Читать книгу North Country Man - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 8

“THESE DIRECTIONS are ridiculous.” Claire double-checked her notes before tossing them aside and edging the car toward what might—or might not—turn out to be Bayside Road. There were no road signs to speak of, but her instructions were to make a sharp right at the Berry Dairy ice-cream cone stand and continue up the hill till she came to the Neptune gateposts. “Whatever happened to street addresses?” she wondered, turning the wheel hand over hand.

Alouette was a nice little town, she’d give it that. Picture-postcard pretty in the daytime, she suspected, when spring sunshine would glance off the dancing waters to brighten the bayside business district of red-and cream-colored brick and stone buildings.

But for now the town was dark and silent. At the marina, black-as-midnight waves slapped at the hulls of boats that had been battened down with sails tightly furled. Even so, it was surprisingly easy for Claire to imagine herself there, sipping coffee in a café that overlooked the harbor. Idling away her time. Doing nothing.

She sighed.

The road to Bay House rose steeply through another thick pine forest. Interspersed with a few maples and birch, the trees densely carpeted the hillside, making the twining roadway seem insignificant in comparison. Claire was beginning to understand that this was a land where nature always overpowered humankind.

She was glad to see that paved driveways had been carved out of the wilderness. Lawns even—vast stretches of them, lit by old-fashioned globe streetlights. The handful of houses she glimpsed through the trees were more handsome and substantial than the humble frame bungalows she’d seen down below. She shifted behind the wheel. Given the upscale neighborhood, Bay House might yet turn out to be a prospect.

At the top of the hill she found the Neptune gateposts—matching sea-god statuary set atop red stone bases gone green with moss and twined with vines. The connecting wrought-iron fence was clogged with a tangle of shrubbery and trees that obscured her view of the house. The gate, an elaborate construction running to rust, stood open, one side pulled halfway off its hinges and dipping lopsided into unmown grass.

“Here I yam,” Claire announced as she always did, clicking to low beams as she drove through the gate. “All that I yam.”

It was a silly saying that had become habit, one she’d begun with her first assignment for Bel Vista. She’d been sent to a ritzy Cliffwalk mansion in Newport because the owners were going bankrupt and the property was available at a bargain-basement price, a “cheap” three mil or so. Coming from modest Midwestern beginnings as she had, she’d been awed and intimidated by the grandeur of how the other half—make that the upper two percent—lived. Although not all her subsequent assignments were as swank, reminding herself that she was worthy exactly as she was helped tame her butterflies.

At a glance she knew that Bay House, rising before her on a grassy knoll, was not so grand, though it was a mansion. The bed-and-breakfast was plentiful in size, made of red sandstone in the Victorian style with several wings, steep peaked dormers and even a turret, its witch-capped roof thrust high against the diamond-laden sky.

A pair of wrought-iron lampposts flanked the walkway, but they were not lighted. The only illumination provided for guests was the dull glow of a solitary fixture shining beside the front door. Saving on electricity?

Claire drove once around the circular driveway, then parked in a paved area alongside several other cars and a well-used pickup truck. She got out, making a mental note of the charming carriage house set back among the trees that bordered the neighboring property. Wondering about the commercial zoning ordinance, she peered through the branches, studying the house next door. A purring black sports car arrived, headlights briefly illuminating the home’s immense white facade. A well-dressed but rumpled man in his mid-thirties lurched out of the car. Claire lifted a hand to wave—never too soon to be friendly with neighbors who might object about Bel Vista moving in—but he threw her a sour, slit-eyed glare and disappeared inside.

“Okay for you,” she said, shrugging. She ducked inside the car to slip the keys from the ignition and reach for her purse.

Her palm landed flat on the passenger seat.

Where was her purse?

“Oh, no,” she moaned under her breath, shooting from the car to check the back seat and trunk. A futile effort. She remembered dropping the purse when that Grizzly Adams character had emerged from the underbrush. Between the shock and distraction and her somersault with Scrap, she’d forgotten all about it.

Good going. What now?

She stared at Bay House, exasperated with herself. The building remained dark and quiet—no sign of a welcome. Well, then. She’d try checking in, and if they wouldn’t take her at her word and demanded identification, she’d have to backtrack in search of the purse. In the meantime, it wasn’t likely anyone would stumble across it on such a little-used road in a sparsely populated area.

“Hoo.” Claire blew out a disgusted breath while hauling her baggage from the trunk. The prospect of facing the wilderness again was disheartening when all she wanted was civilization and its creature comforts.

