Fiona’s insides curled up at the term. “Do we have to call it home?”
This was not her home. The apartment overlooking the park where she’d lived with her mother and father—that got the label “home,” and nothing Delia or her father could do or say would change that. If only one of them understood how lost and adrift she’d felt after learning it had been sold…
But she couldn’t dwell on that or she’d cave in to the emotions that she’d rather die than admit to.
“Yes. You and your father are going to leave this little tiff behind you on this trip,” Delia informed her in that no-nonsense voice that brooked no arguments. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Fiona agreed, mostly because she knew it was what Delia wanted to hear. And also because it wasn’t really a question. It was a strongly encouraged suggestion, and Fiona hated causing Delia strife in the first place. She wanted it to be true, too, so she’d fake it until it was, if for no other reason than to make Delia happy.
A familiar voice rang out from the hall behind them. “Towels are out of the dryer and need to be folded before the new check-ins arrive.”
Fiona’s father came into view carrying a laundry basket. A laundry basket.
“Some of the new check-ins are already here,” Fiona informed her father with a laugh designed to cover that she was really glad to see him, difficulties aside.
Harris immediately dropped his basket and pulled Fiona into a hug before she could protest, and then all she could do was hang on. Her father loved her. He didn’t have to say it all the time for it to be true. She could feel it in his embrace. That was enough for now.
She could put aside her feelings. No problem. Just like she’d been doing for years.
“Welcome home,” he said enthusiastically, then caught Delia’s chopping motion at her neck and amended quickly to, “Welcome here. So… How’s life in the Big Apple?”
“Great. This might refresh your memory.” Thrilled at the chance to segue off difficult subjects, Fiona rifled through her bag and pulled out Delia’s gift wrapped in crackly gold paper tied with curly-q ribbons. “Brought you a bottle of your favorite perfume from 5th Avenue.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Delia protested but the delight in her eyes told a different story. “Thank you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Delia had filled so many gaps in Fiona’s life that the gift couldn’t begin to hold all of her gratitude.
Ang handed Harris a bag. “Oh, and here are some real bagels from Zabar’s.”
That was the real hit. Harris’s eyes rounded and he took the bag so carefully, Fiona double-checked to be sure Ang hadn’t handed him a live baby.
“Oh, man! Thank you both.” Something beyond Angela’s shoulder caught Harris’s attention and he jerked his chin in that direction, bagels all but forgotten. “There he is. Fiona, this is Derek. He studied in Paris. He’s a culinary genius. The inn’s pride and joy.”
The world clicked into slow motion as the Mushroom Man from outside strode through the dining area off the reception hall. Of course. She muttered to Angela, “Oh, the wise-guy groundskeeper?”
Genius, huh? That remained to be seen. At least that answered her What menu? question.
Brandon joined the party, throwing in his own two cents on the matter. “He’s our new head chef and fingers crossed, soon to be the first Michelin star chef in Vermont.”
Derek sauntered over, smirk firmly in place across his chiseled jaw. “Oh, I believe we’ve met before. And mushroom soup is still off the menu.”
“The guy’s very particular about his mushrooms,” Fiona said to her father with an eye roll that she couldn’t quite help.
“Yeah,” Harris returned with a quizzical expression as if Fiona had told a joke with a punchline he didn’t quite get. “And a true artist who needs to focus.”
Derek nodded once and carried off a basket of rolls. Wow, was he ever anti-social.
“I’ve persuaded some of the top restaurant bloggers in New England to come later this week, so he needs to be in prime form.” Harris waggled his hand. “Bookings have been down a little bit and we could use the press.”
Oh no. Now Fiona felt terrible for giving Derek a hard time about the mushrooms. Clearly her father and Delia were depending on this new head chef to help pick up their business. Well, Derek could have been a little less confrontational about how she’d accidentally messed up his precious menu.
Harris continued. “Tomorrow we have more guests arriving and thanks to Brandon, we’ve updated our website. We’ve started to market to the hip millennial crowd.”
Delia nodded enthusiastically but Fiona had to laugh. “Hip millennial crowd? That just does not sound right coming out of your mouth, Dad.”
“Which reminds me…” Brandon trailed off as he held up his phone and wandered off to go do some mysterious inn task. Harris followed him, clearly on a similar mission, leaving Delia beaming at Fiona and Ang.
“Let’s get you settled!” she said and tucked Fiona’s hand in her capable one. “You can relax and enjoy yourself. And then later on, you can tell me all about your breakup with Nate.”
So close. For a minute there, Fiona had thought the subject wasn’t going to come up. Hopefully her smile didn’t look as pained as it felt, but Delia had vanished already.
“Yay, can’t wait!” she said to Ang, her voice dripping with irony. And so she had her marching orders from everyone else. Get over Nate. Get over the tiff with her father. Relax. No work.
When would someone ask Fiona what she wanted to do?
Four
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
The cry sounded again, just outside Fiona’s window. Groaning, she half lifted her head, saw it was the crack-of-dawn-thirty and slammed the pillow down over her ears.
Didn’t help. The crowing continued until it was ridiculous.
If anyone did bother to ask Fiona what she wanted to do, item number one on her list had just become throttle that rooster. Shoving the pillow aside, Fiona sat up.
“I’m trapped in Farmville,” she muttered and palmed her phone, not that she had any hope it would magically have gained a signal. She’d done everything she could think of last night in an attempt to connect, but no. Cell phone towers didn’t seem to exist here.
Something loud and un-rooster-like cut through the air outside her window. Thwack. City noise, Fiona could handle, would welcome. That had purpose and value. This thwacking noise? No. Just no.
She let the phone drop to the nightstand and flung the sheets back so she could roll out of bed to address the racket. Mushroom Man stood nearly even with her window chopping
