Page 3 of Summer Longing
Fern stood up and shook the applicant’s hand; the young woman left with a shy smile at Elise.
“How did that go?” Elise said. “She looks familiar.”
“We met her last summer when we were selling at the farmers’ market. Her name’s Cynthia. Family lives in Chatham but she wants to spend the summer here. She seemed unconcerned about tips as long as we can give her enough hours.” She looked up at Elise and smiled. “We’ll see.”
Fern climbed on a chair and reached above the front counter to write the iced tea of the day on the chalkboard:Chai Tide.It was a blend of black tea and spices like cardamom, cinnamon, fennel, ginger, black pepper, and cloves.
“I thought we were going to do the ginger peach for the iced today,” Elise said.
“We’re low on that,” said Fern.
“Listen, I need to tell you something,” she said, walking to the counter. She climbed up to stand on it so she was level with Fern perched on the chair. She took the chalk from her hand and drew a big heart on the chalkboard. “I love you.”
Fern smiled. “I love you too. Now erase that so I have space for the menu.”
“Look, I really tried to be ready to hand over the house today. But I still feel like I need more time. It’s a big adjustment. So I did something that—”
“Elise, I know it’s been a rough year. But try to be positive. Look at this beautiful place we have. Please—let this be enough.”
Elise nodded, swallowing hard. She turned back to the chalkboard and, with one sweep of her palm, erased the heart. Before she could say another word, the front door’s bells tinkled, announcing the arrival of their real estate agent, Clifford Henry. Clifford was a youthful forty-something with bright blue eyes and heavily highlighted brown hair that he wore slicked back.
Clifford Henry, who’d brokered the rental to Ruth Cooperman.
Elise began to perspire.
“My tea divas! What is that divine smell?”
“That’s our Strawberry Meadows, a green sencha tea with bits of dried strawberry in it,” Fern said. “Would you like a cup?”
“Of course! Iced, please. But ladies, we have a problem, do we not?”
“What problem?” Fern said, stepping down from the chair.
“I just got an earful from Ruth Cooperman,” Clifford said. “She’s at the inn waiting for me to straighten things out. So let’s do that, shall we?”
Fern turned to Elise. Clifford looked at Elise.
Elise climbed down from the counter, removed the keys from her pocket, and slid them over to Clifford.
Ruth carried her suitcase up yet another set of front steps to yet another porch, aware on some level that the Beach Rose Inn—a three-story gray-shingled house with wide steps leading to a wraparound veranda—was quite charming. Butshe was in no mood.
Her real estate agent had not, by her estimation, been sufficiently outraged by this turn of events.
“I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding,” he’d said when she’d shown up at his office. “It’s the start of the season and things can be…glitchy. It’s nothing to be upset about. I’ll take care of it.”
Considering what she was paying for the house, she certainly hoped so.
She opened the front door of the inn and almost tripped over a sleeping chocolate Lab. Across the room, a barefoot young woman stood on a step stool, hanging a mosaic-framed mirror on the wall.
“Rach, that’s too high,” said a man standing near her.
The woman turned around with a toss of her long, golden-brown hair. She reached her hand down to the man, and he passed her a nail.
“No, it’s not. It’s eye level,” she said.
“In what universe is that eye level? You’re standing on a stool.”
The woman noticed Ruth. “Oh, hello there. Can I help you?” she asked, stepping off the stool.
