CHAPTER 2
Bizzy
B izzy Baker Wilder, my sweet cat Fish yowls at me from the marble reception counter right here in the foyer of the Country Cottage Inn, my inn to be exact. Are you hosting a Flea-giving gathering, or are you hosting a Friendsgiving gathering? Do you know how many dogs are in that room? Those dogs just about outnumber the people! And by the way, what is wrong with your mother’s friends that they only care for the canines among us? I didn’t see a single feline in the café.
Sherlock Bones gives a sharp bark and it sounds an awful lot like a chortling laugh. It looks to me as if Grandma’s friends have gotten smarter with age. Everyone knows dogs are better than cats. If the café was filled with cats, they’d be clawing each other to death. Dogs simply like to sit underneath the table and ? —
Beg, Fish finishes for him.
I can’t help but laugh.
Sweet little Fish has been in my life for so long she’s practically a sister to me. I found her when she was just a kitten. She’s a black and white long-haired tabby with enough sass and wisdom to fill ten college campuses, and I couldn’t live without her for a single second.
And Sherlock we acquired a few years back when I happened to acquire a tall, handsome detective who is now my husband. Sherlock is a medium-size mutt with red and white freckles. He’s as adorable as can be and has the biggest brown eyes you ever did see.
“We’d better head to the café ourselves,” I say as I leave the registration desk in the hands of my two trusty coworkers who graciously offered to stay late into the evening for me.
Tonight is my mother’s big Friendsgiving shindig. It’s just my mother and fifty of her closest girlfriends from high school rabblerousing away in the café. I would have offered them the main dining room, but I need to keep that open for the guests of the inn. So instead, I offered to give them exclusive access to the café that sits attached to the back of the inn. The café also has an expansive outdoor patio and happens to butt up against the sandy cove and affords a stunning view of the Atlantic.
Of course, my mother asked at the last minute if she could have the room. In fact, the whole thing seems to be thrown together at the last minute. But I suppose when you get to a certain age, sometimes the last minute is the only way to go. Most likely every age. I’m certainly feeling it.
I thought the café might be too tight for them all to squeeze into, but my mother said it would be more than enough for her and her friends. I think it’s absolutely wonderful that they’ve managed to stay connected through all these years.
Fish, Sherlock, and I walk through the hall at a brisk pace to the café, and on the way, I can’t help but admire the fall décor.
I made sure the entire inn was decorated head to foot with miles of fall leaf garland, a smattering of scarecrows set out here and there, a few bales of hay lining the front of the facility, and an entire pumpkin patch worth of those happy orange globes both inside and out. And don’t think for a minute that I left out dozens, if not hundreds, of potted mums in red, gold, and a lovely shade of burnt orange. Every last inch of the inn looks like a cozy autumn dream.
And as much as I love the inn decorated this way, in just a couple of short weeks, I’ll be taking it all down and putting up an entire forest of Christmas trees.
As my mother and her friends have learned, time moves far too quickly.
The three of us enter the café just in time to see Georgie jumping up onto a chair and cupping her hands around her mouth.
“How about we take off our underwear and throw them at the hot waiters?” she shouts.
“And here we go,” I mutter under my breath.
Let’s hope this is about as exciting as this night gets, but I’ve got a creaky feeling deep in my bones that we haven’t hit the pinnacle of excitement just yet.