Chapter Four
“Okay, then.” Alice pulled out a battered hotel register as the door beside the front desk swung open again with a swish, apparently of its own accord.
“Grandma,” a piping voice said, “Aunt Nadia wants to know how many dinners she should make.”
Greta dropped her gaze. The child who stood just inside the door looked remarkably like an owl—brown T-shirt and shorts; short brown hair that framed a small, squarish face; huge, round glasses that made her eyes look several times normal size. She turned her gaze on Greta, looking almost as surprised as Greta herself probably did.
“Oh for Pete’s sake, what does she mean, how many dinners?” Alice rested her hands on her hips, looking disgruntled. “Same number as always.”
She glanced at Greta, then sighed. “On the other hand, we may have one more. Or one less. Is Hank going to be eating dinner?” She raised an eyebrow in Greta’s direction.
Greta shook her head. “No idea. I can ask.”
“Do that.” Alice sighed again.
Greta turned and started back up the stairs.
“That’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen,” the child blurted from behind her.
Greta wheeled around, staring. So did Alice.
The little girl regarded her with worshipful eyes. “You look like Cinderella. Or Belle in Beauty and the Beast.”
“Oh.” Greta stared down at her puke-green skirt, now ornamented with streaks of dirt from the excavation. Seldom had she felt less like a fairy-tale princess. “Thank you.”
“I knew we shouldn’t have gotten that damn DVD,” Alice muttered.
“Aunt Nadia said I should give you this.” The child extended one hand with a large glass filled with cloudy liquid that might have been lemonade.
Greta took it from her carefully. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Alice.
“Be still my heart.”
Greta bunched her skirt in her fist again and climbed the stairs carefully, holding the glass of lemonade in front of her. She knocked lightly on Hank’s door.
“Yeah.”
He was still sitting where he had been when she’d left, but now his bruised foot was resting on the coffee table beside the rocks and his eyes were closed. She took a moment to study him. His sandy hair was mussed, and his foot was definitely ugly. He still looked yummy.
“I brought you your lemonade.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t open his eyes as she placed it on the table beside his foot.
“And Alice wants to know if you’re going to make it down for dinner.”
He grimaced, opening his eyes to slits. “Nope.”
“You want me to bring some up to you?” Greta rested her fists on her hips.
His eyes popped all the way open. “Christ, no!”
She blinked.
He sighed. “No. Look, I’ve got some peanut butter and crackers up here someplace. I’ll just make myself a snack later.”
“Okay. Um…” She tried to figure out exactly what she was supposed to say here as his apparently designated caregiver. “So how do you feel?”
He shrugged. “My foot hurts. Otherwise okay.”
“Would some ice help?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged again. “Look, just go have some dinner. Are you heading back to…wherever you were going before you ended up here?”
“Not exactly. I’ll come check on you after dinner.” She stepped quickly into the hall, closing the door behind her since she really didn’t want to deal with the next logical question: Why aren’t you heading back to…wherever you were going before you ended up here? She didn’t really have an answer for that one at the moment. Whim?
She climbed down the stairs again, her skirt bunched in her hand. “Hank says no on dinner.”
“His loss.” Alice pushed the hotel register her way. The little girl had disappeared once again. “It’s forty a night.”
Greta opened her purse, digging out her credit card.
Alice narrowed her eyes, shaking her head. “Cash. Only.”
Greta froze. “Is there an ATM around here?”
Alice gave her a dry smile. “What do you think?”
“I don’t carry cash.”
“Then I’d say you’ve got a problem.”
Greta chewed on her lower lip. She could always head back to the harbor. And her mother. And the whole wedding disaster. The idea of confronting that particular train wreck again made her head hurt. It would be so nice to have a couple of days without painful conversations, to say nothing of painful decisions.
Besides, Hank Mitchell needed her. Which was pretty much a total crock.
She looked down at her purse, wondering if she had anything worth bartering, assuming Alice believed in bartering, which wasn’t necessarily likely.
She raised her head slowly. “Your granddaughter likes my dress.”
“My granddaughter is nine years old.” Alice folded her arms across her chest. “Her fashion sense isn’t what you’d call infallible. Her name is Hyacinth, by the way.”
Greta shrugged. “Nonetheless, she likes it. And it cost a lot of money.”
Alice’s brows went up. “You’re offering me that dress to pay your rent?”
“Well, I—”
“Dinnertime,” Nadia called gaily from the room at the side of the lobby. She switched on an overhead light that revealed a large dining room table made out of some dark wood. The chairs arranged around the sides had a faintly medieval look.
The little girl, Hyacinth, came through the door to the kitchen. “Aunt Nadia says come to dinner now while it’s still hot.” She skipped toward the dining room.