No other creatures need apply, she silently added, thinking of her rescuer and his bear cub. She had plenty of decisions to make without a big, male, Sasquatch-like creature complicating matters. Even one who had rock-hard muscles and a whimsical sense of humor.

With a piece of luggage in each hand, her computer satchel slung over one shoulder and her carry-on over the other, Claire headed toward the house, automatically taking in its architectural details. Bay windows with leaded mullions, carved stone designs, copper gutters and drainpipes—all very impressive. The place was in dire need of upkeep, but the basic structure appeared sound. Heaven only knew what nasty surprises lurked within. She was experienced enough with reno budgets to know that hidden problems in an older building could double or triple the initial estimate.

A wide front porch stretched from the tower past a bay window. The front door had a knocker and a doorbell, but she tried the blackened brass knob and found it open.

The foyer was large, dim, stuffed with furniture. It looked more like a Victorian brothel than a hotel lobby, complete with swags and furbelows, fringed lamp shades, velvet settees and armchairs. Family pictures and dingy oil paintings crowded busy wallpaper. Claire blinked at the yellowed pattern. It was predominated by fairies and naked nymphs draped in gauze. Ugh.

“Hello?” She set down her suitcase and advanced through a jungle of ferns and other assorted foliage. “Hello?” she called again.

On her left, carved-wood double doors remained closed. On her right were glass doors that had been left open to a dining room. A wide, carpeted staircase loomed before her, but she continued past it to a row of closed doors in the narrowing hallway. She was about to knock on the one that bore a tarnished brass nameplate labeled Office when a long, wheezy snore came from the vicinity of the fern jungle.

Claire retraced her steps. Closer inspection revealed a pair of pajama-clad legs extending out of the greenery, the splayed feet clad in hand-knitted red socks riddled with holes. Poking from the largest was a fat pink toe.

Apparently this was Claire’s evening to roust men from bushes. She peeled away the crisscrossed straps of her bags and dropped them to the carpet with a jarring thud. No response from the sleeper except another snore.

She inched closer. Lifted a palm frond for a better look. A tubby little man slumped in a chair, swaddled in a robe and a crocheted throw, his short, thick fingers clasped atop a chest that rose and fell with each congested breath. Choork, went the inhale with a fluttering of nostrils. Choo, came the whistling exhale, making his moist lower lip vibrate.

Claire’s amusement showed in her tired smile. The man was elfin, with sticky-out ears, a round face and a funny button nose. Wispy white hair made a tonsure around his head.

Choork…

She cleared her throat. “Hello…sir? Could you please wake up?”

Choo…

“I’m dead tired,” she said.

Choork…

She tickled the knob of his nose with the frond.

“Choo!” he said, eyes popping open. He sprang out of the chair.

Claire leaped backward, her hands flying up in defense.

“Wha—whu—who—” the little man said, cartwheeling his arms. The jungle rustled around him.

Claire took another step back. “I’m, uh, Claire Levander. You’re expecting me? I have reservations?”

“Umf.” The fellow grunted suspiciously, rocking back on his heels. “Howzat?” He rubbed a finger beneath his nose. Strands of hair floated around his head as he swayed forward onto the balls of his feet, blinking at Claire. The bare toe curled into the carpet. “Whozzat?”

“Claire Levander,” she repeated, resisting the urge to steady the confused elf.

His eyes brightened as he continued rocking to and fro. “Ar-har, Miss Lavender.”

“Levander.” She pushed her bangs out of her eyes.

“Righto. Here we are.” He’d rescued a registry book from its upside-down position on the carpet and was squinting at the crumpled pages. “You got a pen?”

She patted her pockets. “No. You see, I’ve lost my purse. But I can—”

The man slapped the book shut and dumped it on the chair. “Never mind that. I’ll take you straight oop-stairs.”

“Oop?” she said, becoming as addled as her host.

He looked her up and down, his small blue eyes twinkling. “You’ll want the bridal suite, eh?” His accent was thick—somewhere between Fargo and Canadian.

“I’m not on a honeymoon.”

“No groom?” He frowned at the front door as if expecting one to burst through. “Okeydokey, that’s prefect. I’ll put you in Valentina’s bridal suite.”

“No! I mean, yes. I’m alone. That is, I’m—” Claire caught her lower lip between her teeth. She hadn’t planned to reveal herself as a Bel Vista executive. Not yet. But the elf seemed confused about her reservations, and she did have business cards she could show him. She kept a slim sliver case of them in her purse, but there were extras in her computer satchel.

