Page 7

CHAPTER 7

T he Country Cottage Inn is a jewel set against the backdrop of the Atlantic any time of the year, but I’ll admit, it shines a little brighter during the holidays.

It’s the next day after the horrible tragedy that took place in the courtyard, and surprisingly the guests of the inn don’t seem any worse for wear.

Of course, they’re busy getting in their last-minute holiday shopping and being zipped off by nearby relatives to do all of the touristy things while here in Maine.

It probably helps that I didn’t exactly clue my guests in on the murderous dilemma either. I’ve found that when this type of thing happens, it’s best for the inn to lay low and avoid the homicidal radar.

Come on, Jingle. Sherlock Bones gives a happy bark as he leads him from behind the reception counter. Let’s go sit under the Christmas tree and welcome the guests. I’m not the inn’s employee of the month for nothing.

Hey, Fish mewls as she jumps down from her perch on the creamy marble counter. I’m the employee of the month. In fact, I’m the employee of the month— every month, she says with a touch of pride as she takes off after them.

They would both be right. And who could blame me for selecting the cutest employees of the bunch for the monthly honor? But they’re not just a couple of pretty faces, they pull their weight when it comes to greeting guests.

I peer in the direction of the enormous evergreen taking up residence just shy of the bay window. It’s festooned from top to bottom with colorful twinkle lights. And just last week, the employees and I decorated it with colorful ornaments to match. The entire inn is decorated with enough garland wrapped with twinkle lights that we could rope them around the world twice.

Giant evergreen wreaths are hooked onto the double doors, adding an extra festive flair to the entry, each with a cherry red bow.

The inn has its share of old-world charm, with its distressed gray wooden floors, a wrought iron staircase that leads up to the second level, and blue shutters outside of every window. The exterior is painted white, but you’d never know it with all the ivy taking over. There are over seventy rooms to let, in addition to over thirty cottages we lease out on the property. Jasper and I happen to live in one of those cottages, as do our best friends, Emmie and Leo Granger, and Georgie lives on the premises, too.

“Bizzy!”

Speaking of which, I turn to see my best friend, Emmie Grainger, headed this way.

Emmie and I have been best buds since preschool. We happen to share the same medium-length dark hair, denim blue eyes, and the same proper moniker, Elizabeth. Although to avoid confusion, we’ve gone through life with the nicknames our families have given us.

And there’s one more thing we happen to have in common these days—the fact we’re both expecting. Emmie and her husband Leo are due this spring, and I couldn’t be more excited if it were my own. Just the fact our babies will be friends for life, like we are, thrills me to pieces.

Emmie works for me right here at the inn, at the Country Cottage Café located off the back. The café is one of my favorite features of the inn since it butts up to the sandy cove. However, my most favorite feature is the pet daycare facility we have on site. As soon as I took the managerial position, I obliterated the no-pet policy.

In fact, the Country Cottage Inn has been voted the most pet-friendly inn in all of Maine for several years running.

Emmie lands a bright red Cider Cove Cookie Company tin onto the counter and rips the lid off.

“Dig in with me,” she pants. “Everyone knows calories don’t count if you partake with friends—especially if your friend just so happens to be knocked up like you are. It’s a basic rule you can find in any one of those What to Expect While You’re Expecting pregnancy lifestyle manuals.”

“Well, if I’m going to save you some calories, you’ve twisted my arm,” I say, reaching in and grabbing a snowball cookie for myself. “Of course, I’ll need twice this much if I’m expected to eat for two.”

“Of course.” She laughs before wrinkling her nose at my selection. “Those are good, but the brookie is the cookie to beat.” She pats her tiny round baby bump. “Both the baby and I agree.”

“What?” I laugh. “But it’s impossible to beat the brookie,” I tell her. “Because its brownie superpowers are far too strong. Baby Wilder gives it two thumbs-up.”

She makes a face. “It’s true,” she says. “The brookie doesn’t play fair because it’s essentially two desserts in one—a brownie and a chocolate chip cookie. But for the holidays, they switched out the chocolate chips for butterscotch—and lucky for me, because I’ve been craving butterscotch like crazy. It’s like the baby knows exactly what I want and it makes me crave it even more.”

“ Ooh , I like how intuitive Baby Granger is,” I say, quickly snatching one up. I can’t help it, I’m an unashamed cookie addict. “Butterscotch is my favorite, too. But then, I am sort of in love with the peppermint pinwheels they’ve included this year as well. They’re so refreshing, and oddly enough, they seem to be just the cure whenever I get a hint of nausea.”

“Good tip,” she says, reaching for a pinwheel to call her own. “I’ve been craving those myself. And weirdly enough, I’ve been craving lemons lately, too. I’m talking lemon everything. Lemon bars, lemon cookies, lemon in my water. I think this baby is going to come out loving lemonade.”

“ Aww ,” I coo. “And it’ll have a great attitude in life because of it, too. It’ll know exactly what to do when life hands it lemons.”

We share a quick laugh as a crowd bustles through the reception area.

“I just hope the baby doesn’t end up as zesty as a lemon at two in the morning when it’s time for a diaper change.” Emmie’s hands sit over her belly as she gives it a quick pat. “And speaking of babies, have you thought up any names yet? Leo and I are still trying to narrow down our list.”

“Our list is just getting started,” I tell her. “We’ve got a few in mind, but it’s so hard to choose. Every time I think I’ve got the perfect name, another one pops into my head that I like even more.”

“Same here.” She takes another bite of her cookie, a far more aggressive one as she stares out at the tree. “And listen to this, each time I think I’ve found the perfect name, the baby gives me a kick as if it wants a vote in the matter, too. I swear, it’s like this baby already has opinions about everything.”

“It clearly takes after its parents.” I pick up another brookie and make quick work of it. “Hey, is it weird that I think this would go great with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? With maybe a few hot and spicy pickles on the side?”

Emmie belts out a good old-fashioned belly laugh, the kind that bonded us tighter than sisters as we shared them plentifully and often while growing up.

“Bizzy, I think these cookies are a lot more appetizing than peanut butter and pickles.”

“Well, at least I’m not craving anything weird like dirt, or chalk,” I say in defense of spicy pickles everywhere.

“True,” she says with a sigh as she reaches for another pinwheel. “I guess we should count our Christmas blessings. And thankfully, we have the Cider Cove Cookie Company to keep us stocked with scrumptious, far more traditional sweet treats.”

“Amen to that.” And I grab another cookie to show my thanks. “We’re lucky, all right. Pregnant and pampered by the best cookies in all of Maine.”

“Couldn’t ask for anything better,” she says through a mouthful. “Except maybe a nap after the sugar rush dies down.”

“Naps are my best friend these days—no offense to you,” I say with a wink. “I think I could sleep through a thunderstorm.”

“So could I,” she groans through another bite. “Sleep has become a sacred ritual. But I don’t think Leo fully understands why I’m in bed by eight.”

“Both he and Jasper will learn soon enough. Once those sleepless nights hit, we’ll all be scrambling to catch a nap where we can.”

The doors to the inn whoosh open and in strides our town’s fearless leader—and my self-proclaimed nemesis. And suddenly, I have a craving to scramble away from the inn as fast as I can.