Alice grimaced. “We’ll talk later.”
“Right.” Greta nodded.
The dining room looked like it had once served the hotel’s guests. The table in the center of the room seated twelve, and another, smaller table near the window looked like it could hold five or six more. The medieval impression was reinforced by a dusty tapestry on the far wall that seemed to show a hunting scene or maybe a procession or possibly Valhalla. Distance and lousy lighting made it impossible to tell for sure.
Nadia stood next to the long table, smiling. A vase with bright red silk flowers sat in the middle, while flowered china plates were placed carefully at four of the chairs.
“Since we have a guest this evening, I thought we’d use the good china,” Nadia trilled. “Why don’t you sit here, dear.” She gestured toward the chair across the table from Hyacinth, who sat poised, her folded hands resting in her lap.
Greta slid into place, beating the crinolines into submission, as Nadia disappeared through a door at the side. She reappeared almost immediately, bearing a platter of spaghetti and meatballs. “Hyacinth did the salad,” she said, smiling.
Greta glanced at the pile of greens in the bowl next to her dinner plate.
“Dressing’s on the table,” Hyacinth murmured, nodding toward a couple of bottles at Alice’s end.
Greta felt like sighing. Catalina and ranch, courtesy of Kraft Foods. Perfect.
“Eat up, everybody.” Nadia placed the platter on the table and took her seat, unfolding her napkin with a flourish.
At one time in her life, Greta might have said that it was impossible to ruin spaghetti. Any dish where all you had to do was add boiling water should have been foolproof. Unless, of course, you were a sufficiently talented fool.
This particular version of spaghetti tasted like it had been boiled for a couple of hours. How it maintained its shape without collapsing into mush was a mystery. The sauce had probably begun as tomato soup augmented with ketchup. It was hard to tell what it had originally tasted like, however, since it had been massively diluted with pasta water. The meatballs had so little actual meat that they could probably have bounced across the dining room, given a good shove.
After a few bites, Greta tried desperately to come up with a legitimate-sounding reason not to finish the rest of the plate. Alice was shoveling in bites of spaghetti with grim determination. Nadia sat at the head of the table, nibbling daintily. It looked like she’d given herself the smallest portion. Either she was being polite or she was being very smart.
Greta glanced across the table at Hyacinth and found herself nailed by a pair of huge, beseeching eyes. The child’s plate was half-empty, and she was taking tiny bites of the rest.
Greta felt like sighing again. Why Hyacinth wanted her to finish her plate she wasn’t sure, but the least she could do was accommodate her. She took three more bites of spaghetti, then concentrated on her salad. The lettuce was fresh and crunchy, and she’d been careful not to drown it in ranch dressing the way the sisters had. Between bites of salad, she managed to make it all the way through the incredible dreck on her plate.
Nadia touched her lips delicately with her napkin. “Who’s ready for dessert?”
Dessert? The mind reeled. “I’m full,” Greta said hastily.
“Nonsense.” Nadia stood up, as Hyacinth collected their dirty plates. “We’ll be right back, won’t we, Hyacinth?”
Left alone in the dining room, Alice gave her a dry smile. “Having fun?”
“Loads.”
Nadia reemerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate of brownies that she passed to Greta. “Fresh baked this afternoon. Enjoy.”
Greta took a tentative nibble after passing the plate to Alice. She had to hand it to Nadia. Brownies were even harder to destroy than spaghetti, but she’d managed that too, mainly by burning them on the bottom. She could probably have managed to eat the tops alone, but Alice and Hyacinth were both taking sizable bites of their own brownies. Both of them must have developed cast-iron stomachs. Eating Nadia’s food regularly would probably do that. Greta sighed and dug in.
Given that the brownies were smaller than the meatballs, they were finished more quickly. Greta managed an insincere smile. “Great meal. Thanks.”
Nadia smiled serenely back. “You’re welcome, dear. You should go up and check on Hank. Hyacinth and I will wash the dishes.”
“We’ll have our little talk first.” Alice dropped her napkin on the table. “Care to join me at the desk?”
Greta gathered her skirts around her and headed back across the lobby to the front desk again.
Alice had the register open in front of her again. “As I recall, you were getting ready to offer me the clothes off your back.”
“That was then,” Greta said grimly.
Alice grimaced. “One meal and you’re ready to head for the hills?”
“One meal and I’m ready to offer you something a hell of a lot more valuable than this atrocity of a dress.” She leaned back, folding her arms across her ruffled chest.
“And that would be?”
“I’m a professional chef, a graduate of culinary school. I’ll take over the cooking in exchange for room and board.” That first statement fell into the “slightly shaky” category as far as being a professional chef went, assuming one was required to have actually worked in a kitchen to be considered professional. But at least Greta really was a graduate of culinary school. That much was accurate.
