Page 25 of The Promise Of You

“Why do people do the things they do, honey?” She gives me a sad smile, and then pats my forearm. “But the new chef, Samuel, is fan-tas-tic. Uncle Kevin loved him. Just loved him. He took care of everything. You’ll be fine.”

“I know I will,” I say, reassuring her as much as myself. I have my work cut out, but it’s just as well. I’m not sure just showing up to pay bills and tally up deposit slips would be enough for me. I pat her hand. “Don’t worry, Aunt Dawn. I’ll show him a good time if he makes trouble.” I’m actually looking forward to a showdown with the man who caused so much grief to my family.

She cackles. “You do just that.”

The road to Emerald Creek is a winding, narrow ribbon nestled in between trees that shade the sun in green freckles. For the most part, the road follows the river, which early in summer is still full and bubbling. A split in the road indicates Emerald Lake and Emerald Lake Resort, but I keep going. A clearing in the woods reveals a rocky beach on the river. Dogs and kids are splashing in it, while adults chat, water to their knees. A picnic table on the embankment is laden with wicker baskets and boxes.

Then the woods clear, and the landscape turns to farmland again. Cows grazing in fenced pastures, huge red barns, their mouths open to the summer air, white farmhouses with wraparound porches, chicken coops in the shade of trees.

A pullout on the side of the road beckons to a farmstand. I stop the car and stretch. No one is manning the stand, but a sign announces ‘Fresh eggs, bacon and salad in the cooler’, and prices are written in an even handwriting on a lined paper taped to a metal box. Strawberries, peaches, cherries, zucchini, and maple syrup are neatly arranged on a wobbly wooden table, protected from the sun by a couple of umbrellas. I take one of the neatly folded paper bags tucked under the table, get some salad, eggs, bacon, strawberries, and zucchini, add my total to the bills stashed in the metal box, and plop my bag in the back of my car.

Then I close my eyes and pause in the warm summer sun.

The sweet smell of flowers. Wind rustling in the trees, cooling my cheeks. A dog barking. Insects rattling, butterflies tickling my arms. Birds chirping. The river flowing in the distance.

I take a deep, cleansing breath and drive into Emerald Creek.

Why has no one ever told me about this place? I take my foot off the pedal, lower my windows, and take it all in. Houses of all styles—mostly white or pink Victorians and brick Federals—with lovingly maintained gardens and colorful window boxes line the main access road, which turns into main street, where people are strolling, holding hands, coming in and out of the ice cream shop, the general store, an antique shop.

There’s not a chance in hell I’m even attempting to park here with my U-Haul, so I’ll just have to come back later.

But before heading to the cottage, I drive to The Green.

I want to scout the restaurant. See what it looks like. What first impression it gives. My aunt and cousins were proud of it, and I’m looking forward to being impressed.

The Green is a small park in the center of Emerald Creek. A white steepled church stands proudly at its top. Large houses and businesses line its sides, separated from The Green by a one-way lane and large sidewalks. A live band is currently performing at its center. Children are dancing and adults are loosely circled around the low stage, and a woman’s melodious voice fills the air with the sound of soft rock.

Small Town America. So utterly perfect.

I look for the restaurant but can’t find it. I see the pub alright, The Lazy Salamander, occupying the left side of a brick building, its large windows lined with flowers. There’s a big-ass dog sprawled on the sidewalk, and people step over it to get in. They have outdoor seating as well, a row of cafe tables with bright green-and-white umbrellas. It’s cute. It’s the kind of place I’d go to without a second thought. In fact, I’d go now if I didn’t have my U-Haul strapped to my car. Just to check it out. See what the owner is like.

Who I’m up against.

But I digress. I’m not here to get into the neighbor’s face unless I need to. I’m here to temporarily run a restaurant that should be right there but for the life of me, I can’t find. Was I given the wrong info? Could it be elsewhere? Aunt Dawn said it was next door, and next door to the pub there’s … a dusty door and a row of dark windows. No sign. No outdoor seating.

The dusty door opens, and I slow down. A guy in jeans and a gray T-shirt comes out and lights a cigarette. I squint. Turns out, there is a sign. ‘Emerald Creek Fine Dining.’

My belly clenches. Shoot. Not what I expected. Does Aunt Dawn have any idea?

This is going to be a lot of work. Which in a way, is good.

Work has always been my salvation.

Or so I tell myself as I continue driving through Emerald Creek to where my GPS indicates the cottage will be.

Right after The Green, the road narrows and hugs the river, then curves away from it to leave space for a stone building built right on the water and a large, shaded parking area. A cheery hand-painted sign announces, Easy Monday.

Ahmayzing Juice Bar, Best Coffee in Town, Cupcakes and such, Books and More Books.

A second sign, attached below the first one, reads, 420

With a bunch of happy flowers all around it.

My GPS takes me under a one-way, wooden covered bridge with a red roof and hanging flower baskets on each side of it, and I smile at the care the people here have for their town.

My first order of business will be to introduce myself to the other business owners, find out if there is a chamber or other organization I should join.

I find the cottage easily, up a country road just like Aunt Dawn said, a short drive from The Green. It’s on a hill, with views of the lake in the distance and open fields around it. The neighbors are invisible, although I passed houses close by.

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