“No. It, too, needs a makeover.”
“Don’t be such a snob. Even you can’t deny the architecture.”
“I believe the saying is ‘good bones.’ Like some poor former model who’s been put out to pasture.”
“You’re awful. I think what you really mean is that it haspotential.”
He glanced about the room. “Like I said, in need of cosmetic work.”
It didn’t matter what Linus thought. Every time she stepped inside, Holly felt magic here.
There were plenty of nooks and crannies to explore in the inn, and as a child, Holly had imagined the former owners like characters in an epic story. There was a little room beneath the staircase where Holly imagined the ship merchant’s children playing hide-and-seek. There was also a turret with a whimsical porthole window in the room they’d namedThe Harwich Suiteupstairs, from which she pictured the cranberry farmer viewing his bogs across the way. But this room had always spoken to her loudest.
According to documents she’d obtained at the historical society, the library design was ordered from a Boston architect by the clipper ship merchant’s wife, Anna. An avid reader and collector of books, Anna desired her own private library in 1860. The subsequent addition housed all of her books and served as a schoolroom where the governess taught the children their dailylessons. In later years, when the cranberry boggers owned the house, a small loft and a single spiral staircase were erected by the wall of windows, right where Holly sat now.
Whoever climbed up and sat in the loft had a sweeping view of the bay and the sailing vessels below. Near the top of the window, where the view of the bay met the skyline, someone had painted two sailboats onto the glass surface. The effect was magical; from any vantage point in the library, the painted boats appeared to bob atop the water outside like real vessels.
Sadly, both the loft and the staircase fell into disrepair and were no longer safe to climb. Holly’s grandparents had removed them years ago. Now, only the painted boats remained. Holly gazed up at them. Faded by sunlight and time, the boats were mere whispers against the glass, like ghost ships sailing through mist.
“I’m going to fix this room up again,” she told Linus now, as he tugged at her hair with the brush. “Ouch. Be gentle!”
“Let’s get through the photo shoot and opening day first.”
Luckily, the photographer, Dan, was decisive and efficient upon arrival. “I like the lighting on the porch, so let’s start there.”
Having surrendered her hair and face to Linus, she wasn’t about to tell the photographer how to do his job.
They shot on the porch, then by the front door. Holly loathed having her photo taken, but Dan put her at ease.
“You’re a natural,” he reassured her. They finished up on the back patio, with the bay as a backdrop. “This place is making my job easy,” Dan said, looking around appreciatively.
“Thank you. We just finished renovations.”
“You did a great job. It feels both intimate and opulent.”
“That’s exactly what I was going for,” Holly said, brightening. “Are we all set then?”
“We are.” Dan checked his watch. “I’ve got to run to one last shoot. Like you, it’s a new local business we’re featuring.”
“Oh?” Holly was half listening, thinking of the staff meeting she was now late for.
“Yeah, this guy and his brother are starting up a shellfish company at the marina by Hardings Beach.”
This caught her attention. “My chef is looking for another shellfish supplier. What’s the name?”
“They specialize in oyster farming. I think the last name is Walters.”
Holly froze. “Walters?” It couldn’t be Ben Walters. Even if he did have a brother. No, Ben and Jonah Walters were strictly summer people, not wash-ashores like herself.
“Have you heard of them?”
Holly shook her head, but her mind was racing. “I don’t think so.”
“Can’t remember their first names, but they’re calling themselves the Oyster Boys. Like you, they open this summer.”
It couldn’t be the Walters boys she grew up with. Ben was an attorney. The last Holly knew, his brother, Jonah, was working in a national park somewhere out west. Neither had any connection to the fishing industry, let alone something as specific as oyster farming. She laughed with relief. “Whoever they are, I look forward to reading about the Oyster Boys,” she told Dan before she waved goodbye.
Everyone was gathered in the parlor room waiting for her, her head housekeeper, Josephine, fretfully circling those seated on the couches and chairs. “Don’t crush the cushions,” she warned, reaching around Linus to yank a bolster pillow from his backside.
