I clasped Patrick’s hand as we trailed behind Gretta.
“I love this place,” I whispered.
“Even though it’s not Cabot Cove?” he teased.
“It’s better than Cabot Cove. We’re going to have so much fun this weekend.”
“Yes, we are.” His grin told me what kind of fun he had in mind—and that made me grin, too.
I couldn’t wait to see what a root doctor looked like and wanted to take a gander at the rest of the guests. As I said before, I’m naturally curious, although my mother always called it being nosy. To-may-to. To-mah-to.
Gretta ushered us to the left, across the foyer, and into a large room. The walls were a pale shade of blue framed by carved white moulding and white wainscoting. Puffy blue-and-white checkered couches faced each other and between them was a rectangular white coffee table. Two wide sleigh chairs with dark wood and yellow fabric were arranged near the oversized stone hearth. A small white table with a narrow blue vase of flowers sat between the sleigh chairs.
On the back wall opposite of the fireplace was a ten-foot long rectangular table covered by a plain white tablecloth. Most of the huge table was empty, but I saw two coffee makers and a tray filled with sugars, creamers, teabags, and stir sticks. Next to the coffee makers were platters filled with freshly baked cookies.
I smelled their ooey gooey sweetness and it made my mouth water. Or it would have if I still had the ability to salivate. Oh, man. I couldn’t have a cookie. Not even a little bite. My vampire system would toss out the smallest crumb.
“Good evening, everyone!” chirped Gretta. “This is Patrick and Jessica—all the way from Oklahoma!”
We received friendly waves and smiles, which Patrick and I returned.
“This is our new day manager, Margaret Maple,” said Gretta, pointing to an older lady sitting on the left checkered sofa.
Ah, one of the humans amongst us. Crowned by tight silvery curls, Margaret Maple’s round, wrinkled face was half-covered by her thick, oversized glasses, which were attached to a beaded eyeglass cord.
She was dressed in a green muumuu, calf-length cotton socks, and fluffy white bunny slippers. I had to give it to ol’ Margaret. She knew how to be comfortable and she didn’t care who knew it.
In her hands, she held a crochet hook and yarn drawn from the brown-and-gold variegated skein on her lap. I wasn’t sure what she was trying to make, but it was really, really long.
“Looks like you got caught in the rain, poor dears.” Her thick Maine accent made “dears” sounds like “dee-ahs.”
“Drowning weather,” I said.
“Teeming out there, ayuh,” she said, nodding. “Been laury out all week.”
I stared at her.
“Your Maine is showing, Margaret,” teased Gretta. “We’re all from away, remember?”
“Hard to forget,” said the older lady. She smiled at us. “But I’m sure you’re the finest kind.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, either. Was it a compliment? Or was it the equivalent of a Southerner saying “bless your heart” when they actually meant “you poor little idiot”?
“Teeming means raining and laury out refers to overcast skies,” clarified Gretta. “In other words, typical Maine weather for this time of year.” She waved to the woman on the opposite side of the same couch. “This is Dr. Claire Woodson.”
“Hi. Just call me Claire.” She held a thick hardback in her lap. She wore yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Her feet were bare, but she’d obviously had a recent pedicure given the pink perfection of her toes. She reminded me a lot of the actress Angelina Jolie—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and intense eyes. Her auburn hair was long and straight, tucked behind her ears.
“The root doctor,” I guessed.
She smiled. “That’s me.”
“And this,” said Gretta as she moved behind the right couch, “is our newlywed couple—Caleb and Hannah.”
I pegged Caleb and Hannah as werewolves almost immediately. For one, werewolves in lust put out a very earthy sex-in-the-sheets smell and for two, their eyes had a reflective quality that I’d only seen with shifters.
