An Unexpected Visitor Read online

  “It’s a bed and breakfast. Some people call it an inn. Some people say that magical things happen here.”

  “There’s no such thing as magic.”

  “Are you sure?” Blythe asked.

  Shelby nodded, looking sadder still.

  “I don’t know about that. Why don’t you go over there and look at the tree.”

  “What for?” Shelby asked.

  “Just go and look at it. Maybe you’ll find something on it that will surprise you.”

  Shelby frowned, but got up from her seat, leaving her jacket, but not her suitcase, behind.

  Blythe sipped her cocoa, watching the girl as she circled the tree, examining every ornament until …

  “Hey, what’s this?” Shelby asked, turning to Blythe, confusion plastered across her young face.

  “What’s what?”

  “This colored ball. It’s got my name on it.”

  “Does it?” Blythe asked. She got up from the couch, leaving her mug on the blanket chest to join the girl. She bent down to examine the glass ornament. Sure enough, written in white flocked lettering was a vintage Christmas ornament that proclaimed in neat script: SHELBY.

  “When did you put this on the tree?”

  “I don’t remember putting it on the tree.”

  “Then how did it get there?” Shelby asked, sounding confused.

  “I told you; some people think this is a magical place.”

  Shelby looked from Blythe back to the ornament and frowned, then she reached for her suitcase’s handle, as though needing to seek comfort from something solid she could hold.

  “We should think about where you’re going to sleep tonight,” Blythe said. She tapped her lips with her left index finger. “I know the perfect room. Follow me.”

  She started off across the living room’s expanse, but paused when she got to the stairs. Shelby had not followed her. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Shelby seemed to ponder that question for a moment, and then walked to the couch to retrieve her coat before pulling her suitcase to catch up with Blythe.

  Blythe mounted the stairs to the second floor, and turned left at the landing. She paused before a door with a small painting attached to the door. “This room is called Seaside. It’s one of my favorites. I think you may like it.”

  She took a key from her slacks pocket and opened the door, stepping inside.

  Shelby hung back, standing at the threshold, peeking inside.

  Blythe stood beside the four-poster bed. “The bathroom is just through that door. Why don’t you take a few minutes to get settled, and then you can come down and help me make supper.”

  “I don’t know how to cook.”

  “Then now’s a good time to learn,” Blythe said brightly.

  She waited until Shelby entered the room, heading for the bathroom, before leaving the room. “I’ll see you in a few minutes, right?”

  Shelby said nothing, still taking in her new accommodations.

  Blythe didn’t bother to close the door, but headed down the passageway and then the stairs, toward the kitchen, wondering how she would ever get Shelby to open up. Trust was an issue, and she had no doubt the girl had felt betrayed in the past.

  She’d just have to rely on her instincts … but wondered what kind of child she was harboring, and what her legal obligations actually were. Not that she planned to turn the girl away, but she wasn’t sure the law would look kindly on her taking in a runaway.

  She’d just have to wait and see.

  2

  Dinner For Two

  Shelby looked around the pretty room with white furniture, pale blue walls, and pictures of roses decorating it. It was kind of corny, but it was welcoming. Almost everything in it was old, but well-cared-for, not unlike her Aunt Alicia’s home in Connecticut. She’d been there on numerous occasions … usually when her mother was in court-ordered rehab. She’d never wanted to leave, but Jenny—she couldn’t stand to be called Mom; she said it made her sound old—always convinced some do-gooder social worker that Shelby would be better off with her than any random person on the planet. And then when she had custody once again, they picked up and moved, sometimes even changing their names to stay one step ahead of Social Services.

  But that life was now over. She had no intention of ever returning to live with Jenny.

