a kick, Claire decided, wondering if she should get up. But the woman was moving away, mumbling as she went. “Ain’t fair, ain’t fair, ain’t fair…”
Claire frowned. How odd.
She remembered the sleepy redhead who’d muttered the warning about a curse. Toivo, who’d been downright scatterbrained about her reservation but had then insisted on the bridal suite with a curious glee.
Argh, what nonsense. Sheer fancy. There was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy every comfort the room provided, especially if they were going to move her out as soon as she showed her face.
Claire sighed and rubbed her cheek against the pillowcase. Sun dried. Not many Bel Vista hotels could provide such a service.
The heavy footsteps returned, traipsing in the direction of the staircase. “Ain’t fair, ain’t fair, ain’t fair…”
A comfortable silence descended. Shush, shush, went the waves. Shush, shush, shush… Birds twittered in the sunshine. Somewhere in the hall, a grandfather clock ticked, steady and sonorous.
I yam what I yam and I yam here, Claire said silently, welcoming the pleasure that accompanied the familiar statement. For good or for bad, I yam here.
She slid an arm beneath the pillow, thoughts drifting to her encounter with the woodsman the way iron filings are drawn to a magnet. My, but he’d been large. And so very masculine. She shivered, wondering how he’d look in the daylight.
There was her purse to retrieve.
She might see him again.
Did she want to?
As Claire weighed that question, an uncomfortable awareness slowly came over her. Her scalp began to prickle. As if…ugh, no. She shoved the creepy feeling away, but it returned.
It was as if someone was staring at her.
She opened one eye and squinted, scanned the room through her lashes. One look at the opposite wall and suddenly she was wide-awake, propped up on her elbows, her heart pounding wildly.
The bride! The curse!
It was only a painting, she realized, flushing at her ridiculous overreaction. Yet her distaste remained. From the far wall, a bride stared at her, looking cold and calm and severe in her snowy lace garments, as glacial as an iceberg. Claire recognized the French doors that were the bride’s backdrop, propped open to the blue vista of the big lake and infinite sky. It should have been a lovely painting, the blond bride serene in her wedding raiment, and instead it was terrible. Forbidding. Chilling.
Cursed.
“Get a grip.” Hugging herself, Claire climbed out of the high bed, her bare feet landing on one of the threadbare needlepoint rugs scattered over the hardwood floor. She reached for the sweater she’d carelessly tossed into her open suitcase when she’d changed for bed. The night before, she’d been too tired to notice the grouping of old family portraits that hung on the bridal suite’s fireplace wall. And she’d slept fine. So why be bothered now?
“Psych out,” she said. Scowling at the portrait in spite of her goose bumps, she slid the sweater on over her nightgown. The bride’s cold blue stare had leached all the warmth from the room.
It’s only the power of suggestion, Claire told herself, stepping over for a closer look. If she’d been told this was a blessed bridal suite, she’d still be in bed, relaxed to the core, lolling in the sunshine like a fat, lazy cat.
“No, I wouldn’t.” She stood before the marble mantel and lifted her chin to confront the coldhearted bride. “You’re a frigid, deadening old witch, aren’t you? I pity the man who married you. No wonder the room is cursed.”
“The room’s not cursed.”
Claire swung around in surprise. She hadn’t heard the door open.
“Eh, that Toivo.” The short, round older woman who stood in the doorway with a breakfast tray had to be the elf’s sister, Emmie. Although her eyes snapped with sharp intellect and her hair was a dark iron gray scraped into a severe braid, the two innkeepers were as alike as a matched pair of salt and pepper shakers.
“Tch, tch. I’ve told the old coot not to carry tales,” Emmie Whitaker said with a peppery flare, stooping to retrieve the folded newspaper on the doorstep before advancing into the room. Mingled scents of hot coffee, fresh orange juice and a sweet, spicy cinnamon bun rose from the tray, making Claire’s mouth water.
The innkeeper set the tray on a side table and fussily rearranged the decorative crocheted bedspread Claire had laid aside. “I’m Emmaline Alice Whitaker. Call me Emmie—everyone does.” She poured a cup of coffee, added cream and two lumps of sugar without asking. “Bay House is my family home. Lived here all my life, along with Toivo. Our younger sister ran away to California. Been married three times, if you can imagine, and had a baby with each husband. I’ve never been married, myself. Looking after Toivo and Bay House is enough for any woman.”
Claire inhaled the steam from the coffee before taking a grateful sip, nearly moaning with bliss. She’d drastically cut down, but the first shot of morning caffeine was an indulgence she couldn’t deny herself. This coffee was heavenly—rich and strong and sweet.
Emmie’s lips tucked into a tight, satisfied smile. “We’re plain coffee drinkers at Bay House. It’s the Finnish way. Don’t be asking me for fancy teas or Italian espresso.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The hostess nodded. “You’ll be down soon for breakfast, Miss Lavender?”
Claire offered her hand. “It’s Levander, actually. Claire Levander.”
“Levander?” Emmie’s hand was plump and strong. “Leave it to Toivo,” she said, tsking again.
“Well, you see, I lost my purse, so I didn’t check in properly,” Claire began. “I’ll need to go and search for it first thing—”
“Goodness gracious. I’d send Toivo looking, but Lord knows what that goofball would come back with. Why don’t you tell us all about it at breakfast? The usual suspects are waiting to meet you, Miss Levander.”
Claire glanced at the sweet roll. It was the size of a softball, oozing with frosting. “Breakfast? Isn’t this breakfast?”
Emmie clucked in disbelief. “Coffee and a roll? Goodness, no. My dear mama, bless her soul, would spin in her grave if I served such a miserly breakfast at Bay House.” She paused at the door, casting a surreptitious glance toward the bridal portrait. “You get dressed and come right down. Never mind that silly talk of curses. It’s pure balderdash.”
Claire, warmed by coffee, was inclined to agree, even though she still felt the bride’s stare like an icicle between the shoulder blades. She turned to look at the portrait. “Who is she?”
Emmie hesitated, smoothing the gingham-checked apron she wore over an orange fleece track suit. “Valentina Whitaker, younger sister to Ogden Whitaker, my great-grandfather, the lumber baron who built Bay House. Poor Valentina was gone long before Toivo and I were born to Mama Mae and Ogden Three.”
“Gone?”
