From Willa, With Love Read online

  As we get closer to my bike, I look up at the person on the bluff. Is that Jess Farrelly? Tall, thin, long dark brown hair. He’s in my class at Bramblebriar Academy. He has a band called the Buoy Boys.

  Salty barks. I look down at him. Salty smiles. I swear that dog smiles.

  When I look back up on the bluff, there’s no one there. Was that Jess?

  Salty barks, “Me, me, pay attention to me.”

  “I see you, buddy. I love you, Salty.”

  “You, too, you, too,” he barks.

  CHAPTER 3

  Comings and Goings

  The great blessing of my youth was that I grew up in a world of cheap and abundant books. There were books in the study, books in the drawing room, books in the cloakroom, books (two deep) in the great bookcase on the landing, books in the bedroom, books piled high as my shoulder….

  — C. S. Lewis

  Rosie, our baker and Sam’s assistant head chef, is in the kitchen when I get home.

  “The cranberry-nut bread should be cool enough, Willa,” she says, motioning to four loaves on racks on the counter. “Slice yourself a piece. I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”

  “Thanks, Rosie,” I say. “It smells delicious.”

  Rosalita Torres is an absolute genius baker of sweet things … pies, cakes, cookies, breads, muffins, cupcakes, puddings, soufflés…. I keep telling her she should have her own line of cookbooks and a television show. Sweet Rosie Sweets I tell her to call it. Mother gets annoyed when I praise Rosie so much because she doesn’t want Rosie to leave us.

  When Chickles Blazer, of the millionaire Buick Blazers, tasted the wedding cake Rosie made for her daughter Suzie-Jube’s wedding here at the inn, Mrs. Blazer declared it was the best cake she’d ever tasted—and believe me, not to be rude or anything, Mrs. Blazer would attest to this herself, that lady has sampled many a cake in her life—and she said she was going to make Rosie “famous.” This reminds me, I saw that Rosie got a letter from Mrs. Blazer recently. I spotted the return address when I brought in the mail.

  “Hey, Rosie. I meant to ask you. I noticed you got a letter from the Blazers.”

  Rosie stops stirring whatever she’s stirring. She looks out the window. “I’ve got one hundred desserts to make by that wedding Saturday,” she says, starting to stir again. “The bride’s a braviar, for sure.”

  “A braviar?” I say, spreading butter on the warm bread. “What’s that?”

  “You know, like they call some brides bridezillas because they are so monstrous, demanding this and that. Well, your mother said we should think of them as braviars—brides with caviar taste.”

  I roll my eyes. That’s my mom.

  “Stella likes braviars because they spend more,” Rosie continues. “The Bennigan wedding this weekend, it’s small, one hundred people, but wait until they get that bill. A six-course meal, lobster and filet mignon, top-shelf open bar, and one hundred individual—each one unique—tiny cakes for dessert. The bride insists that each guest receive a ‘unique and completely original gourmet cake,’ since each one of her guests is —”

  “Wait, let me guess,” I say. “Unique and completely original?”

  “Yes.” Rosie laughs and we both roll our eyes over that.

  “Remember the cake you made for Suzie-Jube Blazer,” I say, “the one that became our ‘Signature Bramblebriar Wedding Cake’?”

  Rosie smiles. “Yes, and you made it even more special putting those little silver lucky charms inside.” Rosie locks eyes with mine. She bites her lip. She looks like she’s going to cry.

  “Rosie, what’s wrong?”

  She turns away. She turns back and looks at me.

  Right then, I know. She’s leaving us. I set down my teacup, wipe crumbs from my face. “Are we losing you?” I say.

  Rosie tilts her head and smiles softly. “Yes, Willa. I’m sorry. I’ve thought about it long and hard. You know how much I love working here and how much you and Sam and, well … Stella … mean to me, but I have to think about my daughter, Lilly, and how best to provide for her and, well, the Blazers have made me an offer I simply cannot refuse.”

  “And what offer is that?” my mother says.

  She and Sam have just entered the kitchen. My mother is standing there in her jogging clothes, hands on her hips, unsmiling, waiting for an answer. Sam pours two mugs of coffee, hands one to Mom, takes a sip of his, winks, and smiles good morning to me. I smile good morning back.