Hannah sat on Caleb’s lap, giggling as he kissed her neck. Caleb had spiky brown hair while his mate’s was long and champagne blonde. They both wore jeans, hoodies, and sneakers. They looked young—barely into their twenties, if I had to guess—though it was difficult to tell with shifters. They aged slow and lived for centuries. Given the new-bride shine on the gold ring gracing Hannah’s finger, I figured they’d been married about two minutes.
Caleb and Hannah barely glanced in our direction because they were too busy pawing on each other. I could tell that most people in the room were uncomfortable with the couple’s public display of affection, but obviously too polite to say anything. Me? I wasn’t going to spend my evening watching two kids lick each other like lollipops.
I kicked Caleb’s sneaker hard enough that he looked up at me, frowning. I gave him the knock-that-crap-off-right-now-or-else mom look I’d perfected over the last three decades.
He immediately straightened and slid Hannah off his lap. I bet dollars to donuts that he had a mother who’d raised him to be more circumspect than he was acting right now, and I’d reminded him of that. Obviously irritated that her new hubby had gotten some manners, Hannah glared at me. “What’s your problem?”
Now, most people might snipe back and turn this situation into a fight, but I like doing the opposite of what’s expected because it confuses people. Mom 101. Take the wind of your kids’ sails by switching tactics. I smiled at her. “I love your ring,” I said. “It’s gorgeous.”
She blinked. “Oh.” Her irritation dropped away as she held out her hand and showed me the simple band with two entwined hearts etched on it. “Caleb made it for me.”
“He sounds like a keeper,” I said. I winked at Caleb, and he grinned. He put his arm around his new wife and she leaned against him, her smile soft.
I caught Gretta’s amused glance and offered a slight shrug. I don’t think I could stop myself from employing my motherhood super powers. Soooo I guess everyone within three feet of me would be the recipients of my mom-ness until I figured out how to turn off the parental faucet. Humph. I didn’t know if that was even possible.
“Let me introduce you to Julia Davenport and her daughter, Serena,” said Gretta, nodding toward the two people who occupied the sleigh chairs.
In the left one sat presumably the mother, Julia. She wore her dark hair in a short, blunt cut that made her angular face look as sharp and thin as knife blades. Her brown eyes were small and hard, like pebbles, and her lips pursed in a way that suggested she was sucking on a lemon.
She wore a black knee-length dress, high heels, and gold jewelry—far too formal for a rainy Friday night at a bed and breakfast. In fact, she looked like a corporate executive who should be in a big city high-rise firing low-level employees.
She gave us a rude onceover. Apparently, we were deemed unworthy because, without saying a word, she turned away.
Her daughter appeared to be the exact opposite of her mother. Serena was soft and curvy with long, curly hair and a sweet, round face. Her eyes were blue and held a kindness lacking in her mother’s gaze. She offered us a shy smile and said, “Hello.”
She wore pink pajamas dotted with a colorful cupcake motif and a pair of a pink ankle socks.
She was also really, really pregnant.
Probably close to eight months, if I had to guess. I mean, maybe nine months, but nah. Who would take a pregnant girl on vacation so close to her due date?
I watched Serena rub her belly with both hands, and I felt a knot swell in my throat. I remembered what it was like to be that pregnant. Oh, it was the worst. Swollen ankles. Aching back. Peeing all the time. Organs squished by the tiny human rolling around in my womb. No way to comfortably sleep or sit or do anything.
But it was also the best. All that misery was paired with the excitement of knowing that soon, you’d be cuddling that baby. I’d never understood the phrase “my heart almost burst out of my chest” until, as a new mom, I held my firstborn. Because that’s how it feels, like your heart is gonna implode from all the love it suddenly holds.
I glanced at Julia and noted her stiff posture and the way her back was slightly turned away from her daughter. It was difficult for me to believe that Julia had been moved by the birth of her own child, much less thrilled about her soon-to-be-born grandchild.
