And how could she even know these things from their brief encounter?
Grace scowled at the screen. She was failing monumentally at number three.
She slipped off the stool and wandered into the dining room to see if Miss Della needed help in the kitchen. When the siblings decided to open the inn, Mom’s best friend graciously offered her outstanding cooking skills—and, occasionally, some unsolicited advice. But that was mostly reserved for Grace, the baby of the family.
She found Miss Della rolling out a lump of pie dough, her dark hands working the roller with expert precision. Her short, wash-and-go hair called attention to her wide-set brown eyes and high cheekbones.
“Need help with lunch, Miss Della?”
“You’re just in time, sugar. I need your steady hands. Wash up.”
Grace did as asked and joined her at the floured-up counter where a flat circle of dough awaited.
“Grab the pastry cutter and make me some nice strips for the lattice top.”
Grace took the fluted wheel by the handle and started slow, precise lines through the dough, listening to Miss Della talk about a new roast recipe she was trying out for supper tonight.
The wheel in Grace’s hand swerved out of line, and she winced at the crooked path. She wanted to fix it, but reworking the dough would make the crust tougher. She’d do it anyway, except Miss Della would disapprove.
When Grace finished the job, she carefully wove the strips into latticework while Miss Della buzzed around the kitchen, stirring pots, whisking gravy, and checking the oven. Grace made sure the strips were evenly placed across the cherry pie filling. Four strips in, the dough ripped and Grace gritted her teeth as she gently pinched it back together. But there was no making it perfect again.
When she finished, she surveyed the uncooked pie with a scowl. “All finished.”
“Thank you, honey, that looks splendid.”
“It looks terrible.”
Miss Della surveyed the pie from the stove where she was stirring the green beans. The imperfections were so obvious Grace didn’t bother pointing them out.
“Honey, it’s just the way I wanted it. If it was perfect it’d look like it came from a Sara Lee box.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” Miss Della scooped up the pie and placed it in the oven. “And now it’d be a big help if you could fold napkins for me. Jada got held up at her other job.”
When Grace slipped into the dining room, Molly was already setting the tables.
She looked up as Grace began working alongside her. “Oh, good. I could use the help. Did you get a chance to look into listing the inn?”
“I found some promising sites. It’ll probably take hours to do the listings. We should set up a few more professional shots too. We’ve made updates.”
“Good point. I can write something up for the listing. It’s hard to believe we’ve finally reached this point. In one way it seemed like forever, but in retrospect, it went quickly.”
Their parents’ deaths had forced them to make a decision: sell the house and move or finish the remodeling their parents had started and open the inn. It had been a monumental task, and they’d all sacrificed a lot to make it happen.
Grace folded a cloth napkin with military precision. “Now you can spread your wings and fly—all the way to Italy. Is Adam still on board with your plan?” Molly’s dream of running a bed-and-breakfast in Tuscany went back a long way, but there were two of them now.
“He supports my dreams 100 percent. He can write from anywhere, and he can fly back for book tours.”
Adam Bradford was a writer of love stories, perennial bestsellers, with one of his novels made into a movie so far. He was also one of the most down-to-earth people Grace knew. And he really brought out the best in Molly.
“It’s been quiet around here this afternoon,” Molly said. “Anyone check in?”
“Just the guest who arrived as our meeting was winding down.”
“How long are they staying?”
“It’s only one guest—and he wasn’t sure how long. A few days or a few weeks. He’s leaving it open-ended.”