“Count on Toivo, Miss Lavender. He kin getcha one.” The strange little man toddled off to grab one of her suitcases, then started carting it up the stairs.

One? One what? Did he mean a husband? And who was Toivo? The elf? Claire grabbed the other pieces of luggage, tucking the bags under her arms. “Wait. I don’t want a groom. Just a room. A regular room will do fine. If you have newlyweds arriving…”

He huffed and puffed, mounting the wide, steep steps. “Nope. Newdywebs won’t touch the bridal. They think it’s bad luck.”

Newdywebs? Claire stopped and shook her head. She had to be hearing things.

From below, there came a thud and then the creak of a door opening. Claire glanced over the banister. A young woman, leaning heavily on the doorknob, poked her tousled red head into the hallway. She looked up, blinking, saw Claire and said, “Stay out of the bridal suite,” in a sleepy voice. “’S cursed.”

Claire’s skin felt pinpricked. “Pardon—?”

The door shut abruptly.

“Crazy rumor.” The rosy man elf was standing at the top of the stairs, bobbing on the balls of his feet, waiting for Claire to decide. He beamed. “Best room in the house.”

“Is there anything else available?”

“There are the attic rooms. Kinda small. Lootsa dust. You got elegies?”

After a beat, she said, “Allergies? Not so far as I know. But I’d really rather—” Nonsense, she thought, following the man. She didn’t believe in luck, good or bad. You made your own future, and hers didn’t include either a groom or a curse. “Okay. I’ll take the bridal suite.”

“We’ll need the key. Em’s always hiding it from Shari.”

Claire’s muscles went lax as she slumped against a wall papered in a glitzy but faded red and gold Chinese design that clashed terribly with the fairies below. Fatigue, complicated by confusion, was hitting her hard. She dropped her luggage. “You don’t have a key?” She couldn’t summon up the strength to ask about Em and Shari. The redhead, maybe? And what was that about a curse?

“It’s around here somewheres.”

Claire wove together a few of the tangled threads. “But if this is the only room available and you knew I was coming…”

“Ar-har, here it is!” After unsuccessfully rummaging through the contents of a narrow étagère, the elf had found the key at the bottom of an urn full of musty peacock feathers. He sneezed, scrubbed at his nose, then inserted the old-fashioned latchkey in a door at the end of the hall. “Voilà. The bridal suite, Miss Lavender.” He disappeared inside to switch on the lights.

“Levander…” Claire’s voice faded as she stepped into the room. The bridal suite was large and opulent yet serene, scrupulously dusted and polished from the facets of the crystal chandelier to the gleaming dark wood floor. A massive four-poster bed dominated the room. Its linens looked freshly bleached and starched, stark white and topped with a fancy crocheted spread as fragile as frost on a windowpane. A more colorful quilt was folded at the foot.

Her pajama-clad host was bringing in the luggage. Despite her exhaustion, Claire went to the glass doors that opened onto a small balcony with a spiked iron railing.

Oh, my.

The view was amazing. Beyond the wild mess of a backyard garden, a sheer cliff dropped away to the vast expanse of Lake Superior. The water glistened like obsidian beneath a glowing wedge of quarter moon. On the opposite side of the harbor, beyond more steep rocks and treetops, was the blinking beacon of a lighthouse.

Trying unsuccessfully to prop up heavy eyelids, she lingered to listen to the surf swish against the rocks, the sough of the wind in the pines. The natural rhythms were hypnotic. It wasn’t long before her eyes had drifted shut. A little bit of peace settled inside her, like a smooth round pebble floating to the bottom of a murky pond. If she stayed at the inn long enough, Claire wondered dreamily, would the peacefulness spread like rings on the surface of the water? Would her muddy future come clear?

She gave herself another little shake and returned inside. “It’s a beautiful view,” she told her host, who was beaming at her, practically rubbing his hands with glee. “And a lovely room. I’ll sign in properly tomorrow morn—”

“We don’t stand on celery at Bay House,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll tell Emmie to let you sleep as late as you like, Miss Lavender. Otherways she’ll be in here at seven a.m. with a breakfast tray, trying to get a lookie-loo.”

“I’d appreciate that, Mr….”

The elf’s white hair swirled around his head when he nodded. “Toivo Whitaker. Me ’n’ my sister Em own this place.”

Claire’s smile froze as he swung the door shut. That was unfortunate. Two elderly owners, apparently naive and good-hearted, and a run-down mansion set on a fabulous piece of waterfront acreage. On the surface, it seemed to be a perfect situation from Bel Vista’s point of view—a juicy plum of property ripe for the plucking.

