My Island Hideaway: Honeycomb Beach Novels, #3

Chapter One

Standing on the narrow dirt pathway between the river and the renovated hotel, I clutch a tattered copy of The Business of Cooking in one hand and my gold pendant necklace in the other. A used set of luggage rests nearby, filled with the ingredients of my life. The paisley silk skirt I purchased on the island of Crete. Earrings from Paris, a red scarf, blue jeans, weathered sandals, and a floppy hat for keeping out of the sun. A notebook, a recipe book, a photo album. The suitcase also holds gifts. Two extra-small, I Love NY T‑shirts and a couple of Eiffel Tower snow globes I no longer need because the recipients outgrew them long ago.

The two-story hotel that beckons me up the well-worn path was once the Island Hideaway, a run-down beach dive that served as entertainment and lodging for young surfers back in the seventies and eighties until a hurricane busted out all of the windows. Now, the renovations make it a stately place to visit, and the new name is even more fitting for the town of Honeycomb Beach.

Welcome to the Wild Honey Bed and Breakfast.

The sun glows like melted butter on the shiny new roof. The sound of laughter floats from the dining room, visible from the road, along with the smell of bacon, slightly burnt, fresh bread, and I swear a hint of oranges. Breakfast in America.

I open the zipper of my suitcase, slide the magazine in it, and zip it back up. It’s not going to help me much, though I’ve read it cover to cover. I’ve only come back for one reason. To see my girls again. It’s been over fifteen years, and I’m certain everything has changed, but I’m an orphan who needs a home, and I’m ready for a fresh start.

Lugging my suitcases, I plod up the pathway and ascend the small set of stairs to the wraparound deck with a view of the river, and the long pier appears to float over small silver waves.

I knock on the door, but when no one comes, I enter anyway.

Courtney, the proprietor, is busy inside with the guests. I set my luggage on the wooden floor by the door, taking in the cozy sofa, the antique side table, the Moroccan rug, and the local artwork on the walls, all framed by a light sound of jazz.

A diverse group of eight adults eats their breakfast at tables, laughing and discussing their adventures. I stand, waiting to be seen, not knowing how to be. I’m starting a new job but only know the most basic of details.

Ivy.

Courtney and I glide to one another and give each other a long hug. She’s vibrant and even more beautiful than the day I saw her in Greece.

I’m so glad you’re here, she says. We need you.

She grabs the largest of my suitcases, hauls it out to the kitchen, and sets it near the back door.

Look who’s here, she says.

Eric is chopping up some peppers on the counter but stops to give me an equally long hug. I don’t know what I was so worried about. I’m in good hands.

They offer me some bacon and eggs, but I pass. I’m not hungry. My stomach hasn’t been settled for days thinking about how being here will change everything, or will change nothing. Courtney puts a hand on my arm.

It’s going to be great, she says. You’ll see.

I hope so.

Let me take you out to the cottage so you can get settled, she says, but you don’t have a lot of time to rest, I’m afraid. We have a lot to accomplish today. And I hope you don’t mind but Eric and I have plenty of recipe ideas.

I consider the little recipe book I have in my bag. The breakfasts I used to make my girls.

I don’t mind at all.

I’ve known Courtney since she hung around my house as a child, and I always knew she’d be a success. I want to do the best I can for her. She’s Sarra’s best friend.

I follow her out the back door and down a small path to a white cottage behind the main house.

Sorry you couldn’t come sooner; we had major renovations after the hurricane. She unlocks the door, and we step inside. I feel at home already with the aqua walls and the crisp white linens, the plush folded towels with lavender sprigs on top. I hope you’ll be happy here. And please, if you need anything, just ask. We will do our best.

She seems as nervous as I do. I take her hands in mine and squeeze.

Courtney, it’s me. You don’t have to treat me like a stranger.

She might be my employer, but she’s still my daughter’s friend from ages ago.

I’m sorry, she says. I just want everything to work out for both of us, that’s all. Courtney gives me another hug and then places the key in my palm. My new home.

Have you seen them yet? she says.

I was wondering when she was going to mention them.

No. I’m hoping to ease into it. You haven’t told them?

She bites a lip and shakes her head. I can tell she recognizes how difficult this is going to be for me. How long I’ve wanted to come back and make amends with my daughters. Too many Christmases and birthdays have gone by, and they aren’t going to welcome me back easily. I don’t expect them to, but in time, I hope we can have some sort of relationship. Meghan was always the stubborn hardheaded one. She won’t forgive easily. She’s so much like her father.