  Shelby took in the little, lighted Christmas tree that sat on top of the dresser. It was decorated in tiny crocheted white ornaments in the shape of stars and snowflakes. She’d learned how to crochet several years before while staying with her aunt. The elderly lady next door waited for her to get off the bus every day and Shelby would stay with her until her aunt got off work and came to collect her. Mrs. Peterson had taught her the craft and even given her a couple of crochet hooks and yarn, and she was just starting to get good at it when Jenny swooped in and grabbed her once again, hauling her off to a crummy, roach-infested apartment in South Boston. The hooks and yarn had been there the morning she’d started at yet another school, but they were gone when she got home that afternoon.

  Home. What a farce.

  Shelby walked into the bathroom and studied her pale face in the mirror over the sink. If she wore make-up, she was sure she could pass for sixteen—old enough to get a job—and maybe even eighteen. She pulled her mousy brown hair back. Yes, she would be able to pass for eighteen. Before she’d left the apartment in the wee hours that morning, she’d tiptoed into the darkened room that Jenny and Rick shared, grabbed several of her mother’s outfits and stuffed them into her small case. They were a little baggy, but maybe if she washed them in hot water, she could shrink them. Her plan was to find a booming restaurant and work as a waitress.

  She frowned, letting her hair fall back down around her shoulders. The taxi driver had said a lot of the businesses on the island were closed for the winter—including a lot of the restaurants. Maybe she should have gone to a big city instead of the sticks, but Shelby figured with miles of ocean between her and the mainland, it might be harder for the cops—or whoever looked for runaway kids—to find her.

  Shelby’s stomach growled loudly. Except for the cocoa and the cookie, she hadn’t eaten a thing in almost twenty-four hours. This Blythe lady seemed pretty nice. Could she trust her? Shelby wasn’t sure. For all she knew, she could be on the phone to the cops at that moment.

  Shelby used the bathroom, washed her hands, and left the room, closing and locking the door behind her, then hurried down the stairs. The living room was empty, but Christmas music still issued from the stereo in the corner. Looking around, she noticed Blythe was indeed in the kitchen, standing in front of the counter. What was on the menu for dinner? Maybe in a fancy place like this there’d be steak or roasted chicken. But when Shelby approached, she saw a plastic bag on the counter that boasted frozen clams.

  Clams?

  “What are you making?” Shelby asked.

  “Clam chowder—New England style.”

  “Is there another kind?”

  “Yes. This will be cream based. Manhattan clam chowder is made with tomatoes and other vegetables. Do you like chowder?”

  “I only had it once. I don’t think I liked it.”

  “Was it here on the island?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh, then that surprises me. I’ve eaten the chowder at just about every restaurant on the island and I can’t say I tasted a bad one yet. But I understand that if you’re not used to it, then it might be an acquired taste,” Blythe said, and began peeling a potato.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Tasting something you didn’t like once, but giving it another chance and deciding to try to like it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Blythe smiled. “Maybe you’ll feel differently when you’re older.”

  “How much older?” Shelby asked.

  “Maybe three or four years.”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  Blythe paused in her pe
eling and scrutinized Shelby’s face. “Thirteen.”

  “I’m nearly eighteen,” Shelby asserted, sounding offended.

  “Then you carry age well,” Blythe said cheerfully. “Would you like to help me make the soup?”

  Shelby shrugged. “I guess.”

  “What would you rather do: chop an onion or celery?”

  “Onions make you cry.” Shelby said suspiciously.

  “Yes, sometimes they do. There’s nothing wrong with a good cry once in a while.”

  “Only babies cry,” Shelby lamented.

  “I’ve been known to cry now and then, and I’m not a baby,” Blythe said, handing Shelby a cutting board, a knife, and two ribs of celery.

  “Why would you cry?”

  “At the loss of a friend or a relative.”

  “People you love?” Shelby asked, and started slicing the celery. If she was honest, there was only one person she was fond of, and it wasn’t her mother.

  Blythe added a hunk of butter to a saucepan on the cooker. “Uh-huh.”

  “When else?”

  Blythe laughed. “When I watch sad—or even happy movies.”

