The Village of Gerard's Cliff Read online

Chapter III

  Allie walked slowly back to the front parlor to straighten up and wait for the couple's arrival. They shouldn't be too much longer, she thought, looking down at her watch. As she returned several of the books back to their rightful places on the shelves, her mind wandered to the last arrival. Connor Garrison, she mused. Hmm. No ring. A single man, she assumed. Thirty-six years old, according to his driver's license. A two week stay at a bed and breakfast in a remote area of Maine...a writer, perhaps? Seeking solitude to gather his thoughts? Sometimes, she was able to figure out people without really talking to them. Some guests liked to chat, and she was fine with that. There was so much going on in this country to be concerned about. Up 'til now, nineteen, seventy-one had been exploding with protests against the war, arguments over China, just to name two, so there was never a shortage of serious subjects to discuss. She preferred thoughtful conversations as opposed to chit-chat for the sake of filling up time. Many guests though, liked their privacy, liked doing their own thing, and she left them alone, except for the usual greetings, and suggestions for outings, and sight-seeing excursions.

  The couple finally arrived, later than she expected. After seeing them to their room, she closed up for the night, and went to her own small room in the back of the inn, off a small hallway on the other side of the kitchen. Just weeks after Patrick died, Allie had changed the bedding, coverlets, and pillows on the high, antique bed they had shared. Now the gleaming brass headboard and footboard were accented by new sheets, a fluffy down comforter, skirting, and an assortment of plump pillows, all in fresh, crisp, white. The walls of the room were repainted a very pale, soothing shade of blue-gray. In the corner to the right of her bed sat a wicker rocker that had belonged to her mother. Allie had left it the original slightly worn white, but had re-covered the cushion with a co-ordinating blue and rose floral print. A reading lamp stood next to the rocker, as well as a round oak side table. She slept much better in the room after she had made the changes. It would have been too difficult to keep things the way they had been. Allie changed into her floral-print flannel pajamas and climbed into her inviting bed. She pulled the comforter up around her chin, and in a few short minutes, fell into a sound sleep.

  "Good morning, Tilda." Allie smiled as she entered the kitchen and nodded toward the short, plump woman, who was whisking eggs in a large ceramic bowl. Tilda had insisted on wearing a uniform that consisted of a gray dress, and a crisp white bib apron with deep pockets. Allie had been thrilled when she and Patrick had hired her as their chef five years ago. She's our jewel, Patrick had been fond of saying. It was Tilda who had suggested the menus for the gourmet breakfasts The Colborne Inn was known for. Allie never ceased to be awed with Tilda's creations in the kitchen. "Mmm...this smells so good!"

  "Good morning, Allie. Only three guests this morning, I see." Tilda's cheery face was topped with graying brown hair, pulled up into a neat bun. She turned and smiled at Allie, continuing to beat the eggs into a foamy froth.

  Nodding agreement, Allie poured herself a cup of coffee, and went to peer around the kitchen door into the dining room. The couple - the Hollands, were seated in front of a window, holding hands across the table. Allie set down her cup and walked into the dining room and over to their table.

  "I hope you had a pleasant night's sleep." She smiled at the young couple. It was pretty obvious to her that they had only been married a short while, as they continued to hold hands while talking with her, and smiled and laughed a lot, looking into each other's eyes more frequently than at hers. She discussed with them their various options for sightseeing in the tiny village, then left the besotted couple to continue their romantic breakfast.

  Allie felt a sudden pang of jealousy. What went wrong, she thought as she left the couple to return to the kitchen. Why did we drift so far apart so quickly? Memories flooded back of Patrick, who only a few short years after they moved to Gerard's Cliff and opened their bed and breakfast, started to pull away from her emotionally. She'd wondered at one point if he was having an affair, but, as time went on, and he became even more reticent, she, in turn, tired of trying to revive their marriage. They adjusted to a life of running the inn as an estranged team, each having his or her own duties around the place. Other than their necessary discussions about the inn, their interactions became almost non-existent. She might as well have been single for the last few years, she thought. As she walked slowly back to the kitchen, Allie shook the thoughts of the past out of her head and focused on her here and now. The kitchen smelled glorious, and Allie watched appreciatively as Tilda plated the steaming French toast on two delicate, flower-patterned plates.

  "Oh, Tilda, what would I do without you!" Allie breathed in the warm, cinnamon-laced air permeating the kitchen. "That smells heavenly." Tilda laughed and placed two small pitchers filled with the warm syrup and pecans on the serving tray. As she carried the tray to the Holland's table, Allie was sure that she would never tire of her life as it was now.

  "Who is that mystery man?" Sarah, a petite young woman who cleaned the guestrooms for the inn, had come in the back porch door while Allie was in the dining room. She was perched on a tall stool, leaning on the island in the middle of the kitchen. She eyed Tilda, who was pouring coffee for her into a green mug, and turned as Allie walked in, raising her eyebrows in question.

  "You mean Mr. Garrison?" Allie, hearing the last comment as she returned to the kitchen, gave Sarah a quizzical look as she set the tray down on the counter. "Why is he a mystery man?" She laughed at the absurd phrase.

  "I don't ever remember a guest not wanting their room cleaned, do you? He was very stern, too, no...more like rude," she snorted. "He gave me strict orders not to enter his room. Very strange if you ask me." She sipped her coffee from her mug with one hand, while smoothing the sides of her short blonde bouffant hairdo with the other. "I'm not sure I like him. He said to leave the clean sheets and towels by the door and he would take care of it. Don't you think that's strange, Allie?"

  "Well, he didn't mention any special requests to me when he checked in last night." Allie walked over to the island. "I'll speak to him about it if he comes down for breakfast."

  "Speak of the devil....." Sarah's voice trailed off as the other women turned and followed her gaze.

  The three women stared, transfixed, as they watched the tall, and very masculine Mr. Garrison enter the dining room. He was wearing dark blue jeans, and a pale blue shirt which was open at the neck. The long sleeves of his shirt were rolled halfway up his lower arms. He is a good-looking man, Allie thought with a frown, biting the inside of her lower lip. He appeared oblivious to the trio eyeing him from the kitchen, as he nodded affably to the Hollands, then sat down at a small table across the room from the couple, his back to the kitchen. Allie noticed that his hair was slightly wavy in the back, as if still damp from a shower, and his shoulders seemed extremely broad...or were her dining room chairs too small? She suddenly felt slightly flustered, and discovered that her hand had inexplicably flown up to the front of her throat and was fiddling with her blouse button, while she, along with Tilda and Sarah, had been furtively watching Mr. Garrison enter the room.

  "Okay, ladies, enough of this!" She laughed softly. She shook her head and rolled her eyes at the other two women as she went out to greet the mystery man.