North Country Man

She inched closer. Lifted a palm frond for a better look. A tubby little man slumped in a chair, swaddled in a robe and a crocheted throw, his short, thick fingers clasped atop a chest that rose and fell with each congested breath. Choork, went the inhale with a fluttering of nostrils. Choo, came the whistling exhale, making his moist lower lip vibrate.

Claire’s amusement showed in her tired smile. The man was elfin, with sticky-out ears, a round face and a funny button nose. Wispy white hair made a tonsure around his head.

Choork…

She cleared her throat. “Hello…sir? Could you please wake up?”

Choo…

“I’m dead tired,” she said.

Choork…

She tickled the knob of his nose with the frond.

“Choo!” he said, eyes popping open. He sprang out of the chair.

Claire leaped backward, her hands flying up in defense.

“Wha—whu—who—” the little man said, cartwheeling his arms. The jungle rustled around him.

Claire took another step back. “I’m, uh, Claire Levander. You’re expecting me? I have reservations?”

“Umf.” The fellow grunted suspiciously, rocking back on his heels. “Howzat?” He rubbed a finger beneath his nose. Strands of hair floated around his head as he swayed forward onto the balls of his feet, blinking at Claire. The bare toe curled into the carpet. “Whozzat?”

“Claire Levander,” she repeated, resisting the urge to steady the confused elf.

His eyes brightened as he continued rocking to and fro. “Ar-har, Miss Lavender.”

“Levander.” She pushed her bangs out of her eyes.

“Righto. Here we are.” He’d rescued a registry book from its upside-down position on the carpet and was squinting at the crumpled pages. “You got a pen?”

She patted her pockets. “No. You see, I’ve lost my purse. But I can—”

The man slapped the book shut and dumped it on the chair. “Never mind that. I’ll take you straight oop-stairs.”

“Oop?” she said, becoming as addled as her host.

He looked her up and down, his small blue eyes twinkling. “You’ll want the bridal suite, eh?” His accent was thick—somewhere between Fargo and Canadian.

“I’m not on a honeymoon.”

“No groom?” He frowned at the front door as if expecting one to burst through. “Okeydokey, that’s prefect. I’ll put you in Valentina’s bridal suite.”

“No! I mean, yes. I’m alone. That is, I’m—” Claire caught her lower lip between her teeth. She hadn’t planned to reveal herself as a Bel Vista executive. Not yet. But the elf seemed confused about her reservations, and she did have business cards she could show him. She kept a slim sliver case of them in her purse, but there were extras in her computer satchel.

“Count on Toivo, Miss Lavender. He kin getcha one.” The strange little man toddled off to grab one of her suitcases, then started carting it up the stairs.

One? One what? Did he mean a husband? And who was Toivo? The elf? Claire grabbed the other pieces of luggage, tucking the bags under her arms. “Wait. I don’t want a groom. Just a room. A regular room will do fine. If you have newlyweds arriving…”

He huffed and puffed, mounting the wide, steep steps. “Nope. Newdywebs won’t touch the bridal. They think it’s bad luck.”

Newdywebs? Claire stopped and shook her head. She had to be hearing things.

From below, there came a thud and then the creak of a door opening. Claire glanced over the banister. A young woman, leaning heavily on the doorknob, poked her tousled red head into the hallway. She looked up, blinking, saw Claire and said, “Stay out of the bridal suite,” in a sleepy voice. “’S cursed.”

Claire’s skin felt pinpricked. “Pardon—?”

The door shut abruptly.

“Crazy rumor.” The rosy man elf was standing at the top of the stairs, bobbing on the balls of his feet, waiting for Claire to decide. He beamed. “Best room in the house.”

“Is there anything else available?”

“There are the attic rooms. Kinda small. Lootsa dust. You got elegies?”

After a beat, she said, “Allergies? Not so far as I know. But I’d really rather—” Nonsense, she thought, following the man. She didn’t believe in luck, good or bad. You made your own future, and hers didn’t include either a groom or a curse. “Okay. I’ll take the bridal suite.”