"I wish I could tell you to take your time getting settled, but I can’t. The rooms are filled through until the end of the year. Sarra’s benefit from the hurricane and Joannie Harper’s runway show gave the community the boost that it needed. People are coming from all over now, and we can barely keep up. We’ll need breakfast from seven until eleven. Then you’ll be preparing afternoon snacks, like sandwiches, wraps, fruit plates, and some soup. Guests usually go out for the day, but we like to have something on hand just in case. And dinner is between four and six.

You serve them dinner? I didn’t know this was a twenty-four-seven restaurant. I’m unqualified for this, and I take a long breath to steady myself. I thought I’d be making breakfast.

We’re trying something new.

Oh. I smile with dry lips.

This is not what we talked about in Greece. It was a small affair, a family business that would be relaxed and enjoyable. My heart races in my chest, and I remember the difference between Greece and the States. Stress.

I’m happy for Courtney. Even as a small girl, she’d say she wanted to own the Island Hideaway someday and turn it into a bed and breakfast. And it’s coming true. And I can be a part of it.

She leaves me, and I get busy with my luggage, emptying the clothes from my bags, folding them, and tucking them away. I press out the NY T‑shirts on the bed before sticking them in a drawer, not knowing why I’ve carried them around for fifteen years. They might be worth something by now. Vintage clothes already. I hold one of the Eiffel Tower snow globes in my hand, turning it between my fingers. I’ve been trying to find myself in many places, but I know now that the only place I’ll ever belong is Honeycomb Beach. I am not running away from this; I’ll face this new adventure head-on. This is my home.

I take more time than I should, pacing around the room, finding the courage to go back to the kitchen. They deserve the best chef on the beach. One who can make dinners and prep trendy snacks for afternoon breaks for sun-worshipping tourists. They need someone who can whip up a dozen eggs without breaking a shell in the bowl and knows how to flip pancakes in a pan without them falling onto the floor. I am not the chef they need. I’m an amateur, thrown into an expert role.

But I’m here, and that’s what matters. And someday, my girls will forgive me.

Chapter Two

After I finish unpacking, I head up to the kitchen by way of a small brick path flanked with greenery and dotted with landscape lighting. When I enter the kitchen, a yellow apron hanging off the back of a closet hook seems to have my name on it, so I slip it over my head, my nerves rattling. Courtney and Eric are busy disassembling plates with remnants of guests’ breakfasts, scraping the leftovers into a garbage bin.

My job description has changed from preparing breakfasts to full-blown restaurant chef, and from what I know about Courtney and Eric, they have big plans for this place. My mind races back to the day we saw each other at the Kaló Fagitó taverna in Greece.

You’re exactly who we need at the new place, Courtney said. I don’t have anyone in mind for the job, and I’ll let you know when we’re up and running.

I’d been waiting tables outside my lover’s restaurant and didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t the one doing the cooking.

I would love to help you, I had said, thinking that it was a perfect opportunity to come back to Honeycomb Beach and patch things up with the girls. I’d had a hole in my heart for years, and it was never going to mend unless I faced my past.

Oh, good, you’re here, Courtney says, and I jerk awake from the past.

Ivy’s finally come to save us from the kitchen, Eric says.

I know I’m blushing. Saving them. I bite my lip.

Here I am, I say, slapping on a grin.

Courtney doesn’t miss a beat but begins the small tour as if she’s trying to fit me in between other things.

This is where we keep the pots and pans, Courtney says, giving me the tour. And the dishes, glassware, serving utensils. I watch as she opens and closes doors while I memorize as much as I can like the game you play with cards, trying to remember what’s behind cupboard number three.

We go to the market a couple of times a week, she says, pointing even though I don’t know the directions yet. We pride ourselves on the freshest ingredients.

In the next room, clinking signals that Eric is resetting the room, and I take a peek. The tables boast polished silver utensils and pretty napkins surrounded by ladder-back chairs with aqua-and-white-check seats.

That’s our dining room, and breakfast starts at six a.m. and goes until ten thirty, thereabouts. Then in here, she says, popping open the refrigerator, we keep the snacks and sandwiches, and the guests can come in here and grab something if they want. Sometimes they’ll even come down for a late-night snack.

