her butcher block island, looked up in surprise.
“Are you the chef?” Mr. Sutton asked.
Her eyes darted between the Suttons and Holly.
“I am. Greta Nyqvist,” she said, setting down her towel warily.
Mr. Sutton reached across the island for Greta’s hand and began shaking it vigorously. “With my business travels, I eat all over the world. But that was the best damn food I’ve had in ages.”
“Why, thank you,” Greta said, her face lighting up.
“You’re one hell of a cook.”
Holly did not say chef, nor did she follow Mr. Sutton out as he pushed through the swinging door. “Let’s take another look at that firepit,” was the last thing she heard him say. Sissy, however, lingered.
“I love your hair,” she told Greta, admiring her long blond braid. “You’ve got this great Boho vibe going.”
“I hope you loved the food as well?” Greta asked. “As the bride, you’re my most important client.”
Sissy flashed her high-wattage smile. “Oh yes! The tuna was my favorite at first, but I have to say the spinach outdid it. And I hate vegetables. And those tomatoes… Oh. My. God.”
“That credit goes to our talented gardener,” Greta said, glancing at the window. “Oh, there he is!” She turned back to Sissy. “It would be nice if he heard this. He’s more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy, you know what I mean?”
Sissy nodded dramatically. “I know exactly what you mean. Call him in! I’ll tell him myself.”
Linus elbowed Holly. Things were getting better and better.
They all watched as Greta hurried to the side door and waved Oliver down. “I’d like you to meet someone,” she called.
A moment later Oliver’s tall frame filled the doorway. Greta, smiling ear to ear, turned to make introductions. She didn’t need to, it turned out.
When Oliver spotted Sissy Sutton, his mouth fell open.
Sissy gasped. “Ollie!”
“Ollie?” Confused, Greta looked between them.
“Oh my God,” Sissy shrieked. “Ollie! It’s really you.”
Then, before any of them understood what was happening, Sissy Sutton closed the distance between them, threw herself against Oliver’s chest, and wrapped her arms around his neck.