“We’ll need the key. Em’s always hiding it from Shari.”

Claire’s muscles went lax as she slumped against a wall papered in a glitzy but faded red and gold Chinese design that clashed terribly with the fairies below. Fatigue, complicated by confusion, was hitting her hard. She dropped her luggage. “You don’t have a key?” She couldn’t summon up the strength to ask about Em and Shari. The redhead, maybe? And what was that about a curse?

“It’s around here somewheres.”

Claire wove together a few of the tangled threads. “But if this is the only room available and you knew I was coming…”

“Ar-har, here it is!” After unsuccessfully rummaging through the contents of a narrow étagère, the elf had found the key at the bottom of an urn full of musty peacock feathers. He sneezed, scrubbed at his nose, then inserted the old-fashioned latchkey in a door at the end of the hall. “Voilà. The bridal suite, Miss Lavender.” He disappeared inside to switch on the lights.

“Levander…” Claire’s voice faded as she stepped into the room. The bridal suite was large and opulent yet serene, scrupulously dusted and polished from the facets of the crystal chandelier to the gleaming dark wood floor. A massive four-poster bed dominated the room. Its linens looked freshly bleached and starched, stark white and topped with a fancy crocheted spread as fragile as frost on a windowpane. A more colorful quilt was folded at the foot.

Her pajama-clad host was bringing in the luggage. Despite her exhaustion, Claire went to the glass doors that opened onto a small balcony with a spiked iron railing.

Oh, my.

The view was amazing. Beyond the wild mess of a backyard garden, a sheer cliff dropped away to the vast expanse of Lake Superior. The water glistened like obsidian beneath a glowing wedge of quarter moon. On the opposite side of the harbor, beyond more steep rocks and treetops, was the blinking beacon of a lighthouse.

Trying unsuccessfully to prop up heavy eyelids, she lingered to listen to the surf swish against the rocks, the sough of the wind in the pines. The natural rhythms were hypnotic. It wasn’t long before her eyes had drifted shut. A little bit of peace settled inside her, like a smooth round pebble floating to the bottom of a murky pond. If she stayed at the inn long enough, Claire wondered dreamily, would the peacefulness spread like rings on the surface of the water? Would her muddy future come clear?

She gave herself another little shake and returned inside. “It’s a beautiful view,” she told her host, who was beaming at her, practically rubbing his hands with glee. “And a lovely room. I’ll sign in properly tomorrow morn—”

“We don’t stand on celery at Bay House,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll tell Emmie to let you sleep as late as you like, Miss Lavender. Otherways she’ll be in here at seven a.m. with a breakfast tray, trying to get a lookie-loo.”

“I’d appreciate that, Mr….”

The elf’s white hair swirled around his head when he nodded. “Toivo Whitaker. Me ’n’ my sister Em own this place.”

Claire’s smile froze as he swung the door shut. That was unfortunate. Two elderly owners, apparently naive and good-hearted, and a run-down mansion set on a fabulous piece of waterfront acreage. On the surface, it seemed to be a perfect situation from Bel Vista’s point of view—a juicy plum of property ripe for the plucking.

Already Claire suspected that she’d dread making this report. From what she’d seen so far, Bay House was unique, even magical, like an enchanted castle out of time.

Out of time? Oh, she hoped not.

Unfortunately, it was her job to deliver the verdict.

CLAIRE ROSE from the deep cottony down of sleep like a butterfly fluttering toward a sunbeam. A delicious warmth touched her face—sunlight, streaming through the balcony doors. Her lids trembled as she moved languidly beneath a crisp sheet that smelled like the outdoors. Gradually she grew aware of muffled voices in the hallway. Without coming fully awake, she concentrated to listen.

“She’s not supposed to be in the bridal suite,” said a woman, sounding cross. Her accent was similar to the elf’s. “I told you to put her in the blue room.”