That’s efficient, I say.

We want them to feel at home.

Courtney hands me a piece of paper, and I read the list of breakfast items that she currently serves. Toast. Poached egg with hollandaise and asparagus topped with chopped bacon. Croissants with orange juice and strawberries. Omelets with sausage and hash browns. French toast with fruit. Coffee and biscotti.

I smile because there isn’t anything on the list I don’t know how to make. I came prepared to do this kind of cooking, and I hope that her big eyes will eventually realize this isn’t a restaurant.

The kitchen smells like a typical breakfast kitchen, with the sweet aroma of bacon grease in the frying pan, a hint of burnt bread crumbs in the toaster, and the lovely smell of freshly squeezed orange juice.

I follow her out to the dining area. The tables have extensions to open them up for more seating.

Do you put the tables together for dinners? I say. You said something about family style.

Yes, we love our guests to mingle at night over wine, but now that you’re here, we can give them something special. Something Mediterranean. Right up your alley.

I gulp. This wasn’t the plan.

We keep the china plates in this cabinet over here, she says, still giving the tour, and I like to have fresh flowers on each table as a centerpiece."

She talks fast, and her hands haven’t stopped moving.

Do you have questions?

Well, where should I start? I say.

How about you come up with something for the snacks? Take a look in the pantry and the fridge, then make whatever comes to mind. And then something for dinner.

This is a lot to process. I just arrived, but I promised myself that I was not going to look like a novice. I’m going to step up.

Fine, I’ll just have a look around.

She grins, then leaves me, and begins chatting it up with the guests. I’m happy to be alone for a moment, to look around at my own pace, and to figure out how I’m going to make lunch and dinner with the ingredients on hand. I have never been able to whip up things from scratch; I’ve always needed a plan. But today, I’m going to see how well I can do this. And pray I pass the test.

Courtney arrives in the kitchen again, wipes her brow, and grabs a large clipboard, then rips off a piece of paper and hands it to me.

Before you start, I’ll need you to go to the market in town.

I stare at the list. It’s a lot of ingredients.

Well, this is a lot of food. Are you expecting a tour bus?

No. She chuckles, appearing nervous, wringing her hands.

What are we preparing then?

"We have an event to cook for. Someone called me this morning, having heard that I have a new chef, and she wants her business event catered.

When?

She looks down at her shoes, and my motherly intuition, even though I wasn’t a good one, knows how to read a girl who doesn’t want to tell me the whole truth.

Tonight. But—

We’re catering tonight? Courtney.

I know, I know. But I promised her, and it will be good for business.

I roll my eyes. I’m not prepared to be a full-blown restaurant chef. This was supposed to be a way to see my daughters, not to be thrown into catering.

Well, you might have told me sooner.

Okay, I knew about it, but honestly, I forgot about it. And it’s tonight. And we have so much to do. There will be about twenty people.

What? How many?

I’m sorry.

I attempt to calm myself by humming. It’s an old trick I learned when the girls were little. When I got anxious, I hummed any old tune for as long as it took to feel better. My humming continues, gaining me a strange look from Courtney now.

I hum while I scan the list of ingredients once again: chicken, champagne, steak, wine, zucchini, spinach, mushrooms, and a selection of herbs. I doubt the market will have everything we’ll need. I’ll need a big box store if we need that much food.

I’ve sent Eric for the meats and larger items, but I need the freshest produce and herbs. Everything has to be organic, fresh, gluten-free.

She waves her hands around as if she can conjure all of those things up with a magical spell.

Okay, well, I’ll go into town then.

If this market has all of these things, then it shouldn’t be terrible. I can get everything on here, nothing too strange. Her face changes from the fierce boss to the girl I used to know, and she puts a hand to her heart and starts to breathe.

There’s something I need to tell you. Before you go.

Then what is it?

She looks down at her shoes again.

Courtney? Tell me.

This is Meghan’s event tonight.

I’m sure that my face has turned pale. The lengthy list of ingredients shakes between my fingers.

My daughter, Meghan?

Yes. She’s starting a new Pilates class and wants to celebrate with this event. I’m sorry. But I knew having you here would be such a help. And it’s Meghan. She’ll be flexible. And it’s good experience."

You’ve known about this all this time and failed to mention it?

We’ve never catered anything before.

What? You’ve never catered an event before?

A red glow appears on her cheeks.

