“I mean, why now instead of other summers?” he said. “You came here as a kid, you said, with the chocolate-covered strawberries, but then not again. Why didn’t you come back here before? Even to visit?”
A much better question. Also one that she wasn’t sure she wanted to answer.Or one I even can answer.She wondered why Auntie Zee’s no-questions rule didn’t apply to Jack. Maybe it was more a loose guideline than a rule.
As she thought about how to answer, Calisa checked on the butter—nicely melted. She poured it in. “I think there was an argument? Between one of my moms and Auntie Zee. I was young, and no one ever told me what it was about. They made up, I’m pretty sure. At least they talk on holidays, and she agreed to let me come here this summer….” Hadn’t she? Auntie Zee hadn’t acted happy to see her. Based on what she’d said, it was seeming more likely now that Mom-Kate had just plowed ahead with what she thought was best.
Stirring the batter, Calisa chased the lumps of flour around the bowl.
She should have had a longer conversation with Mom-Kate before she’d come here about what exactly the status of their relationship was. Or maybe it didn’t matter, and it was in the past. Really, all she had to do now was convince Auntie Zee to let her stay longer than three days, which she’d have a better chance of doing if she made herself useful—by making everyone excellently fluffy pancakes. She didn’t need to fix old family problems that weren’t her business. Just like she didn’t need to know why Mulligan wanted a single vial of hot chocolate.
She ladled batter onto the griddle. It spread into a circle. She added three more circles of batter to the griddle. “Spatula?” she asked Jack.
He produced a spatula, and she thanked him.
When the pancakes began to bubble, she flipped them. After waiting a minute, she turned to ask Jack for a plate—and saw that he’d laid out trays, each with a plate, a rolled-up linen napkin, a glass of milk, and multiple tiny bowls with various syrups. He was putting blossoms into tiny vases in the corner of each tray.
“How did you do that so quickly?” Calisa asked.
He shrugged. “Practice. Can’t make pancakes but can set up a room service tray.”
“The guests don’t eat breakfast downstairs?” She shouldn’t be surprised, given how dusty and unwelcoming the common rooms were, but still…shouldn’t they?
“Guests always used to,” Jack said, “but lately, they’vepreferred to eat in their rooms. I guess because it’s nicer—you’ve seen the dining room—or maybe they just like the privacy.” As he finished with adding flowers to the trays, she transferred the golden and pillowy pancakes to plates and started the next batch.
He picked up two of the trays and carried them out of the kitchen. She heard his footsteps on the stairs. By the time he returned, she had pancakes on the last tray. He took that one to the third floor as she scraped out the rest of the batter, then piled the remaining pancakes onto a single plate.
Sitting on a stool at the counter, Jack helped himself to three of the stacked pancakes and then poured raspberry maple syrup on top of them, so much that it dripped down the sides of the pancakes and pooled on the plate.
She sat on a stool next to him. “Do the guests stay in their rooms all the time?”
He handed her the maple syrup. “Room eight usually only comes out at night, but once room three arrives, you’ll see her and room twelve pretty frequently.”
Only comes out at night…“Is room eight Mulligan?”
He glanced at her with surprise. “You’ve met Mulligan?”
Calisa waved her fork at the stove, then swallowed her bite of pancake. Oh wow, raspberry maple syrup! Jack was right—it tasted like pure summer, with a twist of maple. Belatedly, she answered, “He was making hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate this time? Huh. He’s tried stranger things.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant. Did Mulligan usually gofor other kinds of drinks during his nighttime appearances? She hadn’t noticed any alcohol in the kitchen. “It was good hot chocolate.”
“I’m sure it was,” Jack said. “Mulligan uses the best ingredients.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead he shoved a forkful of pancake into his mouth. She wondered if she’d said something that alienated him again—they’d been doing so well for a few minutes there.
“Has he been a guest here long?” The way he talked about Mulligan made him sound like a permanent resident. She wondered if the current guests were long-term visitors. If so, how long did they usually stay? She’d assumed people came to a bed-and-breakfast for a weekend getaway. She didn’t know what one did in the middle of nowhere for longer than that. It was miles and miles to the nearest town, and what was there to do in town, anyway? A few restaurants at best. An antiques shop or maple syrup store or something equally Vermont-y? Did the guests like to hike? There were certainly enough mountains to hike in. She tried to picture Mulligan in his all-black outfit, hiking up a mountain. It didn’t seem like his style. What drew guests here, especially long-term ones?
“These are awesome pancakes,” Jack said. A spot of syrup was on his cheek. She resisted the urge to wipe it away as he shoveled more pancake into his mouth. Even with his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s, he was still cute.
Don’t notice that,she told herself firmly.
“Thanks.” Eating another bite, she made herself look out the window at the apple tree instead of at Jack. Hadn’t therebeen a statue beneath the tree last night? She was certain there had been. She must have been looking out from a different angle before. It was most likely just out of sight. “So, is this the inn’s offseason? Are there more guests in winter?”
He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, as if she’d asked a touchy question. “Well, it used to be our busiest season. We’re just going through a slow patch…. Not all the usual summer season guests have returned, but they might still book. It’s just the start of the summer.”
That didn’t sound great.
Only three rooms filled? And this was supposed to be the busy season?
Exactly how much trouble was Auntie Zee’s B&B in?
