American architecture. The ceilings were higher, the rooms bigger than a Cape Cod, the feel was richer, less claustrophobic, and purely functional.
Piper joined Sally and Paul Shepherd in the front parlor, where they sat together on a Queen Anne sofa, poring over stacks of fabric swatches, wallpaper books, and paint chips. They made all decisions about the inn together. Although they were committed to preserving the sprawling house's historic flavor, they weren't afraid to mix in contemporary touches, refusing to be stuffy or overly proper. Sally, known for her exquisite taste, had called on Piper to help her decide how to use and place various reproduction and original crafts she'd collected.
"Right on time," Paul said with a pleasant smile.
Piper laughed. "What, did my brothers bet you I'd show up late?"
He grinned, a dark, good-looking, charming man. "Early."
"They're such teases," Sally said. "You're lucky to have each other."
"Sometimes," Piper acknowledged. "Not that I'd know what life was like without them. They're working upstairs still? I'll have to stop up and see them after our meeting." She tried to keep any dread out of her tone. She did want to see her family, provided they didn't force her to talk about things that didn't concern them, like Hannah and Clate Jackson. "I made strawberry jam this morning. Here, I brought you a jar."
It was a deft change of subject. Sally beamed, taking the jar. "Oh, Paul, it's still warm! We'll have it with scones later on with tea. Have you heard we've hired a new chef, Piper?"
"No, I haven't."
"She's excellent. She worked at an inn up in Province-town. She suggests we serve afternoon tea on a regular basis. You'll have to bring Hannah by."
Paul cleared his throat pointedly, a glint in his dark eyes. "Not that we serve her kind of tea."
Sally flushed. She was a plain, fair-skinned woman with hair that was dyed too dark for her coloring and a wardrobe of sturdy, preppy clothes. She had married for the first time three years ago at age thirty-five. Both her and her husband's stock had gone up considerably in Frye's Cove when they hadn't made a peep about Hannah's inexplicable decision to sell her historic house and acreage. Sally was Jason Frye's only living direct descendant. Many in town considered her to have more claim to her grandfather's property—morally if not legally—than his wife of seven years. But Sally had long said she had no interest in the Frye House and was content with her and Paul's pretty house in the village and their up-and-coming inn.
"Oh, Paul, you're awful," she said affectionately. "Don't worry, Piper. We don't believe any of those silly rumors about Hannah trying to poison Stan Carlucci. She'd never deliberately hurt anyone."
"A pity," Paul put in, grinning. "I have a long list of people I wouldn't mind her treating to a pot of tea."
Sally giggled, her husband's irreverence having a positive effect on her. She was more spontaneous and flexible than Piper remembered, less bound by her natural reserve and sense of propriety—simply put, less of a prude.
Piper tried to share their good-natured response to Hannah's latest eyebrow raiser. "I'm surprised Carlucci hasn't had her bound up and tossed into the bay as a witch by now."
Paul waved a hand. "She's an old woman, for heaven's sake. People tend to tolerate the eccentricities of old people. Stan got what he deserved, and he knows it—not that there's any proof Hannah's tea was responsible for his difficulties." He grinned, as most everyone did at the mention of Carlucci's cramps and diarrhea. "Last I heard, he's still not a hundred percent."
"I worry about her," Piper blurted.
"We all do," Sally cooed, immediately reaching over to pat Piper's hand. "But I've no doubt Hannah can handle Stan Carlucci or anyone else who'd dare to think she'd stoop to poisoning people. Now. Shall we get started?"
Paul bent down and kissed his wife on the cheek. "I'll leave you two to it. Piper, good to
Piper joined Sally and Paul Shepherd in the front parlor, where they sat together on a Queen Anne sofa, poring over stacks of fabric swatches, wallpaper books, and paint chips. They made all decisions about the inn together. Although they were committed to preserving the sprawling house's historic flavor, they weren't afraid to mix in contemporary touches, refusing to be stuffy or overly proper. Sally, known for her exquisite taste, had called on Piper to help her decide how to use and place various reproduction and original crafts she'd collected.
"Right on time," Paul said with a pleasant smile.
Piper laughed. "What, did my brothers bet you I'd show up late?"
He grinned, a dark, good-looking, charming man. "Early."
"They're such teases," Sally said. "You're lucky to have each other."
"Sometimes," Piper acknowledged. "Not that I'd know what life was like without them. They're working upstairs still? I'll have to stop up and see them after our meeting." She tried to keep any dread out of her tone. She did want to see her family, provided they didn't force her to talk about things that didn't concern them, like Hannah and Clate Jackson. "I made strawberry jam this morning. Here, I brought you a jar."
It was a deft change of subject. Sally beamed, taking the jar. "Oh, Paul, it's still warm! We'll have it with scones later on with tea. Have you heard we've hired a new chef, Piper?"
"No, I haven't."
"She's excellent. She worked at an inn up in Province-town. She suggests we serve afternoon tea on a regular basis. You'll have to bring Hannah by."
Paul cleared his throat pointedly, a glint in his dark eyes. "Not that we serve her kind of tea."
Sally flushed. She was a plain, fair-skinned woman with hair that was dyed too dark for her coloring and a wardrobe of sturdy, preppy clothes. She had married for the first time three years ago at age thirty-five. Both her and her husband's stock had gone up considerably in Frye's Cove when they hadn't made a peep about Hannah's inexplicable decision to sell her historic house and acreage. Sally was Jason Frye's only living direct descendant. Many in town considered her to have more claim to her grandfather's property—morally if not legally—than his wife of seven years. But Sally had long said she had no interest in the Frye House and was content with her and Paul's pretty house in the village and their up-and-coming inn.
"Oh, Paul, you're awful," she said affectionately. "Don't worry, Piper. We don't believe any of those silly rumors about Hannah trying to poison Stan Carlucci. She'd never deliberately hurt anyone."
"A pity," Paul put in, grinning. "I have a long list of people I wouldn't mind her treating to a pot of tea."
Sally giggled, her husband's irreverence having a positive effect on her. She was more spontaneous and flexible than Piper remembered, less bound by her natural reserve and sense of propriety—simply put, less of a prude.
Piper tried to share their good-natured response to Hannah's latest eyebrow raiser. "I'm surprised Carlucci hasn't had her bound up and tossed into the bay as a witch by now."
Paul waved a hand. "She's an old woman, for heaven's sake. People tend to tolerate the eccentricities of old people. Stan got what he deserved, and he knows it—not that there's any proof Hannah's tea was responsible for his difficulties." He grinned, as most everyone did at the mention of Carlucci's cramps and diarrhea. "Last I heard, he's still not a hundred percent."
"I worry about her," Piper blurted.
"We all do," Sally cooed, immediately reaching over to pat Piper's hand. "But I've no doubt Hannah can handle Stan Carlucci or anyone else who'd dare to think she'd stoop to poisoning people. Now. Shall we get started?"
Paul bent down and kissed his wife on the cheek. "I'll leave you two to it. Piper, good to
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