  Rosie stands up. She paces around the kitchen as if to gain courage before speaking and then she stops and faces my mother. “The Blazers offered me a full scholarship to the college of my choice plus living expenses. I got accepted at the CIA, the Culinary Institute of America, in Hyde Park, New York, my first choice….”

  I think about how when the Blazers first visited the inn a few years back, I had just been named Community Service Leader for our class, and my friends and I were hosting a Halloween dance in the barn to help raise money to save the Bramble Library. The Blazers had such fun dancing (they came back again at Thanksgiving for more!) that they eventually donated a huge sum of money to the library, and then announced they were founding the Blazer Benevolent Foundation to offer college scholarships to deserving young people throughout the country. Now, that’s what I call community rent.

  Rosie is certainly “deserving.” She’s in her early twenties, a single mother, working full-time trying to support her little daughter, Lilly…. And, she has a very real and amazing gift for cooking. I know Rosie likes working here, but with a college degree and all that natural talent, who knows how far she can go?

  “Oh, my gosh, Rosie, that’s wonderful!” I leap up and rush over to hug her. Salty barks congratulations, too.

  “Yes indeed,” Sam says, stepping forward to shake Rosie’s hand.

  Rosie hugs Sam. She wipes a tear from her cheek. “I am so grateful, Sam, for all that you have done for me.”

  “I don’t know what we’ll do without our chief baker and assistant head chef,” Sam says, “but we couldn’t be more proud or happy for you, Rosie.”

  I love you, Sam. I smile at him.

  My mother is silent. All eyes are on her.

  I make a face at her like Come on, Mom, say something.

  “When?” Mother says curtly to Rosie.

  “I’d like to head up to Hyde Park this week, Stella, to start looking for an apartment and child care for Lilly.”

  “This weekend!” Mother shouts. “What about …”

  “Stella,” Sam says, cocking his head as if to say Calm down, take a breath.

  “You can’t possibly be thinking of quitting us here in the height of our busiest season, with the Bennigan wedding on Saturday and …”

  “No, Stella,” Rosie says. “I’ll get the one hundred cakes done and I’ll be back before the wedding and I’ll stay on as long as I can, hopefully until you find a replacement.”

  “Do I have your word on that?” my mother demands. “That you won’t just up and leave us stranded?”

  “Mom,” I say in a reprimanding tone. “We all want the best for Rosie.”

  My mother turns on me. “Yes, Willa, of course,” she snaps, setting her mug down on the counter with a loud clank, “but I also want what’s best for the Bramblebriar. I have a business to run here.”

  Salty makes a throaty-gurgling sound. Was that a growl?

  My mother sniffs the air in Salty’s direction. “And get that dog outside with a soap and a hose. He smells like dead fish.”

  “Sushi,” I say under my breath.

  Sam hears me. He laughs. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

  “I’m off for my run,” my mother says. “What about you, Willa? If you’re going to run the Falmouth Road Race with me next month, you need to be training.”

  “I know,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow.” I don’t feel like being my mother’s running buddy right now. Not after she was so curt with Rosie. She should be happy for her!

  After my m
other leaves, Sam and Salty and I walk around the side of the inn to the backyard. Sam’s circular garden Labyrinth is beautiful, flowers in full bloom, the tall white Shasta daisies, purple cone flowers, yellow Susans, and red roses all trying to beat out the striking blue hyacinths for “best of show,” but the hyacinths take the blue ribbon today.

  “I’ll sure miss Rosie,” I say to Sam as he unravels the long green garden hose.

  “Me, too,” Sam says. “I’ll miss her friendship and her talent. We made a good team in the kitchen.” He hands me the nozzle. He squeezes some soap onto Salty and reaches for a brush.

  “Joey is gone, Mariel’s gone … now Rosie, too. I’m excited for her, but how depressing….”

  Sam touches my arm to get my attention. “That’s life, Willa,” he says to me. “People we love, coming and going.”

  “I know, but …”

  “Listen,” Sam says. “I wanted to surprise you with the news early Sunday morning before church, but I think maybe you could use the good news right now.”