Already Claire suspected that she’d dread making this report. From what she’d seen so far, Bay House was unique, even magical, like an enchanted castle out of time.

Out of time? Oh, she hoped not.

Unfortunately, it was her job to deliver the verdict.

CLAIRE ROSE from the deep cottony down of sleep like a butterfly fluttering toward a sunbeam. A delicious warmth touched her face—sunlight, streaming through the balcony doors. Her lids trembled as she moved languidly beneath a crisp sheet that smelled like the outdoors. Gradually she grew aware of muffled voices in the hallway. Without coming fully awake, she concentrated to listen.

“She’s not supposed to be in the bridal suite,” said a woman, sounding cross. Her accent was similar to the elf’s. “I told you to put her in the blue room.”

“The couple from Canada are in the blue room.” Toivo Whitaker, Claire thought sleepily. He was clearly befuddled, which was probably his regular state of affairs.

“They’re in the green room, you silly old man.”

“Then who’s in the red room?”

“The fisherman from Minneapolis. I switched him because of the wasp nest. If you’d gotten the bug bomb like I asked…” The voices faded as Toivo and his sister moved along the hall.

Smiling, Claire rolled over and buried her face in the sweet-smelling pillowcase. She’d slept better than she had in months. It must have been her exhaustion, because the mattress was terribly soft and lumpy.

The sunshine and rhythmical sound of the waves rocked her in a cradle of somnolence. She was drifting toward sleep again when another person paused outside the door. “It’s ain’t fair,” said a female voice, loud enough to be easily heard. Thud. Something had dropped to the carpet outside the door. Bam. The door rattled.

From a kick, Claire decided, wondering if she should get up. But the woman was moving away, mumbling as she went. “Ain’t fair, ain’t fair, ain’t fair…”

Claire frowned. How odd.

She remembered the sleepy redhead who’d muttered the warning about a curse. Toivo, who’d been downright scatterbrained about her reservation but had then insisted on the bridal suite with a curious glee.

Argh, what nonsense. Sheer fancy. There was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy every comfort the room provided, especially if they were going to move her out as soon as she showed her face.

Claire sighed and rubbed her cheek against the pillowcase. Sun dried. Not many Bel Vista hotels could provide such a service.

The heavy footsteps returned, traipsing in the direction of the staircase. “Ain’t fair, ain’t fair, ain’t fair…”

A comfortable silence descended. Shush, shush, went the waves. Shush, shush, shush… Birds twittered in the sunshine. Somewhere in the hall, a grandfather clock ticked, steady and sonorous.

I yam what I yam and I yam here, Claire said silently, welcoming the pleasure that accompanied the familiar statement. For good or for bad, I yam here.

She slid an arm beneath the pillow, thoughts drifting to her encounter with the woodsman the way iron filings are drawn to a magnet. My, but he’d been large. And so very masculine. She shivered, wondering how he’d look in the daylight.

There was her purse to retrieve.

She might see him again.

Did she want to?

As Claire weighed that question, an uncomfortable awareness slowly came over her. Her scalp began to prickle. As if…ugh, no. She shoved the creepy feeling away, but it returned.

It was as if someone was staring at her.

She opened one eye and squinted, scanned the room through her lashes. One look at the opposite wall and suddenly she was wide-awake, propped up on her elbows, her heart pounding wildly.

The bride! The curse!

It was only a painting, she realized, flushing at her ridiculous overreaction. Yet her distaste remained. From the far wall, a bride stared at her, looking cold and calm and severe in her snowy lace garments, as glacial as an iceberg. Claire recognized the French doors that were the bride’s backdrop, propped open to the blue vista of the big lake and infinite sky. It should have been a lovely painting, the blond bride serene in her wedding raiment, and instead it was terrible. Forbidding. Chilling.

Cursed.

“Get a grip.” Hugging herself, Claire climbed out of the high bed, her bare feet landing on one of the threadbare needlepoint rugs scattered over the hardwood floor. She reached for the sweater she’d carelessly tossed into her open suitcase when she’d changed for bed. The night before, she’d been too tired to notice the grouping of old family portraits that hung on the bridal suite’s fireplace wall. And she’d slept fine. So why be bothered now?

“Psych out,” she said. Scowling at the portrait in spite of her goose bumps, she slid the sweater on over her nightgown. The bride’s cold blue stare had leached all the warmth from the room.

It’s only the power of suggestion, Claire told herself, stepping over for a closer look. If she’d been told this was a blessed bridal suite, she’d still be in bed, relaxed to the core, lolling in the sunshine like a fat, lazy cat.