Well, this will be interesting, I say.

I want it to be perfect for Meghan. Don’t worry. We’ll all do this together. You, me, and Eric.

Three people. For a twenty-person event.

I hesitate. I doubt the three of us will be able to pull off such a large event at the last minute, but there’s no time to be wasted.

I hope that Meghan will be as flexible as Courtney thinks she’ll be. As a child, Meghan was rigid and unbendable. A perfectionist through and through.

So, it’s got to be . . .

Perfect.

Perfect. I stare up at the ceiling, thinking how I was simply going to stay in the kitchen flipping pancakes, not make waves, and see my girls organically, not push them into seeing me. I didn’t know organic would be so literal.

I’m sorry, Ivy, but you have to go. The market gets swamped this time of day, and I need everything on that list.

Fine, fine.

Courtney? Eric calls out to her, and she gives me one last plea with her eyes for forgiveness, which I can’t help but answer with a smile. She’s a grown-up girl with big dreams, and I can’t do anything other than admire her for it.

Take the cart. And just tell the vendors it’s for the B and B. They’ll send me a bill.

My throat clenches, so I swallow and grab the collar of my shirt.

I don’t know if I can go out there, I say, but she’s already disappeared. What if someone else recognizes me?

I don’t want to go. I was going to stay hidden in the kitchen until I got the nerve to emerge into the light of day where my daughters might be. I’m not ready.

But Courtney is my boss, and I need to act my age.

Don’t worry about it, I say to nobody. It’s going to be fine.

Chapter Three

The navy-blue baseball cap on the shelf with a honeybee logo will be the perfect antidote. I tuck my hair under the cap and whip on my pair of dark reader sunglasses. No one will recognize me. I haven’t been here in ages, but a daughter would know. So I’m going prepared.

Main Street is as busy as Courtney said it would be, and I cross the main road, pulling the cart behind me, accepting the fact that Meghan is most likely at work and wouldn’t be in town at the market anyway. I breathe a little easier but continue to keep my head down in fear of seeing someone from the old days, a fellow mother whose kids played with my kids, one of Larry’s bandmates, or a local librarian who handed me my stack of books each week.

The sun beats on my neck as if it‘s summer and not heading into fall. I press my palm to it to cover it. What am I doing here? Pretending to be a chef, genius. I shrug to myself.

When I get to town, just a couple of blocks from the river and the B and B, the market bustles, and there’s an underlying hum of chatter, laughter, and an occasional bark of a dog. White tents dot the main road while detour signs point traffic away from the market, diverting cars around the town, making it safe for vendors and patrons. My little town has grown.

The day is perfect for the market, sunny with no cloud in sight and with the occasional breeze blowing from the ocean. It’s still considered hurricane season, but I truly love this time of year, when the beach is still empty of snowbirds and when there’s a subtle coolness in the air.

I take out the list for the event tonight and head over to the table with the mushrooms. Courtney didn’t specify the variety, so I ponder over the cremini, the buttons, the shitake, smelling each one, because the patron nearby is doing it, taking in earthy aromas.

Three pounds of these, I say, pointing to the shitake. Two of those.

I check in both directions, inspecting the crowd, and don’t recognize a soul. The likelihood of me being recognized is also slim. I’ve changed in fifteen years. I’ve put on a few more pounds than I’d like to admit, have wrinkles from the glow of the Mediterranean sun on my hands. Why do women’s hands always look older than they are? I go down the row to the peppers, the eggplant, the kalamata olives, and the feta cheese, then ask the vendor to add these to my list and charge it to the B and B.

Looks like Courtney’s feeding a crowd, she says, placing the eggplant in the bag.

I push the sunglasses into my nose and adjust the baseball cap.

We’re doing a large event.

Oh, is it for Meghan? I heard she was doing a thing.

Yes. Meghan.

As I say her name, it comes out of my mouth with great difficulty, as if I’m not allowed to say it after what I’ve done, leaving her and now coming back. The reality is setting in, and I’m scared I might have made the wrong choice.

She’s right over there, the woman says. She just bought some cabbage.

I follow her finger with my eyes and see Meghan, my beautiful grown-up Meghan talking to someone across the strawberries. And by her side is a little girl, maybe seven or eight, with the same blond hair, tossing a small cantaloupe and catching it.

Meghan, I say in a hushed voice. And her daughter. My granddaughter.