She didn’t pause to wonder just when she’d decided to stay longer than overnight. But all of a sudden it seemed like a very appealing idea.
Alice’s chin went up. “And why would I want to do that? I already have a chef.”
“You have a cook. Sort of.” Greta’s smile was tight. “Wouldn’t you prefer to have edible meals? Particularly when you could get them for free?”
Alice snorted. “It’s not free. I’m giving up a room here.”
“Yes, and that’s undoubtedly a sacrifice. I mean, you’ve had so many guests clamoring for rooms since I got here with Hank.” Greta gave her a level gaze.
Alice frowned. “I’m still not making money on this deal.”
“I trained as a pastry chef.” Greta allowed herself a faint smile. “I can make real brownies. From scratch. And chocolate chip cookies for Hyacinth.”
Alice narrowed her eyes at her granddaughter’s name, and Greta had to admit it was close to dirty pool bringing the child into it. But this was war. Sort of, anyway.
After a moment, Alice sighed. “What about the dress?”
“You can have it. Along with the underwear.”
“You’re going to cook naked?” Alice’s eyes narrowed even further. “I’m not sure that’s something Hyacinth needs to see.”
“You have a general store there, right?” Greta nodded toward the door at the side that led into the shop next door, where she hadn’t yet seen a single customer. “Got any jeans? T-shirts? Fruit of the Loom?”
“I’m going to be clothing you too?” Alice shook her head. “Look, before we go any farther with this, I need to know—what exactly are you running from? I mean, is this a situation where the state police are going to show up on our doorstep tomorrow?”
Greta sighed. “I’m running away from a wedding disaster. And my mother, whom I’m not ready to face at the moment. No cops involved, so help me.” Just the general population of Promise Harbor.
“So how long is this cooking arrangement going to last?”
She shrugged. “A week maybe. Call it a brief vacation.”
Alice studied her a moment longer, then shook her head. “This probably qualifies as lunacy, but okay. Grab yourself some clothes from the store. There’s not much there, but you can get the basics. I’ll take it out of whatever pay you earn, if any. And I’ll expect you to start cooking with breakfast tomorrow.”
Greta headed toward the door. “Fair enough. Hyacinth really can have the dress and the petticoats.”
“Right now all she could do would be to use them for a pup tent,” Alice growled.
Greta shrugged. “Works for me.”
An hour later, Greta unlocked the room across the hall from Hank. It was a little smaller, but at least it too had its own bath. She dumped the pile of jeans and T-shirts on the bed, along with a package of panties. Unfortunately, Alice’s store didn’t carry bras, so she’d either have to wash out the one she was wearing or do without. Given that the one she was wearing was one of the foundation garments doubling as torture devices that Bernice had supplied for the dress, she’d probably be going braless for the next week.
She started to drop her purse on the dresser, then opened it and took out her cell phone. She’d turned it off to save the battery. Yeah, right, Greta. After a moment, she turned it back on.
She checked the voice mail—nothing. Texts—nothing. Nice to know her absence had made such a dent in everyone’s day.
Nine o’clock. Her mother might still be up. She started to punch in the number and then paused. What exactly would she say when her mother picked up? Hi, Mom, I ran away because I couldn’t bear to tell you your other kid’s marriage is in the toilet too. I’ll be back sometime. Don’t wait up.
Right. That would really work well. After a moment, she touched the text message icon, then the keyboard. I’m all right, she typed. Don’t worry. Suitably vague but maybe enough to be reassuring. Her mother undoubtedly had other things on her mind at the moment. She turned the phone off again, dropping it back in her purse. Maybe one of the Dubrovniks had a charger she could borrow.
Or maybe Hank did. She paused, then stepped back into the hall again. A quick inspection showed no light under his door. Then again, he might be sitting in the dark. It was still relatively early. She knocked gently but got no response. After a moment, she opened his door.
Hank sat in his chair, head back, snoring faintly. His feet were stretched out in front of him. A plate on the coffee table held the remains of crackers and peanut butter.
She wondered if she should wake him and help him get to bed, then rejected the idea. She wasn’t his mother, after all, and lugging him off to bed might seem like a bit much.
She studied his face for a moment. Good bones there. Not exactly chiseled—more like sculpted. Skin slightly tan, probably from working in the sun. And that casually mussed, sandy hair, like he’d run his fingers through it.
She’d like to run her fingers through it too.
Okay, Greta, time for bed. More than time, in fact.
She turned back to the hall again, closing Hank’s door softly behind her. If nothing else she was going to shuck off this dress and the Crinolines from Hell. And then she was never going to wear anything like them ever again.