Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(8)

“I told Alex that Mr. Black must be a very nice person,” Zoë told Justine, “because the idea of creating an educational institute is a very noble goal.”

Justine sent her a fond smile. “And what did Alex say?”

“He said there’s nothing noble about it—Mr. Black is doing it for the tax-exempt status. But I’m still trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Justine laughed. “I guess it’s possible that Jason Black has some redeeming qualities. Though I wouldn’t hold my breath.” She gulped the rest of her tea, stood, and went to put the cup into the dishwasher. “I’ll put out some wine and snacks in the lounge area.”

“No, I’ll do it. You’ve been busy enough today, cleaning all those rooms with only Annette to help. Did you find out what was wrong with Nita earlier? Was it the twenty-four-hour flu?”

“It’s not quite that temporary,” Justine said with a smile. “She texted me a little while ago. It was morning sickness.”

“She’s pregnant? Oh, that’s wonderful! We’ll give her a baby shower. Do you think we’ll need to hire someone to fill in for her when she gets past the first trimester?”

“No, we’re heading into the winter season, so business will slow down. And I can easily pick up the slack.” Justine heaved a sigh. “It’s not like I have a personal life to get in the way of work.”

“Go to the cottage and relax. And take these with you.” Zoë went to the pantry and unearthed a plastic container filled with treats left over from yesterday’s afternoon tea: icebox cookie squares studded with cranberries, buttery nuggets of shortbread, dark and chewy molasses rounds, and French-style macarons sandwiched with layers of homemade marionberry jam. It was a wonder that any were left—Zoë’s cookies were so delectable that guests at the inn’s afternoon teas usually showed no compunction about slipping cookies into handbags and pockets. Once Justine had seen a man fill his baseball cap with a half-dozen peanut butter blossoms.

She held the box as if it contained a lifesaving organ donation. “What kind of wine goes with cookies?”

Zoë went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Gewürztraminer. “Don’t have too much. Remember, you might have to bring Mr. Black his vodka tonight.”

“He’ll probably want Priscilla to do it. But I’ll take it easy just in case.”

Zoë glanced at her with an affectionate frown. “I can tell you’ve already made up your mind about what you can’t do, and what you’ll never have … but you can’t give up. When there’s no reason to hope, that’s when you need to do it the most.”

“Okay, Mary Poppins.” She gave Zoë a quick hug before heading out through the back door.

She walked across the yard, past the herb garden that separated the backyard cottage from the main building. It had originally served as a writer’s retreat, back in the days when the inn had been a private residence. Now Justine lived in the tiny two-bedroom dwelling.

“There’s plenty of room here for a chicken coop,” Justine said, even though Zoë couldn’t hear her.

The afternoon was deep and full-slip ripe. Dandelion light slanted through the scalded red branches of a single madrone, and gilded the brown tassels of alder catkins. The pungent green scents of a raised-bed herb garden steamed through screens of pestproof fencing.

Justine had fallen in love with the former hilltop mansion as soon as she’d seen it, and had bought it for a steal. As she had painted the rooms and decorated each one according to a different artist such as van Gogh or da Vinci, she’d felt as if she were creating a world of her own. A quiet, welcoming place where people could relax, sleep well, eat well.

After a childhood of constant wandering, the weight and feeling of home was deeply satisfying. Justine knew practically everyone on the island. Her life was filled with all kinds of love … she loved her friends, the inn, the islands, walking through forests thick with pine and sword fern and Oregon grape. She loved the way Friday Harbor sunsets seemed to melt into the ocean. With all that, she had no right to ask for anything more.

She paused before the doorstep of the cottage, her lips quirking at the sight of a disappointed brown rabbit staring through the steel mesh at the plants it couldn’t reach. “Sorry, buddy. But after what you did to my parsley last June, you can’t blame me.”

She reached for the doorknob, but hesitated as she felt something catch at her senses. Someone was watching her.

A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that no one was there.

Her attention was drawn to one of the second-floor windows of the inn, to the dark, slim silhouette of a man. Instantly she knew who he was.

There was something predatory in his stillness, something ominously patient. The chilled wet neck of the wine bottle dripped condensation over the tightening circle of her fingers. With an effort, she shook off the feeling and turned away. The rabbit broke for cover, streaking to its burrow.

Justine walked into the cottage and closed the front door, which had been painted sky blue on both sides. The furniture was comfortably worn with layers of paint gleaming through the scuffed places. The upholstery was covered in linen printed with vintage flower patterns. A pink and beige rag rug covered the wood floor.

Setting the wine and cookies on a bistro table, Justine went into her bedroom. She sat on the floor by her bed, pulled out the spellbook, and held it in her lap. A slow, unsettled breath escaped her.