I shared a look with Patrick, and I could see the empathy in his gaze. His gaze rested on Serena’s belly, and I knew his thoughts lay with mine. I’d been so busy feeling the empty-nest blues, I hadn’t given much thought to Patrick’s feelings. He was missing the kids as much as I was, but whereas I was a Whiny McWhinyPants, he suffered in silence.
I took his hand and squeezed it, and he squeezed back.
I love you, Patrick.
I love you, too, darlin’.
Um, yeah, so my husband and I shared telepathy. Projecting thoughts to each other was a vampire-mate perk. Vampires didn’t mess around when it came to marriage.
Fun fact: If you have sex with a vampire, you were magically bound for a hundred years. You don’t get to sleep with anyone else during that time, either. And there’s no divorce.
“Hello!” A woman the mirror image of Gretta entered the room with a tall man who looked like a college professor in his tan pants, pullover sweater, and leather loafers.
His skin was the color of dark roast coffee and his hair was cropped close to his scalp. He wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses that accented his studious expression.
Add a jacket with leather elbow patches, a smoking pipe, and a British accent, and you’d totally have a Clue-esque character: The Professor in the Parlor with a Candlestick.
I turned my gaze to Lilly Thompson. She wore a red dress similar in style to her sister’s, but she’d donned high heels instead of flats. Her hair was cut into a blunt bob with short, straight bangs and sides that angled sharply against her cheeks.
Her blue eyes didn’t sparkle like her sister’s.
It was weird, but she and Julia kinda looked alike, too. Maybe it was the way Lilly’s hair made her face look sharper. She held a small, square pillow in her hand, which she brought to Serena.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” she said.
Serena leaned forward, allowing Lilly to tuck the pillow behind her back.
“Thank you,” said Serena. “That feels so much better.”
Lilly smiled. “Let me know if you need anything else.” I saw the look of longing that Lilly bestowed on Serena’s pregnant belly. There, too, I saw shadows of grief. I wondered what her story was—if she’d had mortal children or if she’d become a vampire before she could become a mother. I think I was feeling sentimental because empty nest, don’t you know.
Lilly turned to us and I could say definitively that she didn’t have the same friendly vibe as her sister, but neither was she projecting Julia’s utter coldness. She was more serious. And that was okay. I wasn't what you'd call the cheerful sort. Excitable. Nosy. Oops. I mean, curious. Impulsive. But not PollyfreakingAnna.
Lilly crossed to where Patrick and I stood and shook our hands.
“Welcome to our bed and breakfast, Jessica and Patrick,” she said. She directed our attention to the professorial-looking dude, who now leaned against the fireplace mantle. “This is Duane Cutter.”
“Good evening,” said Duane in a deep, pleasant voice. My hopes he had a British accent were dashed. He was totally American. Since we’d met the day manager, the root doctor, the witches, and the werewolf newlyweds, I could only assume Mr. Cutter was the unexpected human guest.
“What do you do, Mr. Cutter?” asked Margaret. She glanced up from her crocheting, fingers and yarn still moving, and smiled at him.
“I’m a writer.”
A-ha! So, his professor-like demeanor had been write-on. Get it? Write-on? Man, I crack myself up. “What do you write?” I asked.
Duane's gaze flicked around the room before landing on Gretta. “True crime,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Murder in the Pretty Place?”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“Oh, I have!” Margaret sat up straighter, and put down her crochet. “That book was about the murders of that poor family in Villisca, Iowa.” She visibly shuddered. “I know it happened in 1912, but the murders were so awful, I still get the shivers.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“The entire family was killed by an unknown ax murder,” answered Duane.
A clatter punctuated his sentence. I looked over my shoulder and saw Lilly standing next the serving table, her wide-eyed gaze on Duane. She held two coffee mugs in her hand that trembled so badly the mugs clinked against each other.
“Why are you here, Mr. Cutter?” she asked, her tone suspicious.
“I’m researching my next book.” Duane took in her shaken appearance, and frowned. “I plan to write about the Willescane family murders.”