Thomas Kinkade: The Inn at Angel Island

When she turned, Claire was standing nearby again, looking at her expectantly. Liza didn’t know what to say. Aunt Elizabeth had been very loquacious. She talked enough for two, Uncle Clive always said. Maybe that’s why Elizabeth and Claire had gotten along so well-her aunt had done all the talking?

“Well… thanks for waiting. But it is late. I’m sure you want to get home.” Liza heard the forced, false note of friendliness in her voice. Claire was being so kind to her, it made her feel even more guilty about having to tell her that she would soon be out of a job.

If she leaves now, I won’t have to tell her until tomorrow, Liza realized.

“Are you hungry?” Claire asked, ignoring Liza’s hint. “I’ve fixed you some dinner, just in case.”

Liza was hungry. As much as she wished she were alone and out of this woman’s company, her stomach easily won out.

“I am. I didn’t stop to eat. It was raining so hard, and the places on the highway have such horrible food.”

Claire nodded, seeming satisfied by that answer. She headed down the long hallway to the kitchen that was at the back of the house, and Liza followed, aware of her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. Had she ever worn heels in this house? They didn’t seem right here.

“I made some rosemary bread and chowder with plenty of cod and potatoes. I used the tomatoes from your aunt’s garden. We put them up together last fall, before she got ill.”

By put them up, Liza knew Claire meant preserved them in glass jars. Her aunt had been a devoted gardener and a very practical one, too, cultivating both beautiful flowers and rows of vegetables and herbs, which she and Liza’s uncle would pick and preserve, then eat throughout the winter.

Claire stood at the wide, black cast-iron stove with her back to Liza. Solidly built, Claire wore a long dark blue cardigan over brown wool pants and heavy brown shoes that looked waterproof. A practical outfit for a rainy day in this part of the world, Liza thought. The housekeeper’s fair hair looked as if it had once been blond but was now blended with gray and white strands, all wound in a coil at the back of her head.

Claire lit a burner beneath a large pot. The flame sprung up with a whooshing sound that Liza suddenly remembered. The stove was the same one her aunt had used to cook on, so old it had probably come with the house.

Liza rinsed her hands at the sink and dried them on a towel. The big farm table was long enough to accommodate a houseful of guests. Tonight it had been set with one place: a blue and white cloth place mat, a white linen napkin, silverware, and a water glass.

Liza sat at the spot, which was obviously meant for her. She suddenly realized it was the very same seat she had always sat in as a little girl. Had Claire somehow known that? But how could she?

It seemed an odd coincidence, considering the size of the table and the place Claire had chosen. Not some obvious spot at the head or even a corner. Liza glanced at the housekeeper, who stood at the stove, stirring the chowder, and felt an uncanny chill. She marked it up to her damp clothes and to being so hungry and tired.

“That soup smells good,” Liza said, mostly to break the silence.

“That must mean it’s ready. Or you’re ready to have some.” Claire glanced over her shoulder and smiled briefly. Then she filled a large bowl with chowder and carried it, along with a basket of fragrant bread that had just been taken from the oven, over to the table.

Liza noticed a small dish of butter near her plate. This was the perfect kind of bread for butter, and Liza did want to indulge, knowing it would melt instantly and taste very good. But she resisted. This was not vacation, and she didn’t want to go home bursting out of her clothes on top of every other inconvenience. She would stick to her usual diet, thank you very much. No butter, no sugar, no empty carbs.

She took a bite of the bread, which was still delicious on its own, then glanced at her dinner again. There was a lot more floating around in the chowder than just some cod and potatoes. Bits of celery-or was that fennel? Some carrot, onions, and herbs. Some shellfish, clams and mussels and even a few plump shrimp. The scent was rich and fragrant, hinting at saffron.

Liza dipped her spoon and took a sip, then closed her eyes, savoring the mixture of flavors. It really was… divine. It was more like a bouillabaisse and very much like the chowder her aunt had made. Had Claire followed the same recipe? Liza wanted to ask her, but for some reason, she held back and simply took another large spoonful.

Claire set a mug of tea near Liza’s place along with a jar of honey. Liza was a coffee person, an absolute caffeine addict, but for some reason, tea was just what she wanted tonight. Somehow, Claire had guessed without asking.

Claire took another mug from the counter near the stove and sat at the table across from Liza and a few seats away, so that they weren’t directly facing each other.

“This soup is very good,” Liza said between bites.

“Put it up this afternoon. The General Store had almost everything I needed. You can’t be too particular about recipes here. You have to learn to improvise.”

Her aunt used to say the same thing. You had to be flexible in the kitchen. If you couldn’t find a potato, a turnip would have to do.

“Thank you for fixing it for me,” Liza said politely.

“It was no trouble.” Claire sipped her tea, then sat with her hands folded on the tabletop.

They had run out of conversation again. Liza took a few more spoonfuls of chowder and a bite of bread, then pushed the food away and sat back. Ten minutes ago, she had felt very hungry. Now she just felt tired, worn out.

Claire glanced over at her. “So, you’ll be here two weeks. Is that right?”

Liza nodded. “That’s right. Two weeks.” Unless everything is settled sooner, she added silently. Meaning Claire North would be out of a job sooner, too.

“At least you’ll have your brother. You won’t be doing this all alone,” Claire said.

“Yes, he’s coming tomorrow.” Peter had not been able to come east for their aunt’s funeral, so he and Claire had never met.

Claire nodded. “Good. I’ll get his room ready.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Liza said honestly. She forced herself to smile back. Claire North was very kind-and making it even harder now to impart the bad news.

Liza sighed and took a long sip of her tea.

“Would you like anything else? There are some oatmeal cookies,” Claire offered.

“No thanks. Not right now.” Liza paused. She felt so tired. It was probably a bad time to talk to Claire about serious matters, but Liza knew if she didn’t say something tonight, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

“There is something I need to speak to you about, Claire,” she began.

“Yes?” Claire turned her head and met Liza’s glance. She didn’t seem nervous, Liza noticed. Perhaps she already guessed what was to come.

“You must be wondering what my brother and I plan to do with the inn, now that we own it.”

Claire’s mild expression remained unchanged, her clear blue gaze serene. Liza was beginning to think that the house could come down all around her and Claire wouldn’t bat an eye.

“We appreciate that you’ve stayed on here, after my aunt’s death, and taken care of the place. But we’ve decided to put it up for sale. We’ve been in touch with a real estate firm in Cape Light, Bowman Realty. We’re hoping to find a buyer and have everything settled within the next two weeks.”

There. That was clear enough, wasn’t it?

Claire calmly sipped her tea. “I thought that might be what you would do,” she said at last. “I guess we’ll see how it goes.”