Page 5 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

IT HAPPENS EVERY TIME.

And every time, Elsa jumps with the surprise of it.

Even now, standing at the counter in her kitchen Wednesday morning.

Even with sunshine streaming in through her big garden window.

Sunshine that her herb plants in their red-pail pots drink in.

Even with soft jazz emanating from her portable speaker.

Even with several baking sheets set out and the oven warming.

“Whoop!” Elsa quietly exclaims when her spoon opens the pop-can of biscuits. Yes, the little jolt of it gets her—every time.

But then? It’s time to bake. First, she needs her apron.

Even though she’d dressed for baking—black jogger pants with an olive mockneck top and rolled olive bandana tying back her hair—the outfit’s not enough.

That’s how seriously she takes her baking.

Aprons give the process… ambiance. They’re a part of the whole baking…

experience . So she lifts her faded denim apron from a stool at her marble-top island, drops the apron over her shoulders and ties the strings.

Of course, she’s not just baking this morning. She’s thinking, too. Concetta’s last email invited her to Italy to mull over life together—particularly the surprising Celia-Shane relationship.

Should I go? Elsa wonders.

Concetta had closed her email with one word: Thoughts?

“Oh, I’ve got thoughts aplenty,” Elsa whispers while standing at her counter and separating those canned biscuits.

And her thoughts simmer while she tends to each baking task.

One by one, she dips the tops and sides of the uncooked biscuits into a shallow bowl of melted butter.

Each buttered biscuit then moves down her little baking assembly line.

After the butter, a dip into a dish of cinnamon and sugar, then onto a baking sheet.

That’s when she lifts her favorite wooden spoon and presses a deep indentation into each biscuit.

Next up? A good dollop of strawberry preserves fills that biscuit-top.

The thing is? Elsa likes this—the controlled, assembly-line order of her food prep. Heck, it’s nice to find some order in her days. If only she could order her whole life as easily.

Alas.

Once the baking sheet is lined with her cinnamon fruit biscuits, she slides it in the oven, wipes off her fingers and turns to the laptop on her marble island.

Sitting on an upholstered stool then, she does it.

She raises her hands, types the thoughts she’d contemplated while baking and answers her friend’s email .

Dearest Concetta,

Grazie for inviting me to Milan to ruminate on my life situations.

You know, my sister June always called me the explorer.

And I have been one—moving to Milan after studying abroad there in college.

I fell in love in Italy, too. And suddenly I was married, and pregnant, and had a baby …

and my whole life was there. I opened my boutique when Salvatore was little, and it was nice because I could bring him in with me, or close up when I wanted.

But what I really liked was that I was in charge—leading my life, my way. An explorer in many respects.

So yes, at any other time I’d have jumped on board and been that brave explorer once again.

Exploring with you the hidden gardens of Milan; exploring the winding cobblestone passageways; exploring the museums, the art—marveling together at da Vinci’s The Last Supper; then stopping back at your villa to sip coffee and talk.

All well and good—except for this: It seems that lately?

I’m only an explorer of secrets. Of relationships. Of hidden meanings.

Elsa pauses her typing to sip her own coffee now. To think of her recent days. To sigh, even, before bringing her fingers to the keyboard again.

So thank you for the offer, my dear friend , she types. And I’ll keep it in mind. But right now, my life is filling up with a new gig, it seems.

When the cinnamon fruit biscuits’ sweet aroma fills the kitchen, Elsa stops typing to check on the pastries. Moments later, back at her laptop, she wraps up her email.

You see, Concetta. I’m actually the pastry chef for Cliff’s newfangled coffee cart in the beach trailer.

It doesn’t pay much. Actually, it doesn’t pay at all.

But—it keeps me busy, and I’m rather enjoying that because it leaves little time for thinking of everything else.

At this rate, between biscuits and beignets, I won’t even need to open the Ocean Star Inn! Ciao, amica. Much love, too.

Flitting around the kitchen,

Elsa

***

Flitting, indeed.

Just in time to pull her biscuits from the oven.

While they cool, she’ll start on her banana beignets.

Their assembly line of bowls has already been prepped.

Flour, sugar, baking powder, cinnamon and salt whisked in one; egg, mashed ripe bananas, milk and oil whisked in another.

Now she carefully adds the wet ingredients to the dry and stirs until just moistened.

All’s good.

