Since then, for the bittersweet second half of summer, the library had been almost as busy as Harvest. They hosted two author signings, and tried their first literary luncheon with a panel of three beach-read authors. The library had been so packed, Holly decided to start ticketing future events, for fear the fire department would come. Wednesday nights officially belonged to their newly founded book club, The Sandy Page. Their first selection was a summer title by Elin Hilderbrand, and the next would be Sarah Pekkanen’s latest thriller. Sometimes they strayed off topic and there was more chitchat and beverage partaking than book banter, but that was just fine. Linus had been right about that, too.
There had been other developments, outside the library. Dahlia Fisk had run her review. It had not come the first Monday after her surprise visit, as everyone had expected, and Hollyfeared Greta would die from waiting if Linus didn’t beat her to it. But two Mondays after her dinner, there it was: “A Harvest by the Sea.” Dahlia had complimented the ambience, though Linus wasn’t thrilled she referred to his service asacceptable. What she had called the food, however, wasinimitable, and Harvest as ahidden coastal gem worth even the traffic on the Sagamore Bridge. Paul had taped the review to the refrigerator and Greta cried. For the fiftieth time that summer, Oliver asked her out to dinner. This time Greta said yes.
Holly’s partnership with Oyster Boys went on, even if Ben was no longer a part of it. They’d talked only once since he’d left, though she knew he’d been back to see his family. It was not easy, but it was easier this way, she told herself.
Now, an August moon was rising. Francine had come for dinner, to talk business. They’d taken their meal out on the patio for privacy.
“We are doing better than breaking even,” Holly was pleased to report. “Harvest has saved us, most of all. But with the added events at the library, and the holidays coming, I think we’ll have more foot traffic and rooms filled through the offseason to provide a cushion we didn’t have last year.”
Francine was pleased, but cautious. “A cushion?”
Holly nodded. “I think we’re going to be fine, Franny. I can honestly say that, for the first time since we opened.” The numbers were looking up and the inn was already booked through September, a first.
Holly had bitten the bullet and hired another sous-chef, with the restaurant at capacity each night. It didn’t hurt that the inn had been featured in two travel magazines, and even mentioned on Boston’s local CBS affiliate as “a distinctive boutiquehotel.” With the uptick in reservations that followed, Holly was hopeful. Nothing would ever be certain in this industry, but they were finally moving in the right direction, and with the team at her side she felt confident. Now it was up to Francine.
“I want the Cranberry House to keep going,” Francine told her now. “And I want to officially turn it over to you.”
Holly’s breath caught in her chest. It was what she’d worked for, and all that she wanted. Still, she was afraid to believe it. She knew Francine could make so much more if she sold.
“You’re sure about this? No developer?”
Francine shook her head. “I told that Mr. Sullio to go pound sand before you arrived.” It was one of her grandmother’s oldest sayings. “And I stand by it now.”
Holly’s eyes filled, but her grandmother was too busy fiddling with her purse to notice. “I have something for you.” She watched Francine reach inside and withdraw a key. “Here.”
“What’s this?” The key was heavy and intricate, and made of brass. The scrollwork was beautiful, even with the metal yellowing with age.
“It’s the original key, to the front door.”
Holly gasped.
“Of course, the door is long gone and the locks changed many times since, but somehow that key has stayed with the house all these years later. Your grandfather asked me to keep it in my jewelry box as a reminder. We are not just keepers of an inn, we are keepers of history, here, too.”
Holly clasped the key to her chest. “Thank you, Franny. For everything.”
“Ha. Be careful what you’re thanking me for. It will not beeasy, but I have a feeling you’ll make your own history here, too. It’s yours, dear girl.”
Tears now spilling down her cheek, Holly raised her glass. “To pounding sand!”
“Cheers!”
That night, as she was washing up for bed, Holly looked at her reflection. There was a smattering of freckles now, just across the bridge of her nose. And a handful of sun streaks in her hair. Days running the inn would always be long, but she couldn’t let summer pass her by entirely.
She slipped into bed and stretched between the cool sheets, thinking about this summer. About the wins and the fails, about what her grandmother had decided and what now lay ahead for her. About the trunk of historic treasures in the lobby, and the old-fashioned key now tucked in her own jewelry box. Finally, her mind and limbs filled with a heavy peace she’d been waiting for all season. When she reached to turn off her bedside lamp, this time she did not turn the light on and off again.
But someone else did.
Holly sat up in bed, staring across the cove. Sure enough, a light flicked on and off in the distance. Ben’s bedroom light.
Holly was torn. They’d said their goodbyes. But she hated not to reply. As she sat there fretting, the light across the cove flicked again. Once, twice, three times. And then it stopped.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Holly knew this signal. It did not mean good night.
Heart quickening, she threw the covers back and leapt out of bed. Still barefoot, she ran down the servants’ steps, across the lobby, which was thankfully empty at that hour, and through theFrench doors to the patio. Moonlight spilled across the flagstone. Down the steep wood steps she ran, stumbling twice in her haste, to the beach. When she reached the sand, Holly halted, listening. The beach was quiet, the only sound being the gentle lap of water. She turned right. Jogging along the sand, Holly traced the shore until she was midway up the beach. Again, she stopped and listened. Just as she’d dared to hope, there came the rhythmic slap of paddle against water.Splash, splash, splash. She laughed out loud.
Against the night sky, the bay was dark and mercurial, but on the surface a figure began to take shape in the moonlight. Sure enough, it was a boat, and the figure of a person at its center. Heading straight for her.
The paddles stopped and the boat slowed, drifting toward the shore.
