Confessions from the Quilting Circle - Maisey Yates Page 0,27

ago, but I know better now. She does look like you, though. She is also lovely.”

Her face felt warm. She didn’t like that. Not at all. She didn’t give men the power to affect her, not anymore. She hadn’t given him anything. He’d just taken a response right from her.

“Well, thank you.”

“Have a good day,” he said.

“Enjoy your stay,” she commented.

“That I will.”

Wendy practically fled to the kitchen, and it wasn’t until the door closed behind her that she realized her heart was beating far faster than it should. Especially since she didn’t even know if he wanted to go to dinner for her, or for the house.

It was easier to calm the beating of her heart if she assumed it was for the house.

She didn’t have time to worry about that, though.

Because thoughts of beginning a seven-course dinner at the lighthouse were beginning to swirl through her head. And she might not be able to solve Anna’s problems, or Rachel’s. And it wouldn’t fix the strange flush of reaction she’d had to this tall, handsome stranger.

She couldn’t fix any of this. But she could give them all something more to do. And sometimes, when there weren’t answers, activity would do just as well.

8

If you can focus only on the ocean as you patrol, you can pretend you are simply walking along the beach, rather than keeping watch for the enemy.

—FROM A LETTER DATED JULY 4, 1943, WRITTEN BY STAFF SERGEANT RICHARD JOHNSON DURING HIS TIME STATIONED AT CAPE HOPE

ANNA

It was a Monday night. Things at the inn were quiet, and Anna’s mother had asked for all of them to gather in the kitchen tonight.

Anna had been in the kitchen since late afternoon, working on batches of Jenny Hansen’s soda bread, pound cake and raspberry bread, with berries that had come from the garden last spring that they’d frozen for use throughout the year. They had gotten a few recipes over the years from earlier inhabitants of the lighthouse.

Anna had modified an oatmeal recipe that had been fed to the soldiers during WWII, which was now called Lookout Porridge, and contained steel-cut oats and dried fruit and nuts. But the favorites of the guests were Jenny Hansen’s breads.

She hadn’t gone down into town for over two weeks now. It had been...great. She had stayed up here on the cliff top overlooking the sea, and she had...regressed.

Her life felt cleaned. Uncluttered. She’d swept aside everything annoying, like her actual life and the fact that she was going to have to deal with a divorce, look her soon-to-be ex-husband in the face again. That she’d have to go back to town. That Michael hadn’t called for weeks.

None of it mattered. She had purpose here. Cleaning guest rooms, cooking, giving history tours and manning the gift shop that was on the property.

And she didn’t mind at all.

If things were tense sometimes with her family...she just did her best to ignore it. Her mother’s judgment weighed heavy on her. Her sister’s silence grated sometimes. But at least silence was...silent.

She could keep her head down and do her work, and not worry about it.

Maybe that was reverting to type, but honestly, she’d take a little bit of type reversion without Thomas and still call it growth.

All things concerning the inn itself were familiar. Easy. Some things were uncertain, but for her, piecrust would always be a steady constant.

That also gave her a momentary kick of cheer.

Piecrust was the undoing of a great many home chefs. And, in Anna’s personal opinion, a great many professional pastry chefs who sold their pies in restaurants and bakeries. It was a difficult art to master, one that required cold water and hands that weren’t overeager.

Anna had mastered the art a long time ago.

And feeling in her element, feeling like she knew what she was doing, was such an important thing in her life just at the moment.

“Don’t keep us in suspense, Mom,” Rachel said when she walked into the crowded kitchen, positioning herself far away from Anna. “What’s your idea?”

Emma and Wendy trailed in behind her. Emma was carrying baskets of berries.

Emma looked a bit pale and drawn, but her expression was very Emma—her mouth set in a slight smile, her eyes full of light.

Rachel looked sallow and thin, and the moment she got into the kitchen, she started wiping the counter.

Wendy looked as implacable as ever.

“I’m not trying to keep you in suspense,” she said. “But I don’t know if it’s a good idea or not. But it