She slipped out the side door, careful again not to be seen, and followed her phone’s directions to the Grable Inn.
Seventeen
The Grable Inn was one of Dewberry Beach’s older homes, built at the turn of the century far from the oppressive heat of the city. It was a grand Victorian that reminded Jill of a gingerbread house, with its rounded tower, intricate scrollwork, multi-paned windows, and a fat pelican weathervane firmly planted atop the pitched roof. Just inside the white picket fence, a sign welcomed guests, and a slider board below advertised a current vacancy. As Jill unlatched the gate, she noticed a thread of rose vines between the fence slats. The fall weather had taken the flowers, leaving behind only the rose hips, and the contrast between the crimson-colored berries and the white fence was striking, and Jill wondered about the woman who lived inside.
As she followed the path to the front door, she caught the scent of freshly turned earth and noticed a bed of deep orange chrysanthemums planted nearby. On the front porch was a scarecrow dressed in overalls and gardening boots, with a thatch of straw hair under a wide-brimmed hat. He was positioned on a chair, overseeing the garden as if he’d done the work himself, and Jill laughed. Surely someone who’d put together something like that wouldn’t question why Jill hadn’t graduated with an art degree, as Mrs. Brockhurst had.
Just as she was about to ring the doorbell, the front porch light flicked on. An older woman bustled to the screen door and pushed it open, her face wreathed in a smile. Jill’s own smile faded when she recognized her as the woman she’d met the day before, on the beach. The one who’d called Marc’s house The Monstrosity, said it never should have been built, and mentioned petitions. What would she do if she knew Jill owned that house?
“You must be the photographer who called?” The woman pushed the door open. “Welcome.”
“I am.” Jill steeled herself as she went inside. Despite the uneasy start, it felt good to be recognized as “the photographer” instead of “the assistant” or “the temp.” She wanted this job, and how hard could it be to keep herself anonymous? She extended her hand, in a show of confidence. “I’m Jill DiFiore.”
“I’m Betty Grable. It’s lovely to meet you, dear.” As the woman clasped both of Jill’s hands in hers, her eyes narrowed. After a moment, she spoke again. “We’ve met before.”
“We have. Yesterday on the beach.”
“Oh, that awful house.” She tutted. “I remember now.” Then she frowned and lifted her shoulder in a gentle shrug, as if the house was her fault. “Of course, that thing has nothing to do with you, and since we agree on its awfulness, there’s nothing more to be said. Let’s not spoil a new friendship.” She planted her hands firmly on her hips. “It’s nice to meet you properly, Ms. DiFiore. May I take your coat?”
“Thank you. But please call me Jill.”
As Betty turned away to hang her coat, Jill felt herself relax. The front room was warm and smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish and cinnamon. Two cozy chairs had been placed on either side of the hearth, with a well-loved couch and a sturdy coffee table in between. A colorful crocheted afghan had been folded neatly and draped over the back, and a selection of magazines were carefully fanned on the coffee table. Looking closer, Jill saw that all the magazines were about gardening. The accompanying newspaper was a slim local one called the Dewberry Beach Trumpet.
“Are you a gardener?” Jill lifted her gaze from the coffee table to the woman. “I noticed your rose vines outside on the fence. The rose hips are beautiful, and the flowers must have been glorious in bloom.”
“Oh, they were!” Betty clasped her hands together in delight as her smile widened. “That rose vine is very special to me. It was the first thing I planted when I bought this house forty years ago. Since then, the plant’s been dug up and re-homed—oh, I don’t know—half a dozen times. I think it prefers the trellis instead of the fence, truth be told, but the trellis is being repaired at the moment—our salty sea air gets to everything—so we trained it against the fence. The funniest thing is, it was Brad, Kaye’s son—you’ll meet Kaye in a minute—who suggested training the vine around the fence slats while he rebuilds the trellis. The boy’s a wonder with gardens.”
Gardeners universally share an enthusiasm for happy plants, and Betty’s chatter made Jill smile. Aunt Sarah had been a gardener too, and Jill remembered how easily she and her garden club friends could while away an entire afternoon discussing the perfect plants for a summer bed. It made Jill happy to imagine how much Aunt Sarah would have liked Betty.
“But never mind that.” Betty flapped her hands in the air as she realized she’d gotten off track. “As I said on the phone, your call was perfectly timed. We’ve kept everything warm for you. Well, the tea has gone cold, but the spice cake is still warm. Come back and meet the girls. We’ll tell you all about the project we need help on.”
Betty ushered Jill to a snug kitchen where a group of four older ladies sat around a chunky wooden table. In the center was a quaint tea service placed atop a white lace doily, and a tumble of plates and napkins and forks were piled next to a warm cake. The smell of nutmeg and molasses filled the room and Jill breathed it in, remembering Aunt Sarah’s tiny blue kitchen. As they made room for Jill, in the hubbub of scooting chairs and bringing out an extra placemat, she had a moment to look at the women