“No, I wouldn’t.” She stood before the marble mantel and lifted her chin to confront the coldhearted bride. “You’re a frigid, deadening old witch, aren’t you? I pity the man who married you. No wonder the room is cursed.”

“The room’s not cursed.”

Claire swung around in surprise. She hadn’t heard the door open.

“Eh, that Toivo.” The short, round older woman who stood in the doorway with a breakfast tray had to be the elf’s sister, Emmie. Although her eyes snapped with sharp intellect and her hair was a dark iron gray scraped into a severe braid, the two innkeepers were as alike as a matched pair of salt and pepper shakers.

“Tch, tch. I’ve told the old coot not to carry tales,” Emmie Whitaker said with a peppery flare, stooping to retrieve the folded newspaper on the doorstep before advancing into the room. Mingled scents of hot coffee, fresh orange juice and a sweet, spicy cinnamon bun rose from the tray, making Claire’s mouth water.

The innkeeper set the tray on a side table and fussily rearranged the decorative crocheted bedspread Claire had laid aside. “I’m Emmaline Alice Whitaker. Call me Emmie—everyone does.” She poured a cup of coffee, added cream and two lumps of sugar without asking. “Bay House is my family home. Lived here all my life, along with Toivo. Our younger sister ran away to California. Been married three times, if you can imagine, and had a baby with each husband. I’ve never been married, myself. Looking after Toivo and Bay House is enough for any woman.”

Claire inhaled the steam from the coffee before taking a grateful sip, nearly moaning with bliss. She’d drastically cut down, but the first shot of morning caffeine was an indulgence she couldn’t deny herself. This coffee was heavenly—rich and strong and sweet.

Emmie’s lips tucked into a tight, satisfied smile. “We’re plain coffee drinkers at Bay House. It’s the Finnish way. Don’t be asking me for fancy teas or Italian espresso.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The hostess nodded. “You’ll be down soon for breakfast, Miss Lavender?”

Claire offered her hand. “It’s Levander, actually. Claire Levander.”

“Levander?” Emmie’s hand was plump and strong. “Leave it to Toivo,” she said, tsking again.

“Well, you see, I lost my purse, so I didn’t check in properly,” Claire began. “I’ll need to go and search for it first thing—”

“Goodness gracious. I’d send Toivo looking, but Lord knows what that goofball would come back with. Why don’t you tell us all about it at breakfast? The usual suspects are waiting to meet you, Miss Levander.”

Claire glanced at the sweet roll. It was the size of a softball, oozing with frosting. “Breakfast? Isn’t this breakfast?”

Emmie clucked in disbelief. “Coffee and a roll? Goodness, no. My dear mama, bless her soul, would spin in her grave if I served such a miserly breakfast at Bay House.” She paused at the door, casting a surreptitious glance toward the bridal portrait. “You get dressed and come right down. Never mind that silly talk of curses. It’s pure balderdash.”

Claire, warmed by coffee, was inclined to agree, even though she still felt the bride’s stare like an icicle between the shoulder blades. She turned to look at the portrait. “Who is she?”

Emmie hesitated, smoothing the gingham-checked apron she wore over an orange fleece track suit. “Valentina Whitaker, younger sister to Ogden Whitaker, my great-grandfather, the lumber baron who built Bay House. Poor Valentina was gone long before Toivo and I were born to Mama Mae and Ogden Three.”

“Gone?”

Emmie’s round face crinkled into a hard knot like a dried apple. “Valentina Whitaker jumped off the cliff on her wedding night,” she said through pursed lips, and firmly shut the door behind her.

Well, that cuts it, Claire thought cheerfully as she made her way downstairs fifteen minutes later, carrying a tray with a drained coffee cup and plate empty of all but crumbs and a few daubs of frosting. I’ve been cursed—doomed to throw myself off a cliff on my wedding night.

Oh, the horror, the horror!

She found several houseguests gathered in the dining room around a long, oval bird’s-eye maple table. Their chatter grew silent when she entered.

“Good morning.” Uneasy with their stares, she concentrated on the room, instead. Red stone walls and too many heavy wood furnishings gave it an oppressive feel. The bay window was shrouded by ivy on the outside and heavy brocade drapes on the inside, letting in little light. Trim back the ivy, take out the curtains and half the furniture, and it would be a charming room.

“Morning.” Toivo piped from the head of the table. “Did ya sleep good, Miss Lavender?”

“Wonderfully, thank you, Mr. Whitaker.”

He chuckled. “No bad dreams?”