But right as she’s about to heat oil in her electric skillet and drop in spoonfuls of batter, doesn’t her computer ding with an incoming email. While wiping off her hands again, Elsa hurries to her marble-top island and reads Concetta’s rapid response.

Pause your flitting, my friend, Concetta writes.

There most certainly is a reason to open your inn.

That reason is—CELIA. As assistant innkeeper, the Ocean Star Inn will keep her connected to you and Stony Point.

Because right now? With the current idled state of things there, Celia is free to come—or go—to Maine.

To follow her heart—north! And to Shane.

Perhaps … permanently. So Elsa, you better open that coastal inn of yours if only to … Lock. Celia. Down!

Well, now. What’s this Elsa is feeling? Oh, she knows damn well what it is—a newfound panic.

While dropping those spoonfuls of beignet batter in her electric skillet, and frying them a bit on each side, she wonders if Concetta could be right.

And while draining the now-golden beignets on paper towels, she decides her friend’s inn-opening rationale needs mulling over.

Oh, if there weren’t so many things to do first. Like rolling the warm banana beignets in a white sugar, brown sugar, and cinnamon mixture now.

Like cleaning her cooking utensils and dishes and pans.

Afterward, she hurries down the hallway, passes the mahogany grandfather clock and finds a blank journal behind the inn’s reservation desk.

Oh, yes. Elsa’s really flitting now. Because minutes later, she’s ensconced at her kitchen island. Steam rises from the cup of coffee beside her. Her heart flutters, too—there’s that panic again. Finally, she opens the journal to a fresh, empty page, lifts her pen and begins writing.

Inn-terim List:

(Tasks to do before Ocean Star Inn’s spring opening)

-Laundry

-Update seasonal décor

-Gift shop items shoppin g

“Not enough, not enough,” Elsa ponders, then sips her coffee. And tucks a strand of hair behind her rolled bandana. “Well, the holidays are coming, and… what else?”

Yes .

Suddenly, it’s like a switch has flicked.

She’s got it.

It’s all falling into place. With the inn. With Celia. With… everything! This will do it.

So as Elsa packs up her pastries to bring to Cliff’s coffee cart, she also whips up a full-color flyer of her sudden plan. Prints it, too. It’s a plan for the inn, and a plan for her own life as well. Sure, it’ll need Cliff’s and the darn BOG’s approval.

Hopefully, her baked goodies will sweeten the deal— her way.

***

While driving to Jason’s place to finish the stairs, Shane takes a detour.

Which is when he nearly sideswipes a speeding golf cart zipping by. In the blur, he’s pretty sure it was Elsa with that bandana holding back her mane of blowing hair. Because, hell. When she gunned right by in that little cart? She also managed a friendly tap of the horn, too.

Shane shakes his head, then continues with his detour—straight into the beach parking lot. It still feels like he’s got to shake off last night. To clear his head on how it all went down.

On how Celia said she hoped he wouldn’t get mad at what she was about to do .

On how she then silently reached her hand toward the fireplace and tossed Heather’s unopened letter into the flames.

On how Celia watched that letter burn to embers.

On how, when she turned to him witnessing all this from the painted trunk, she subtly—but gracefully—spread her arms like a dove extending its wings, gave a little curtsy, and that was that.

On how he held Celia close on the sofa afterward. Their voices were quiet; his kisses on her head, her eyes, few.

On how he tried to make her feel as wanted, as needed, as he could before he drove her and Aria home to the guest cottage.

So here he is now. A beach walk will do it.

The salt air will do it.

The crying gulls will do it.

The breeze lifting off the Sound will do it.

It’ll all clear his head. Always has, always will.

So he zips his heavy sweatshirt over his flannel and jeans and walks the beach.

At the tideline, the hard-packed sand is solid beneath his work boots.

Now and then, he picks up a stone. Then a few more.

Because, yes. Skimming stones will actually do it best. He’ll skim his troubles straight out to sea.

One smooth stone skips out over the blue water for Heather.

One follows behind for all Celia’s disappointment this month.

One leaves a plume of spraying water behind it for his expiring cottage rental.

One skips far for his time at Stony Point coming to an end now .

One jumps along for his uncertain lobstering livelihood.

One for saying goodbye as he leaves for Rockport, then for federal waters over the winter.

Skim, skim, skim until he throws one last damn stone.