want to stop by to see the inn, too.”
Liza wondered if Jennifer’s father was anything like her mother. If that was the case, she might as well hang up her wedding-planner shoes right now.
“That would be fine,” Liza replied graciously. “Anytime. And your fiancé, too, of course.”
“I’ll bring Kyle over very soon. He’s excited to see the place again. Maybe this weekend,” Jennifer replied.
If your mother doesn’t book the Spoon Harbor Inn by then, Liza thought.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Liza said agreeably.
The three women said good-bye, and Jennifer and her mother headed to Sylvia’s car, a white Volvo sedan that was parked in the circle in front of the inn.
Liza went inside through the back door, trying not to worry over the garden. She found Claire in the kitchen, unpacking groceries from a string shopping bag. “Look what I found at the market today. Artichokes. Aren’t they beautiful?”
Liza had never really thought of vegetables as beautiful—until she met Claire. But now, knowing how Claire could transform even a humble brussels sprout into a mouthwatering treat, she was beginning to see the hidden beauty in produce.
Claire glanced at her. “How was your meeting?”
“Jennifer was her usual sweet, agreeable little self. Her mother is sort of a witch. She didn’t come right out and say it, but she obviously thinks the inn is run-down and seedy. Not nearly what she has in mind for her daughter’s wedding. I doubt she’ll even look through that plan I gave them. The amazing thing is,” Liza added, “I started off totally opposed to the idea of doing this wedding, and now I know I’ll feel totally disappointed if I don’t get to do it. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Not at all,” Claire said evenly. “Life would be very dull if we never had a change of heart, if we never felt ourselves unexpectedly . . . inspired.”
Unexpectedly inspired. That was a good way to describe how she felt, Liza thought. “Maybe I won’t get to do Jennifer’s wedding,” Liza said, “but at least I know now that I want to try.”
“Yes, now you know. But don’t give up on the idea yet.” Claire searched under the kitchen sink and came up with a pair of rubber gloves. “The mother of the bride is always the most difficult to please.”
“Frankly, I think Sylvia is probably difficult, no matter what’s going on in her life,” Liza reflected.
“Well, there you are. Another reason you shouldn’t take it personally,” Claire noted.
She had pulled on the gloves and now set up a big bowl full of water and squeezed sliced lemons over it then tossed in the empty lemon skins.
“What’s that for?” Liza asked, watching her.
“So the artichokes don’t get brown. They stain your hands and nails something fierce. That’s why I wear gloves. . . . How did you leave it with the Bennets?” Claire asked.
“Sylvia said they planned to visit some other places today. I’ll probably get a call in a few days, saying they booked the wedding someplace else. I’m sure Jennifer is getting an earful in the car right now.”
“I’m sure she is. But that girl is tough . . . like a little sand crab. She’s sweet and tender inside, you can see. But she has a hard shell. Don’t count her out. I think she’ll get her way,” Claire predicted.
She picked up an artichoke, yanked off the tough outer leaves decisively, and chopped the pointy tips to a blunt edge.
Then she pulled it open and started scooping out fuzzy bits with a grapefruit spoon.
“What are you doing now?” Liza asked, peering over her shoulder.
“You have to get the pointy leaves at the bottom out.”
“It looks like hard work.”
“It’s time-consuming,” Claire conceded, “but worth the effort. I only bought a few, just for you and me. No one’s called for a room at the last minute, have they?”
Liza shook her head, reluctant to admit that the inn would be empty of guests this weekend. All the more reason to keep
Liza wondered if Jennifer’s father was anything like her mother. If that was the case, she might as well hang up her wedding-planner shoes right now.
“That would be fine,” Liza replied graciously. “Anytime. And your fiancé, too, of course.”
“I’ll bring Kyle over very soon. He’s excited to see the place again. Maybe this weekend,” Jennifer replied.
If your mother doesn’t book the Spoon Harbor Inn by then, Liza thought.
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Liza said agreeably.
The three women said good-bye, and Jennifer and her mother headed to Sylvia’s car, a white Volvo sedan that was parked in the circle in front of the inn.
Liza went inside through the back door, trying not to worry over the garden. She found Claire in the kitchen, unpacking groceries from a string shopping bag. “Look what I found at the market today. Artichokes. Aren’t they beautiful?”
Liza had never really thought of vegetables as beautiful—until she met Claire. But now, knowing how Claire could transform even a humble brussels sprout into a mouthwatering treat, she was beginning to see the hidden beauty in produce.
Claire glanced at her. “How was your meeting?”
“Jennifer was her usual sweet, agreeable little self. Her mother is sort of a witch. She didn’t come right out and say it, but she obviously thinks the inn is run-down and seedy. Not nearly what she has in mind for her daughter’s wedding. I doubt she’ll even look through that plan I gave them. The amazing thing is,” Liza added, “I started off totally opposed to the idea of doing this wedding, and now I know I’ll feel totally disappointed if I don’t get to do it. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Not at all,” Claire said evenly. “Life would be very dull if we never had a change of heart, if we never felt ourselves unexpectedly . . . inspired.”
Unexpectedly inspired. That was a good way to describe how she felt, Liza thought. “Maybe I won’t get to do Jennifer’s wedding,” Liza said, “but at least I know now that I want to try.”
“Yes, now you know. But don’t give up on the idea yet.” Claire searched under the kitchen sink and came up with a pair of rubber gloves. “The mother of the bride is always the most difficult to please.”
“Frankly, I think Sylvia is probably difficult, no matter what’s going on in her life,” Liza reflected.
“Well, there you are. Another reason you shouldn’t take it personally,” Claire noted.
She had pulled on the gloves and now set up a big bowl full of water and squeezed sliced lemons over it then tossed in the empty lemon skins.
“What’s that for?” Liza asked, watching her.
“So the artichokes don’t get brown. They stain your hands and nails something fierce. That’s why I wear gloves. . . . How did you leave it with the Bennets?” Claire asked.
“Sylvia said they planned to visit some other places today. I’ll probably get a call in a few days, saying they booked the wedding someplace else. I’m sure Jennifer is getting an earful in the car right now.”
“I’m sure she is. But that girl is tough . . . like a little sand crab. She’s sweet and tender inside, you can see. But she has a hard shell. Don’t count her out. I think she’ll get her way,” Claire predicted.
She picked up an artichoke, yanked off the tough outer leaves decisively, and chopped the pointy tips to a blunt edge.
Then she pulled it open and started scooping out fuzzy bits with a grapefruit spoon.
“What are you doing now?” Liza asked, peering over her shoulder.
“You have to get the pointy leaves at the bottom out.”
“It looks like hard work.”
“It’s time-consuming,” Claire conceded, “but worth the effort. I only bought a few, just for you and me. No one’s called for a room at the last minute, have they?”
Liza shook her head, reluctant to admit that the inn would be empty of guests this weekend. All the more reason to keep
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