North Country Man. Carrie Alexander
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?”
Emmie’s round face crinkled into a hard knot like a dried apple. “Valentina Whitaker jumped off the cliff on her wedding night,” she said through pursed lips, and firmly shut the door behind her.
Well, that cuts it, Claire thought cheerfully as she made her way downstairs fifteen minutes later, carrying a tray with a drained coffee cup and plate empty of all but crumbs and a few daubs of frosting. I’ve been cursed—doomed to throw myself off a cliff on my wedding night.
Oh, the horror, the horror!
She found several houseguests gathered in the dining room around a long, oval bird’s-eye maple table. Their chatter grew silent when she entered.
“Good morning.” Uneasy with their stares, she concentrated on the room, instead. Red stone walls and too many heavy wood furnishings gave it an oppressive feel. The bay window was shrouded by ivy on the outside and heavy brocade drapes on the inside, letting in little light. Trim back the ivy, take out the curtains and half the furniture, and it would be a charming room.
“Morning.” Toivo piped from the head of the table. “Did ya sleep good, Miss Lavender?”
“Wonderfully, thank you, Mr. Whitaker.”
He chuckled. “No bad dreams?”
The pale blue gaze of the spare, middle-aged fellow at Toivo’s left dropped to his plate. The petite redhead who’d warned Claire about the curse watched her with a mischievous pink rosebud of a smile. Two others, clearly tourists, looked up from their blueberry pancakes with pleasant, uninformed expressions.
“Only one,” Claire said as she put the tray on a sideboard and took a seat at the table. She lowered her voice to a sepulchral level. “I dreamed I was falling. It was black and cold. I could hear waves breaking upon the rocks. But I kept falling.” Ever so slowly she drew her napkin from the place setting, dragging out the suspense. “Falling,” she intoned. “Endlessly falling…”
The redhead’s eyes had gone round. She was young—early twenties at most. “Falling?” she squeaked.
Toivo’s moist bottom lip hung open. “B-but how—”
“For gosh sakes.” Emmie Whitaker marched into the room with a platter full of pancakes. “Can’t you tell that our new guest is pulling your legs?”
The young woman let out a thankful laugh. “Oh, you had me going! I thought the curse had taken a new form.” She leaned across the table, holding a small, pale hand out to Claire. Her manner was forthright, but her grip was weak. “Cassia Keegan. I’m renting a room here in Bay House.” She nodded toward the staircase. “Didn’t mean to put a scare into you last night, but I thought you should know about—” she hunched her shoulders and dropped her voice in imitation of Claire “—the curse.”
“Here we go again.” Emmie scowled as she forked pancakes and sausages onto Claire’s plate. “Let’s not bother Miss Levander with that nonsense, please, Cassia.”
“I’d like to hear the story,” Claire said, stopping Emmie at two of each. The tourists, introduced as the Bickermanns from Canada, professed their interest.
Cassia’s eyes danced. Compressing her lips, she looked expectantly at Emmie, waiting for the go-ahead.
“So there is a cur—a, uh, legend?” Claire prodded. “I saw the bride’s portrait. It’s…beautiful.” In a Snow Queen sort of way.
The innkeeper tilted her head, weighing the word legend versus the less hospitable curse. Finally she gave the redheaded girl a cursory nod and departed for the kitchen.
Clearly, Cassia was eager to tell the tale. Bouncy auburn waves curled around her heart-shaped face as she glanced from face to face, building the suspense. Her expressive eyes were hazel shaded toward gold and tipped up at the corners like a cat’s. A palpable energy coursed through her slender body when her gaze reached Claire.
Cassia inhaled, her cheeks pinkening with excitement. “If the prophecy of Valentina Whitaker is true,” she announced with utter seriousness, “you will be married before the year is out.”
Claire swallowed. Her fingers clamped reflexively on the lever of the syrup jug. “Pardon?”
Cassia chortled. “Yep. I did try to warn you, Claire. But there’s nothing you can do now. It’s Valentina’s prophecy.”
Gleefully, Toivo quoted, “‘Sleep all night in the bridal room, Turn of year, thee shall have a groom.’”
“Or…” Cassia said.
“Turn of year you’ll be a groom,” said the quiet man at Toivo’s elbow. “Won’t catch me sleeping there.” He wadded up his napkin and left rather hastily.
“Don’t mind Bill’s manners,” Toivo said. “He’s afraid Shari’s got plans for him.”
Claire was mopping up the syrup that had run over the lip of her plate. “Shari?”
“The maid, Shari Shirley. She works here part-time,” Cassia explained. “You’ll run into her soon enough, Claire. She’s forever trying to spend the night in Valentina’s room, but Emmie won’t let her near it, even to clean.”
“I see. And why was I so lucky to land there?”
Toivo’s cheeks became ruddy. “A small mix-up on my part.”
Dishes clashed in the kitchen. “Huh!” Emmie came out, drying her sudsy hands on a towel. You were supposed to be in the blue room, Miss Levander. Color-blind numbskull,” she scolded Toivo, tapping his bald spot. She snatched away his plate as soon as he stuffed a last bite of pancakes into his mouth.
“You should put married couples in the bridal suite,” one of the Canadians suggested.
“Oh, no,” Cassia breathed.
“Goodness gracious, no,” Emmie said.
“Why not?” Mrs. Bickermann asked.
Cassia shook her head. “It’s part of the legend. ‘Happily married, bill and coo, Pay the piper, sorrow’s due.’”
“You can’t believe that stuff.” Claire looked at her sodden pancakes and decided she couldn’t eat despite her usually healthy appetite.
“Absolutely not.” Emmie turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen with her hands full of dishes, using a generously rounded hip to bump open the swinging door.
“It’s happened,” Cassia vowed. “Single women have married, and couples have split up.” Her eyes glowed like those of a child telling ghost stories beside a campfire. “Why do you think Emmie keeps the door locked?”
“It wasn’t locked last night after I moved in. I didn’t have the key.” Claire laughed nervously, wishing for another shot of caffeine to bolster her rocky reactions.
On