Just as the mother opossum had not come back to find her baby, any hope Greta had about getting things back on track with Oliver faltered. The baby opossum remained in Oliver’s care, residing in a little habitat area he’d built, tucked safely in the corner of the shed where nothing could harm it. If only her heart had been given the same gentle handling.
There was no time for hearts or orphaned animals, however. A bridal party brunch for Sissy Sutton was soon to start, and Greta was already at work toasting caraway seeds and spices for the shakshuka. She could pull off this stupid brunch, she told herself, as long as she stayed in the kitchen and out of the Suttons’ way. The trouble was, the Suttons were not staying out of hers.
Having reserved the inn for the weekend, Mr. Sutton was under the mistaken impression that Greta’s kitchen was as good as his. “Where is this coffee from?” he asked, on the third visit to refill his cup. “It’s a European blend, yes? Reminds me of what we have when in Tuscany.”
“It’s from Seattle. Sir, we’re happy to serve you in the dining room.”
Mr. Sutton didn’t seem to hear. “Which country is it that you hail from?”
Greta looked up impatiently from her pan. “Sweden.”
“The Swedish chef! Fantastic. Ever see the Muppets?” He chuckled delightedly to himself as Greta turned her back and dumped chopped peppers and onions into the spices.
Harold, the groom, was also having trouble staying out of the kitchen. He poked his head in the swinging door for the fourth time that morning. “Has anyone seen Sissy? I need to speak to her before brunch. My tee time is in thirty.”
Champagne problems, Greta thought as Mr. Sutton waxed on. “When Virginia and I were in Tuscany last month, we stayed in this wonderful little monastery. I swear, they brewed beans just like this. This tastes like Tuscan monks to me.” Again, he chuckled to himself.
To Harold, Greta said, “Sorry. Haven’t seen her.”
This seemed to distress Harold. “If you don’t mind, when was the last time you did?”
“Excuse me?” It was an odd question for him to ask on his wedding weekend.
Harold jammed his hands in his pockets, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “The guys and I had a bit of a late night at the Chatham Squire in town. You know.”
She did not know, not exactly, but from his ruddy complexion and bloodshot eyes it seemed their dear groom had no recollection of rolling back in. Alarm bells went off in Greta’s head. “When was the last timeyousaw Sissy?” she asked. It was hardly her business, but here they were in her kitchen while she wastrying to work, Harold hungover and Mr. Sutton still pontificating about the origins of the Seattle brew.
“After dessert last night?” Harold said, tipping his head as if shaking water out of his ear after a vigorous swim. “Or maybe nightcaps? Can’t say for sure.”
So Harold hadn’t seen Sissy in their room last night or this morning.
Holly poked her head in. “Shuttle bus is here for our golfers!” she said brightly. Greta had never been so happy to see her, but she couldn’t shake the rising sense of doom.Focus, she told herself as she carried a basket of fresh red tomatoes to her cutting board. Each tomato she chopped, she pictured Sissy’s white dress.
An hour later, she was just pulling the perfectly baked eggs and sauce out of the oven when the missing bride appeared. Without so much as a look her way, Sissy let herself in the kitchen and went to the side door to look out. She was dressed in a pale blue linen wrap dress, her dark hair swept up in a high swinging ponytail with a white bow. The effect was utterly childish.
Greta set the now-baked egg casserole on the island with athunk. “Good morning,” she said loudly, causing Sissy to jump. Bride or not, this was her kitchen.
“Oh, hi.” Sissy’s eyes kept darting to the window.
“Can I help you with something?”
“No, not really.” Greta’s heart fell as Sissy made her way over to the island. “Oooh. Frittata?” She lifted her phone and began snapping pictures as Greta pulled two more skillets from the ovens.
“Shakshuka,” Greta corrected. Clearly Sissy had never eaten a frittata. “For your bridal brunch.”
“Cool.”
“Harold was looking for you, earlier,” Greta told her.
When Sissy merely shrugged, Greta added, “He seemed worried about catching you before he went to play golf.”
“Harold worries too much.” She rested her bony elbows on Greta’s island and began scrolling through her phone as if it were any Saturday morning in her own kitchen. “So, you’ve worked here awhile?”
“If four years is a while.” When she looked up, Sissy snapped her photo. “I’m sorry, do you mind?”
“Content creation never sleeps.” Sissy glanced down at her phone and made a face. “Oh. Potato.”
“They’re in the oven,” Greta told her.