The pale blue gaze of the spare, middle-aged fellow at Toivo’s left dropped to his plate. The petite redhead who’d warned Claire about the curse watched her with a mischievous pink rosebud of a smile. Two others, clearly tourists, looked up from their blueberry pancakes with pleasant, uninformed expressions.

“Only one,” Claire said as she put the tray on a sideboard and took a seat at the table. She lowered her voice to a sepulchral level. “I dreamed I was falling. It was black and cold. I could hear waves breaking upon the rocks. But I kept falling.” Ever so slowly she drew her napkin from the place setting, dragging out the suspense. “Falling,” she intoned. “Endlessly falling…”

The redhead’s eyes had gone round. She was young—early twenties at most. “Falling?” she squeaked.

Toivo’s moist bottom lip hung open. “B-but how—”

“For gosh sakes.” Emmie Whitaker marched into the room with a platter full of pancakes. “Can’t you tell that our new guest is pulling your legs?”

The young woman let out a thankful laugh. “Oh, you had me going! I thought the curse had taken a new form.” She leaned across the table, holding a small, pale hand out to Claire. Her manner was forthright, but her grip was weak. “Cassia Keegan. I’m renting a room here in Bay House.” She nodded toward the staircase. “Didn’t mean to put a scare into you last night, but I thought you should know about—” she hunched her shoulders and dropped her voice in imitation of Claire “—the curse.”

“Here we go again.” Emmie scowled as she forked pancakes and sausages onto Claire’s plate. “Let’s not bother Miss Levander with that nonsense, please, Cassia.”

“I’d like to hear the story,” Claire said, stopping Emmie at two of each. The tourists, introduced as the Bickermanns from Canada, professed their interest.

Cassia’s eyes danced. Compressing her lips, she looked expectantly at Emmie, waiting for the go-ahead.

“So there is a cur—a, uh, legend?” Claire prodded. “I saw the bride’s portrait. It’s…beautiful.” In a Snow Queen sort of way.

The innkeeper tilted her head, weighing the word legend versus the less hospitable curse. Finally she gave the redheaded girl a cursory nod and departed for the kitchen.

Clearly, Cassia was eager to tell the tale. Bouncy auburn waves curled around her heart-shaped face as she glanced from face to face, building the suspense. Her expressive eyes were hazel shaded toward gold and tipped up at the corners like a cat’s. A palpable energy coursed through her slender body when her gaze reached Claire.

Cassia inhaled, her cheeks pinkening with excitement. “If the prophecy of Valentina Whitaker is true,” she announced with utter seriousness, “you will be married before the year is out.”

Claire swallowed. Her fingers clamped reflexively on the lever of the syrup jug. “Pardon?”

Cassia chortled. “Yep. I did try to warn you, Claire. But there’s nothing you can do now. It’s Valentina’s prophecy.”

Gleefully, Toivo quoted, “‘Sleep all night in the bridal room, Turn of year, thee shall have a groom.’”

“Or…” Cassia said.

“Turn of year you’ll be a groom,” said the quiet man at Toivo’s elbow. “Won’t catch me sleeping there.” He wadded up his napkin and left rather hastily.

“Don’t mind Bill’s manners,” Toivo said. “He’s afraid Shari’s got plans for him.”

Claire was mopping up the syrup that had run over the lip of her plate. “Shari?”

“The maid, Shari Shirley. She works here part-time,” Cassia explained. “You’ll run into her soon enough, Claire. She’s forever trying to spend the night in Valentina’s room, but Emmie won’t let her near it, even to clean.”

“I see. And why was I so lucky to land there?”

Toivo’s cheeks became ruddy. “A small mix-up on my part.”

Dishes clashed in the kitchen. “Huh!” Emmie came out, drying her sudsy hands on a towel. You were supposed to be in the blue room, Miss Levander. Color-blind numbskull,” she scolded Toivo, tapping his bald spot. She snatched away his plate as soon as he stuffed a last bite of pancakes into his mouth.

“You should put married couples in the bridal suite,” one of the Canadians suggested.

“Oh, no,” Cassia breathed.

“Goodness gracious, no,” Emmie said.

“Why not?” Mrs. Bickermann asked.

Cassia shook her head. “It’s part of the legend. ‘Happily married, bill and coo, Pay the piper, sorrow’s due.’”

“You can’t believe that stuff.” Claire looked at her sodden pancakes and decided she couldn’t eat despite her usually healthy appetite.

“Absolutely not.” Emmie turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen with her hands full of dishes, using a generously rounded hip to bump open the swinging door.

