A Haven on the Bay - Nicole Ellis Page 0,35

weeks, at the end of the month.” Celia got plates out of the cupboard for them. “It’s going to be wonderful to see the Inn so full of life again.” Her face held a dreamy expression as she handed one to each of them, then gestured to the table. “Have as much as you’d like. We went a little overboard.”

Zoe had told them that she and Celia had set out some sandwich fixings, but “some” was a gross understatement. Sliced tomatoes, huge leaves of bright-green romaine lettuce, rings of onions, and an assortment of deli meats and cheeses covered most of the table. A smaller platter held apple slices and baby carrots.

Taylor’s eyes widened. “Okay, now I’m hungry.”

His sandwich ended up being about six inches high, whereas hers was a more modest size. He’d built up quite an appetite after working all morning in the barn. They took their sandwiches, chips, fruit, veggies, and cans of soda out to the picnic table perched a safe distance back from the cliffside. Taylor imagined it would eventually be difficult to get a seat at one of the picnic tables, once the Inn started accommodating overnight guests. For now, though, the amenities were wonderfully uncrowded.

They sat side-by-side on the bench, facing the water. Zoe and Shawn were distant figures as they walked down the beach together.

“This is nice.” Taylor took a deep breath and gazed out at the bay. “Back home, the sand is crammed with beachgoers and all of their gear. It’s nice to have room to spread out here and actually enjoy being near the water.” He took a deep breath of the salty air, which was simultaneously familiar and different from what he was accustomed to.

Meg finished a bite of her sandwich and set it down on her plate. “You’re from Southern California, right?”

He nodded. “Yep. A suburb of San Diego.” He popped the tab on his Coke and took a long swig of it.

“How’d you end up in Willa Bay?” she asked. “It’s not exactly a booming metropolis.”

He laughed. “Nope, that it’s not. Actually, a friend of mine lives in Seattle and I came up to visit him. The restaurant I’d been working at had just closed down, so I was between jobs.” He shrugged. “I heard about an opening at the Lodge, and when I interviewed for it, George hired me on the spot.” He took a big bite of his sandwich, relishing how the bread, vegetables, deli meats, and cheeses came together to form something so simple, yet unbelievably delicious.

“Do you like it here?”

He swallowed, then looked at her. “Most of the time. I miss my family, and the surfing in Washington isn’t great, but there are plenty of places to climb and I’ve gotten into hiking. The Northwest is pretty cool.”

They sat in companionable silence while they ate their sandwiches. When she was finished, Meg carefully wiped off her hands and dug around in her bag.

She removed the journal and set it on the picnic table, opening it to the first page. Taylor looked on intently as he finished his food.

This journal belongs to Davina Carlsen, read an inscription on the first page.

“Davina Carlsen?” he said. “Do you think she was a guest at the resort?”

“I don’t know,” Meg said softly. She turned a few more pages, but the glare from the sun made it difficult to read the handwriting. The pages were sketchbook-style, devoid of any lines or guides for writing. Davina had made full use of the blank pages, decorating them with small sketches.

Meg tugged on Taylor’s arm and pointed at the page. “Look at this.”

He popped the last bit of carrot into his mouth, chewed, then wiped his hands on his pants before leaning in closer. “What is it?”

“She put recipes in her journal. It’s too bright to see well, but she seems to have written about her life and must have been into cooking.”

They both stared at the recipe, trying to make out the words.

“Golden Chicken?” Taylor read the recipe title out loud. “I’ve never heard of it.”

She shrugged. “Must have been a specialty from those days.” She scanned the top of the page for a date. “Looks like she wrote this during the 1920s.”

“Can I see it?” he asked. “I love old recipes.”

She passed him the book, taking care to not scrape the old leather on the picnic table. As he took it, his skin grazed hers, sending tingles through his fingertips and up into his arm. His gaze shot up