an addition purchased in France by the wife of Stewart Pendleton, the shipping tycoon who rebuilt the main house and added the wings. A great deal of the furniture was lost during the War Between the States, but Stewart and his wife traveled extensively and selected antiques that suited them and Sanctuary.”
“He had a good eye,” Nathan commented, scanning the wide, high-ceilinged foyer with its fluid sweep of glossy stairs, its glittering fountain of crystal light.
“And a deep pocket,” Jo put in. Telling herself to be patient, she stood where she was and let him wander.
The walls were a soft, pale yellow that would give the illusion of cool during those viciously hot summer afternoons. They were trimmed in dark wood that added richness with carved moldings framing the high plaster ceiling.
The furnishings here were heavy and large in scale, as befitted a grand entranceway. A pair of George II armchairs with shell-shaped backs flanked a hexagonal credence table that held a towering brass urn filled with sweetly scented lilies and wild grasses.
Though he didn’t collect antiques himself—or anything else, for that matter—he was a man who studied all aspects of buildings, including what went inside them. He recognized the Flemish cabinet-on-stand in carved oak, the giltwood pier mirror over a marquetry candle stand, the delicacy of Queen Anne and the flash of Louis XIV. And he found the mix of periods and styles inspired.
“Incredible.” His hands tucked in his back pockets, he turned back to Jo. “Hell of a place to live, I’d say.”
“In more ways than one.” Her voice was dry, and just a little bitter. It had him lifting a brow in question, but she added nothing more. “We do registration in the front parlor.”
She turned down the hallway, stepped into the first room on the right. Someone had started a fire, she observed, probably in anticipation of the Yankee, and to keep the guests at the inn cheerful on a rainy day if they wandered through.
She went to the huge old Chippendale writing desk and opened the top side drawer, flipped through the paperwork for the rental cottages. Upstairs in the family wing was an office with a workaday file cabinet and a computer Kate was still struggling to learn about. But guests were never subjected to such drearily ordinary details.
“Little Desire Cottage,” Jo announced, sliding the contract free. She noted it had already been stamped to indicate receipt of the deposit and signed by both Kate and one Nathan Delaney.
Jo laid the paperwork aside and opened another drawer to take out the keys jingling from a metal clip that held the cottage name. “This one is for both the front and the rear doors, and the smaller one is for the storage room under the cottage. I wouldn’t store anything important in there if I were you. Flooding is a hazard that near the river.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I took care of setting up the telephone yesterday. All calls will be billed directly to the cottage and added to your bill monthly.” She opened another drawer and took out a slim folder. “You’ll find the usual information and answers in this packet. The ferry schedule, tide information, how to rent fishing or boating gear if you want it. There’s a pamphlet that describes the island—history, flora and fauna—Why are you staring at me like that?” she demanded.
“You’ve got gorgeous eyes. It’s hard not to look at them.”
She shoved the folder into his hands. “You’d be better off looking at what’s in here.”
“All right.” Nathan opened it, began to page through. “Are you always this jittery, or do I bring that out in you?”
“I’m not jittery, I’m impatient. Not all of us are on vacation. Do you have any questions—that pertain to the cottage or the island?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Directions to your cottage are in the folder. If you’d just initial the contract here, to confirm receipt of the keys and information,
“He had a good eye,” Nathan commented, scanning the wide, high-ceilinged foyer with its fluid sweep of glossy stairs, its glittering fountain of crystal light.
“And a deep pocket,” Jo put in. Telling herself to be patient, she stood where she was and let him wander.
The walls were a soft, pale yellow that would give the illusion of cool during those viciously hot summer afternoons. They were trimmed in dark wood that added richness with carved moldings framing the high plaster ceiling.
The furnishings here were heavy and large in scale, as befitted a grand entranceway. A pair of George II armchairs with shell-shaped backs flanked a hexagonal credence table that held a towering brass urn filled with sweetly scented lilies and wild grasses.
Though he didn’t collect antiques himself—or anything else, for that matter—he was a man who studied all aspects of buildings, including what went inside them. He recognized the Flemish cabinet-on-stand in carved oak, the giltwood pier mirror over a marquetry candle stand, the delicacy of Queen Anne and the flash of Louis XIV. And he found the mix of periods and styles inspired.
“Incredible.” His hands tucked in his back pockets, he turned back to Jo. “Hell of a place to live, I’d say.”
“In more ways than one.” Her voice was dry, and just a little bitter. It had him lifting a brow in question, but she added nothing more. “We do registration in the front parlor.”
She turned down the hallway, stepped into the first room on the right. Someone had started a fire, she observed, probably in anticipation of the Yankee, and to keep the guests at the inn cheerful on a rainy day if they wandered through.
She went to the huge old Chippendale writing desk and opened the top side drawer, flipped through the paperwork for the rental cottages. Upstairs in the family wing was an office with a workaday file cabinet and a computer Kate was still struggling to learn about. But guests were never subjected to such drearily ordinary details.
“Little Desire Cottage,” Jo announced, sliding the contract free. She noted it had already been stamped to indicate receipt of the deposit and signed by both Kate and one Nathan Delaney.
Jo laid the paperwork aside and opened another drawer to take out the keys jingling from a metal clip that held the cottage name. “This one is for both the front and the rear doors, and the smaller one is for the storage room under the cottage. I wouldn’t store anything important in there if I were you. Flooding is a hazard that near the river.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I took care of setting up the telephone yesterday. All calls will be billed directly to the cottage and added to your bill monthly.” She opened another drawer and took out a slim folder. “You’ll find the usual information and answers in this packet. The ferry schedule, tide information, how to rent fishing or boating gear if you want it. There’s a pamphlet that describes the island—history, flora and fauna—Why are you staring at me like that?” she demanded.
“You’ve got gorgeous eyes. It’s hard not to look at them.”
She shoved the folder into his hands. “You’d be better off looking at what’s in here.”
“All right.” Nathan opened it, began to page through. “Are you always this jittery, or do I bring that out in you?”
“I’m not jittery, I’m impatient. Not all of us are on vacation. Do you have any questions—that pertain to the cottage or the island?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Directions to your cottage are in the folder. If you’d just initial the contract here, to confirm receipt of the keys and information,
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