“It’s happened,” Cassia vowed. “Single women have married, and couples have split up.” Her eyes glowed like those of a child telling ghost stories beside a campfire. “Why do you think Emmie keeps the door locked?”

“It wasn’t locked last night after I moved in. I didn’t have the key.” Claire laughed nervously, wishing for another shot of caffeine to bolster her rocky reactions.

On cue, Emmie entered with another cup, fixed the way Claire liked it. She accepted it with thanks.

Emmie patted her apron pocket. “I’m keeping charge of the key from here on out.” She shot a scowl at her oblivious brother. “Even when there’s no reason to lock the barn door after the cow’s got out.”

Claire smiled into her coffee. “Does that make me the cow?”

“Goodness, no. It means that you may as well sleep in Valentina’s room for the duration of your stay. No use moving you now.”

Cassia waved a hand. “You’re already cursed!”

“Now stop that, pikku,” Emmie scolded on her way to the kitchen. “You’ll be frightening off our guests.”

“No worry here,” Claire said. “I can assure you that I have no plans for marriage. Besides, it’s already May. There’s no way I’ll meet and marry my groom before the turn of the year. I don’t move that fast.” Was she protesting too much?

Cassia tossed her curls. “I almost envy you for getting the bridal suite. Almost.” She flashed a playful grin. “Personally, I’m not ready to settle down. I’ve got to take a good sampling of all the available prospects first. Woof!”

Claire shared Cassia’s laughter, appreciating the other woman’s enthusiasm for the opposite sex even though Claire’s reluctance was a matter of straightening out priorities, not picking and choosing. Her opportunities in that area had been limited. She’d decided early that dating within the company was too complicated. And since her life was the company…

Priority one, Claire thought. Change that.

It was a sad state of affairs when one’s love life was so barren Valentina’s prophecy had zero chance of working.

After chatting about their planned daytime activities and the Whitakers’ open invitation to board game night, the Bickermanns left the table escorted by Toivo, who was giving them directions to the Gull Rock lighthouse.

Claire looked across the table at Cassia as the girl settled back, realizing for the first time that the redhead sat in a wheelchair. “There must be more to the Valentina legend?” she said, returning to the subject now that they were alone.

With a deft touch on the electric controls of her chair, Cassia wheeled herself closer. “Valentina Whitaker was supposed to be married in the spring of 1914, in the rose garden of Bay House. But her bridegroom never showed up for the wedding. Valentina waited in her bedroom—your bedroom—watching from the balcony as the guests came and went. She waited and watched all day and into the night. There was no word until midnight, when one of the men Ogden Whitaker had sent out searching returned with the news that Valentina’s fiancé had eloped with another woman.”

“Oh.” A quicksilver chill spilled along Claire’s spine.

“Yep. The story says that Valentina went schizo.” Cassia’s eyes widened. “She carried on like a lunatic, cursing her fiancé and his new bride to eternal misery, swearing that never again would an unmarried woman suffer in Bay House the way she had. Ogden and his wife tried to restrain her, but she ran outside in her wedding dress and threw herself off the cliff.” The redhead dramatically flung back her head, her hands sweeping wide. “Since then, Valentina’s room has become a Whitaker family legend!”

“Hmm. It’s a stunning tale.” Claire couldn’t hide her skepticism.

“It’s true. All true. Emmie has shown me the old photos of Valentina. There’s even one of her groom—her intended groom.”

“But the curse itself? It must be apocryphal.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it sure is some wild, wacky stuff!” Cassia paused, then leaned forward to continue in a whisper. “Emmie doesn’t like to talk about it, even though the legend has lasted all these years. Everyone around knows that any single woman who sleeps the night in Valentina’s room will marry soon after. It supposedly happened to lots of the Whitaker relations over the years, before Bay House was opened to the public. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Since then, Emmie usually refuses to book the room. But every once in a while, if the other rooms are full, or if Toivo gets left in charge…” Cassia shrugged.

“I’m not going to worry about it.”

“Don’t you want to get married?”

Claire laughed off the question. Given her present quandary, she wasn’t ready to commit to so much as an answer. “Not as the result of a curse!”

“Well, y’know, lots of women wouldn’t call it a curse. Shari’s been campaigning to stay overnight in Valentina’s room for months. There was even a woman from Grosse Pointe who wanted to pay Emmie a thousand bucks for the opportunity!”

“Did she allow it?”

