Page 40 of Cottage on the Bay


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“Thank you,” Susan said quietly to Kathleen.

“For what?”

“For making me feel like part of something again.” Susan gestured around the restaurant. “I spent so many years on the outside looking in. I catered everyone else’s celebrations, but I was never part of them. This is different. This matters.”

Kathleen’s expression softened. “You’ve always mattered to us, Susan. Even when you were in Georgia and we only saw you once or twice a year, you mattered. Coming back to Montana didn’t change that—it just gave us more opportunities to show you.”

Before Susan could respond, Paul emerged from the kitchen. He set a plate and two forks between them with a flourish. “If Susan is dreaming about huckleberry crumble, I had to make you one,” he announced. “With extra whipped cream, because Kathleen mentioned it was her weakness.”

“You’re spoiling us,” Kathleen protested, though she was already reaching for her fork.

“That’s the idea,” Paul said. “I baked an extra crumble for each of you to take home. If you stop by the kitchen when you’ve finished, I’ll have them wrapped and ready to go. ”

Kathleen’s eyes widened. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s the least I could do. Patrick’s helped with a few repairs around the restaurant and won’t accept any payment from me. This is my way of saying thank you.”

“In that case,” Kathleen said with a smile. “Your gift is very much appreciated.”

After Paul returned to the kitchen, Kathleen took a bite of crumble and made an appreciative sound. “This is delicious. I’ll have to walk an extra mile tomorrow.”

“It’s worth it,” Susan said, tasting her own portion. The berries were tart and sweet, the crumble topping perfectly buttery, and the whipped cream adding just enough richness without overwhelming the fruit.

“Everything here is worth it. Especially when the chef makes an extra crumble for me to take home,” Kathleen said with a smile.

They finished their dessert in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from decades of friendship. Around them, the restaurant continued its Tuesday evening rhythm—conversations rising and falling, cutlery clinking against plates, and Jenny and the rest of the staff moving between tables.

When they were ready to leave, Susan took out her credit card to pay the bill.

“Put that away,” Kathleen said quickly, “It’s my turn to pay for dinner.”

“No, it’s not,” Susan protested. “It’s mine.”

“We’ll argue about it another day,” Kathleen said firmly. “I’ll pay the bill while you collect the crumbles.”

Susan sighed as she picked up her bag. Arguing with Kathleen would get her nowhere, so she might as well give in gracefully and go and see Paul.

Chapter 21

Two days later, Paul checked the prep station one more time, making sure each ingredient for the BioTech appetizers was ready. Susan would arrive soon, and he wanted everything organized before they started working through the final recipes.

He wiped his hands on his apron and glanced at the clock. Three-fifteen. Susan had texted that she was running slightly behind but would be here by three-thirty. That gave him just enough time to review the timeline they’d mapped out yesterday and confirm the rental equipment delivery.

The back door swung open, but instead of Susan, Harry appeared carrying a small cardboard box.

“Chef, this just arrived for you. The delivery guy said it’s from Missoula.” Harry set the package on the counter near the walk-in cooler. “Do you need me for anything else before I head out?”

Paul stared at the return address. It was from Karen, Michelle’s sister.

“No, go ahead. Give Emma a hug from me.”

After Harry left, Paul stood motionless, studying the box as if it contained something dangerous. He hadn’t heard from Karen since the memorial service. Over a cup of coffee, their conversation had been brief. They’d shared a few stories, talked about the years after Michelle had left, and wished each other the best.

The box wasn’t large. Maybe twelve inches square and sealed with packing tape that had been applied quickly. Paul grabbed a knife and slit through the tape, pulling back the flaps.

Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, were photographs. Dozens of them. Some were duplicates he’d seen before. Michelle at their wedding, young and radiant in her mother’s vintage gown. Others showed moments he’d forgotten. Michelle at a teacher’s conference, accepting an award. Michelle in her garden, dirt on her knees, holding up a massive tomato like a trophy.

Beneath the photos lay a small leather journal, its cover worn smooth from handling. Michelle’s handwriting filled the first page: Garden Notes 2018. Paul’s throat tightened as he flipped through pages documenting plant varieties, bloom times, and sketches of her garden layout. She’d always loved planning things, creating order from chaos.