  “How can something happy make you cry?”

  “When it touches you inside. Gives you empathy. Sometimes it even brings you joy.”

  “What kind of things?” Shelby pressed. She’d never been happy enough to cry. In her almost fourteen years, she’d rarely been happy.

  “Well, Christmas movies. I’ve got a stack of them in the living room. I was planning to watch a bunch of them over the next couple of days. Many of them have wonderful endings that are so sweet they make me cry.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Oh, the ending of Love Actually. People at Heathrow Airport all hugging loved ones they hadn’t seen in a while. It’s very powerful.”

  “I never heard of that movie.”

  “I think you might like it.”

  Why would she think that? Shelby had felt tremendous relief—although maybe not love—during the times her Aunt Alicia had taken her to stay with her in Connecticut. Shelby had once stayed for as long as a year, but sometimes only for days at a time, but they had been the happiest days of her life.

  Some of the kids at school whined and cried when their parents had separated or divorced; but if she could have wrangled it, Shelby would have happily divorced herself from her addict mother. She’d had to take care of the woman when they lived alone, and she’d had to watch out for herself when Jenny had shacked up with a pimp or a drug dealer. The men her mother chose were rarely kind, and were more often brutal—not only to Jenny, but their pets, as well. Like Rick and Dog. Shelby had learned to survive by keeping a low profile at school and especially at whatever place she’d been forced to call home.

  Blythe finished chopping the onion and tossed it into the pot, where it immediately began to sizzle. “How’s that celery coming along?”

  “All chopped,” Shelby said.

  Blythe scooped up the celery pieces and added them to the pot. “Would you like to watch this while I get everything else ready?”

  “Sure.” Shelby stepped up to the stove, accepting the wooden spoon as though it was a baton in a relay race. She stirred the onions and celery around the pot before looking askance at Blythe, who measured the rest of the ingredients. It had never occurred to Shelby that cooking might be enjoyable. Her mother usually just tossed a fast-food bag at her. When she’d been with her aunt, she never thought to ask her if she might help with dinner prep. Why hadn’t her aunt asked her to help?

  A lump rose in Shelby’s throat.

  Maybe her aunt had never asked her to help because when she’d tried to hug Shelby, the girl had pulled away. Shelby saw her friends’ mothers kiss and tease them. Was Aunt Alicia afraid to do that because the walls around Shelby’s heart had forced her aunt to keep her distance?

  Maybe.

  Two weeks before, Shelby had spent a weekend at Adriana Ryan’s home. Adriana lived in a beautiful town house. Her parents were nice. Even her little brother was okay. You could tell when you walked into that place that none of them were hiding secrets. None of them had to.

  It felt really bad to have to hide a big part of your life from everyone around you. But as Shelby stirred the onions and celery, she had to admit that though she’d only been in Blythe’s home for less than an hour, and barely knew the woman who stood only two feet from her, for some reason she felt safe here. But how long would Blythe let her stay? Could she really find a job? How long would it take for her to make enough money to find a place to live? Was it realistic to think a girl of thirteen could actually pull off such an enormous task? But what were her options? Stay and starve, or go back to Jenny’s apartment and become rape bait? Of the two options, she preferred the former.

  “It’s time to put everything together and make the soup,” Blythe said. Shelby moved aside to let her benefactor take over. She watched with interest as Blythe added the rest of the ingredients to the pan. And while she wasn’t sure she would like clam soup, Shelby had to admit the concoction smelled pretty good.

  “How long does it have to cook?” Shelby asked.

  “Until the potatoes are soft. About ten minutes.”

  “Can I stir it?”

  “Of course you can,” Blythe said, handing back the wooden spoon.

  Again, Shelby stepped up to stand before the big ivory Aga and stirred and stirred the soup. When she looked up, she found Blythe watching her and smiling.