“Nope. Emmie said it wasn’t right, that grooms couldn’t be bought.” Cassia hunched her shoulders. “I think it was because the lady from downstate was about fifty and as crazed as a rabid pit bull. She might have been the one to put a stop to the legend! Didn’t matter that the Whitakers needed the money for a new furnace. Emmie’s stubborn that way.”

And Toivo, Claire thought, is mischievous that way. She set aside her cup and saucer, deciding to change the subject. “You said you rent a room, Cassia. I thought Bay House is strictly a bed-and-breakfast. How long have you been here?” Was it too intrusive to ask if she had a lease?

“Not too long,” Cassia said. “I was totally dying to live on my own, away from my parents.” She rolled her eyes, looking like a typical young adult impatient to assert her independence. “Bay House was the best I could do. For now. Emmie’s bossy, but not as bad as my mother, that’s for sure.”

“Are there other long-term tenants?”

“Just Bill Maki. He has an attic room. And there’s Roxy, the Whitakers’ niece, but she lives in the garage apartment. No worries there. You couldn’t pay Roxy to come near Valentina’s room.”

As the two women talked, they moved toward the large but crowded front hall, Cassia’s chair catching momentarily on the fringed edge of a Persian rug. “Where do Emmie and Toivo sleep?” Claire asked when Cassia waved her off from helping. She was trying to gauge the number of bedrooms.

“On the first floor, near me.” Cassia pointed as she spoke. Her face was bright with interest and friendliness. “There’s the front parlor—that’s open to all the guests. Then the office, with Emmie’s and Toivo’s rooms behind it. Then me, then the garden room that opens to the back yard, and on the other side is the kitchen, the pantry and the back stairs.”

“How many bedrooms up?”

“Five altogether. The green, the yellow, the red and the blue.”

A veritable rainbow. “Plus the bridal suite.”

“Yeah, the white room, I guess you’d say.” Cassia giggled.

“There’s no way I’m getting married when I don’t even have a boyfriend,” Claire murmured, momentarily unaware she’d spoken out loud. When she realized she had, she looked sheepishly at Cassia, who only smiled.

“Join the club, sister.” They laughed.

“I have to go,” Claire remembered. “I lost my purse…”

“How’d that happen?”

Claire shuddered. “I nearly hit a deer on the drive to Alouette. Just past that place—the Buck Stop? It was awful.”

Cassia shrugged. “Heck, that happens all the time. The woods up here are thick with deer. You have to keep your eyes open, driving at night.”

“I was kind of, um…distracted. My car ran off the road.”

“But how’d you lose the purse?”

Toivo was coming in the front door. “I got out of the car,” Claire said hurriedly. “Then there was this man—”

Cassia’s brows arched. She bounced in her chair. “A man? Did you say a man?”

“What man?” said Toivo, hands tucked into the pair of red suspenders that held up his baggy work pants. “The curse is already working, eh?”

“No!” Claire hadn’t meant to get into this, even though her curiosity was full to bursting. Not much choice now. “Last night I met a man in the woods. At first I thought he was a bear—it was rather dark, and he had a beard—but it turned out to be no big deal. He helped get my car back on the road, is all.”

Cassia wheeled closer. “What was his name? Was he good-looking?”

“I didn’t get his name. And between all his hair and all his—” Muscle. Her face was growing warm. “All the darkness, I mean….”

“Ooh. A mystery man.”

“No. Really. He was—” Claire didn’t know why her heart was beating so fast. Why her palms were clammy. Why she couldn’t calm the jitters in her belly. “He was just some backwoods character. Lives out of the way, I take it. He had a bear cub.”

“That’d be Noah Saari,” Toivo put in.

Cassia clasped her hands together. “Wow, Claire—you saw Noah Saari!”

“Noah?” Claire’s tongue felt thick. “Is the name supposed to mean something to me?”

Toivo rocked on his heels, making the flyaway strands of hair waver about his bald pate. “Noah’s a local fella. Did us proud, fighting that big forest fire out west a coupla years ago. Some of us, leastaways.” The elfin face grew serious. “Came home a changed man. Different in the head, they say.”

“Noah Saari’s sort of a local legend.” Cassia touched her steepled fingers to her chin, sighing lustfully. “He returned to Alouette as a hero, but ever since he’s been living way out in the boonies. He hardly ever comes to town.” She beamed at Claire. “And you met him! That’s so cool!”

Claire’s answering smile was weak. She’d done nothing but run her car off the road and attempt to outrun a bear, but here was Cassia, leaning closer, her expression one of awe.

“Did you get a good look at him?” the redhead asked, nearly breathless. “Did you get to—did you see—” She stopped and took a deep breath before asking, “Did you see his scars?”