  “What news?” I say, turning on the nozzle.

  “Sulamina Mum’s coming back.”

  “What! Oh, my gosh, Sam, really?” I’ve got goose bumps. “When?”

  “Sunday,” Sam says. “The board made her a wonderful offer and she’s coming back home to us.”

  “Whoopee!” I shout, aiming the stream of water straight up in the air and shaking it all around over our heads so it rains on me and Sam and our fishy-smelling sushi-loving dog.

  CHAPTER 4

  Stella Steps It Up

  In books I have traveled, not only to other worlds, but into my own. I learned who I was and who I wanted to be, what I might aspire to, and what I might dare to dream about my world and myself.

  — Anna Quindlen

  Showering up and changing after the hose storm, still smiling ear to ear—Mum’s coming back! Mum’s coming back!—I report to the kitchen for breakfast duty.

  After washing my hands, I put on a green Bramblebriar apron and review the main course specials Rosie has posted for the day:

  Bacon and Cheddar Omelet

  with Cinnamon Swirl Raisin Toast

  Blueberry-Strawberry Belgian Waffles

  with Country Sausage

  Spinach, Feta, and Tomato Quiche

  with Fresh Fruit Cup

  Yum!

  In addition to the main breakfast entrees, our guests may also help themselves from a long table filled with lighter fare: fresh granola, yogurts, assorted cereals, muffins, bagels, and fruit.

  No one goes hungry at the Bramblebriar Inn.

  I take a tray of cloth napkin-covered baskets filled with warm cranberry bread slices and small plates with pats of butter and I head to my post on the porch.

  It’s warm and sunny, with a robin-egg blue sky, a postcard-perfect summer day. Our guests will be so pleased. No one wants rain on vacation.

  My four-hour shift will fly by in a flash and soon I’ll be off to the beach with my lunch and today’s skinny-punch book: Hope Was Here. It’s by one of my favorite authors, Joan Bauer, about a girl named Hope who is a waitress. Given our similar professions, I thought maybe Hope and I could relate.

  As each group of our guests wanders onto the sun-porch and chooses a table, I welcome them, set down the cranberry bread and butter, and fill their glasses with water. Directing them toward the specials on the chalkboard, I ask what kind of juice I can bring and would they like tea or coffee. When I return with their drinks, I take their main course orders, making friendly small talk, inquiring about what they did last night or what they have planned for today.

  “Morning, little sister,” Will says to me at the side service table, swiping two pieces of cranberry bread and chugging down a glass of orange juice I had just poured for the nice lady from Essex, Vermont.

  “Hey, stop that,” I say.

  “See ya later,” Will says.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Out to the Vineyard. Chauncey and I are going deep-sea fishing with his uncle.”

  Chauncey Southends is a friend of Will’s from Bainbridge, the boarding school they both attend in England. Chauncey is visiting family on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, a short boat or ferry ride from the Cape.

  Will takes another juice from my tray.

  “Hey!” I scold.

  He laughs. “Don’t work too hard, Willa.”

  “Don’t fall off the boat!” I shout after him.

  The white-haired lady from Albany, New York, a retired teacher, Mrs. Noonan, smiles and winks at me. “You tell him, honey,” she says.

  “What are your plans today, Mrs. Noonan?” I ask, refilling her cup of decaf coffee and checking to be sure there’s still cream left in the pitcher. Remembering whether a guest drinks regular or decaf is an important part of this job.

  “A walk in the Labyrinth, Willa,” she says, “then a chaise in the shade by the pond with a book or two, maybe even three of them.”

  “Sounds perfect to me,” I say.

  The handsome, stylishly dressed young couple from New York City—she’s an editor, he works in finance—ask me what’s going on around town this week.