  Shelby smiled back. It felt odd, but good, to smile. She’d had so little to smile about during her life. Escaping to Martha’s Vineyard had been the right decision. The taxi driver bringing her to this quiet, beautiful home with a sympathetic owner had been a tremendous stroke of luck.

  Maybe—just maybe—Shelby’s life was about to change for the better.

  * * *

  Blythe retrieved the antique tureen from the cupboard and set it on the counter. It had belonged to her great-great-grandmother and had served not only family members, but hundreds of guests as well.

  Blythe had already set one of the tables in the B&B’s dining room with her best china, wanting her guest to feel welcome and relaxed in her home.

  “Supper’s ready,” Blythe called, carrying the tureen into the dining room. A plate heaped with rolls already awaited them, along with a dish of sweet whipped butter. The wind howled outside, but inside all was cozy.

  Shelby tore herself away from the twinkling Christmas tree lights and approached the table.

  “Sit down,” Blythe encouraged, and picked up the silver ladle, dipping it into the tureen and doling out the chowder to the bowl on the opposite side of the table.

  “Not so much—in case I don’t like it,” Shelby said. “I don’t want to waste it.”

  Blythe nodded, then filled her own bowl. She had no qualms when it came to New England clam chowder.

  She sat down, picked up a roll, and set it on the small plate before her, then passed it to Shelby. In silence, they buttered their rolls and Blythe picked up her spoon to take a taste of the chowder. She watched with interest as Shelby picked up her own spoon with what seemed like trepidation, but then tried the soup. She didn’t shudder or grimace, and took another taste.

  “This is pretty good.”

  “Most home-cooked meals are,” Blythe said, spooning up another mouthful. They ate in silence for more than a minute, but there were questions that needed answering and Blythe was determined to ask them. Gently.

  “Did you like the time you spent here on the island on your first visit?”

  Shelby tore off a piece of her roll and spread a thick layer of butter on it. “Sure. It was really nice.”

  “Where did you stay on the island?”

  Shelby shrugged. “Just some little motel.”

  “Was it nice?”

  Again she shrugged. “It had a kitchenette. We saved money on breakfast and dinner because of the fridge and microwave. But we always had lunch out—because l
unch is cheaper than dinner in a restaurant.”

  Blythe nodded. “Did you visit Edgartown and Vineyard Haven?”

  “I guess.”

  “What did you enjoy best about the island?”

  “One night we went to see a bunch of old houses with paper lanterns all lit up.”

  “That’s what we call Illumination Night. It’s a yearly event and draws thousands of people.”

  “It sure was crowded,” Shelby agreed, “but the lights were so pretty. My aunt really liked them. She bought some of those lanterns and hung them on her porch.” The girl lapsed into silence for a few moments, as though lost in thought. Then she shook herself. “What do you do for fun around here?”

  “The island is a destination for a lot of people, but for me, it’s just my home. I spend my summers working here at the manor and gardening.”

  “It doesn’t sound like much fun,” Shelby groused.

  “It depends on your definition of fun. I enjoy hosting guests. I get to meet all kinds of people from all walks of life and never have to leave my home. I get to cook for them, which brings me enormous satisfaction.” Blythe ate more of her soup. “What are your plans? Are you just visiting, or are you planning an extended stay?”

  “I was thinking I might stay. But first I have to get a job.”

  “Hmm.” Blythe shook her head. “That might be tough at this time of year. We’re a seasonal destination. There aren’t many businesses that stay open year-round. What were you planning to do?”

  Just what the taxi driver had said.

  “Waitress. Maybe be a bartender. I heard bartenders make a lot of money.”

  “Parts of the island are dry.”

  Shelby frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “That they don’t serve alcohol. People bring their own liquor, so there aren’t as many opportunities for being a bartender as you might think.”

  Shelby’s frown deepened. “Oh.”

  “Where do you plan to live?”

  “I thought I’d rent a little house near the beach,” Shelby said nonchalantly.

  “In what town?”

  “Um … the big one.”