  “The Barnstable Fair opens in East Falmouth,” I say. “That’s fun.” I think how I won’t be going with JFK, won’t be riding the Ferris wheel at night, holding hands and …

  Guests always ask me for suggestions of things to do on their vacation, and I am happy to recommend. I tell them about my favorite Cape beaches, South Cape and Old Silver here on the upper Cape; Nauset, Marconi, and Lifeguard on the outer Cape. I direct them to the most fun mini-golf places, the best lighthouses, favorite biking routes along the Cape Cod Canal or on the Rail Trail or the Shining Sea Bike Path from Falmouth to Woods Hole, or possibly a walk on the nature trails here on conservation lands or out through the National Seashore. And then there’s always a ferry ride to Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard, a seal watch out of Chatham, a whale watch from Provincetown, and a visit to Pilgrim Monument.

  If it’s a rainy day, I send guests first stop to Sweet Bramble Books, where often Nana will be hosting a visiting author for a signing, or to one of the other bookstores up and down the Cape, which always host events. Or, for those who like to shop, I point them toward nearby Mashpee Commons or to the towns with quaint main streets filled with great shops and restaurants, and then there are all of the art and antique galleries, and the museums, my favorite being the Kennedy museum in Hyannis, given my love for all things “JFK.” And they absolutely must try candlepin bowling and take a tour of Cape Cod Potato Chips, where they give each visitor a free bag of chips; the movie theaters; the mall; and, of course, our very own Bramblebriar Inn Library stacked floor to rafters with books, managed by yours truly; and our game room, also managed by yours truly, stocked with every board game you can imagine, my favorites being Scrabble, chess, and Chinese checkers.

  When the last party has finished breakfast and the tables are cleared and dishes all stacked in the dishwashers, I head up to my room to change for the beach. The door to my parents’ bedroom is open. As I approach, I hear them talking.

  “We’re down, Sam,” Mother says. “We’ve got serious money troubles. Occupancy’s off. The main house is full, but four of the other buildings are empty. Dinners are down ten percent. The weddings have gotten too folksy-homey.”

  Folksy-homey? I pause to listen.

  “I’m getting back into high-end weddings,” my mother says. “I once was the crème de la crème … a wedding planner with a mile-long waiting list. We should be getting two hundred dollars a head for meals alone, before the music and entertainment and …”

  Two hundred dollars a person? So, for a wedding with two hundred guests, that would be $40,000 for dinner alone? No wonder Sulamina Mum and Riley said they couldn’t afford to have their wedding here. No wonder Sam’s sister, Ruthie, and her fiancé, Spruce, requested such a modest affair. Wow, the Blazer wedding must have cost a fortune! They had more than th
ree hundred guests, as I recall.

  “The charms in the cake thing is sweet,” my mother is saying, “but it’s not bringing in top-shelf clientele. Wealthy clients want fresh and original. They want to be pampered. They want to know their wedding is a singular work of art.”

  What? That’s insulting. Those charms were my idea. The wedding magazines said it was “adorable.”

  “I’m going to start stepping it up here, Sam,” my mother says. “The economy’s down, tourism’s off, but a wedding is a wedding, and that’s where the money is. Nobody wants to disappoint a bride. We haven’t had a caviar wedding since Suzie Blazer….”

  My heart is pounding. There she goes again. My mother the business barracuda. I wonder how long it will be before she gets restless with the slower, simpler life here at the inn. Mother was born and raised on the Cape, but when she left for college, she was planning on leaving for good. Nana said my mother thought the Cape was too quaint and old-fashioned, and that wasn’t a good thing. Stella wanted a more exciting, fast-paced, big-city cosmopolitan life. After my birthfather, Billy Havisham, died, she started Weddings by Havisham and quickly became one of the most successful wedding planners in the country. But her heart was so broken by Billy’s death that she swore off ever loving, ever marrying again. Each time she got close to a new suitor, she’d freak out and close up shop and move us to another city. Finally, Nana urged Mom to come on home, and we moved here to Cape Cod. Lucky for me, my eighth-grade teacher, Sam Gracemore, turned out to be just the perfect match for my mother. They say opposites attract. Sam and Stella are proof of that. And I was the one who set them up on their first date.

  Oh, no…. What if my mother wants to leave Cape Cod and move us to a big city again? What about our inn? What about the plans Sam told me he and Mom have to possibly adopt a baby? What if I have to leave JFK and Mariel and …

  Reason: Stop it, Willa.