“The couple from Canada are in the blue room.” Toivo Whitaker, Claire thought sleepily. He was clearly befuddled, which was probably his regular state of affairs.

“They’re in the green room, you silly old man.”

“Then who’s in the red room?”

“The fisherman from Minneapolis. I switched him because of the wasp nest. If you’d gotten the bug bomb like I asked…” The voices faded as Toivo and his sister moved along the hall.

Smiling, Claire rolled over and buried her face in the sweet-smelling pillowcase. She’d slept better than she had in months. It must have been her exhaustion, because the mattress was terribly soft and lumpy.

The sunshine and rhythmical sound of the waves rocked her in a cradle of somnolence. She was drifting toward sleep again when another person paused outside the door. “It’s ain’t fair,” said a female voice, loud enough to be easily heard. Thud. Something had dropped to the carpet outside the door. Bam. The door rattled.

From a kick, Claire decided, wondering if she should get up. But the woman was moving away, mumbling as she went. “Ain’t fair, ain’t fair, ain’t fair…”

Claire frowned. How odd.

She remembered the sleepy redhead who’d muttered the warning about a curse. Toivo, who’d been downright scatterbrained about her reservation but had then insisted on the bridal suite with a curious glee.

Argh, what nonsense. Sheer fancy. There was no reason she shouldn’t enjoy every comfort the room provided, especially if they were going to move her out as soon as she showed her face.

Claire sighed and rubbed her cheek against the pillowcase. Sun dried. Not many Bel Vista hotels could provide such a service.

The heavy footsteps returned, traipsing in the direction of the staircase. “Ain’t fair, ain’t fair, ain’t fair…”

A comfortable silence descended. Shush, shush, went the waves. Shush, shush, shush… Birds twittered in the sunshine. Somewhere in the hall, a grandfather clock ticked, steady and sonorous.

I yam what I yam and I yam here, Claire said silently, welcoming the pleasure that accompanied the familiar statement. For good or for bad, I yam here.

She slid an arm beneath the pillow, thoughts drifting to her encounter with the woodsman the way iron filings are drawn to a magnet. My, but he’d been large. And so very masculine. She shivered, wondering how he’d look in the daylight.

There was her purse to retrieve.

She might see him again.

Did she want to?

As Claire weighed that question, an uncomfortable awareness slowly came over her. Her scalp began to prickle. As if…ugh, no. She shoved the creepy feeling away, but it returned.

It was as if someone was staring at her.

She opened one eye and squinted, scanned the room through her lashes. One look at the opposite wall and suddenly she was wide-awake, propped up on her elbows, her heart pounding wildly.

The bride! The curse!

It was only a painting, she realized, flushing at her ridiculous overreaction. Yet her distaste remained. From the far wall, a bride stared at her, looking cold and calm and severe in her snowy lace garments, as glacial as an iceberg. Claire recognized the French doors that were the bride’s backdrop, propped open to the blue vista of the big lake and infinite sky. It should have been a lovely painting, the blond bride serene in her wedding raiment, and instead it was terrible. Forbidding. Chilling.

Cursed.

“Get a grip.” Hugging herself, Claire climbed out of the high bed, her bare feet landing on one of the threadbare needlepoint rugs scattered over the hardwood floor. She reached for the sweater she’d carelessly tossed into her open suitcase when she’d changed for bed. The night before, she’d been too tired to notice the grouping of old family portraits that hung on the bridal suite’s fireplace wall. And she’d slept fine. So why be bothered now?

“Psych out,” she said. Scowling at the portrait in spite of her goose bumps, she slid the sweater on over her nightgown. The bride’s cold blue stare had leached all the warmth from the room.

It’s only the power of suggestion, Claire told herself, stepping over for a closer look. If she’d been told this was a blessed bridal suite, she’d still be in bed, relaxed to the core, lolling in the sunshine like a fat, lazy cat.

“No, I wouldn’t.” She stood before the marble mantel and lifted her chin to confront the coldhearted bride. “You’re a frigid, deadening old witch, aren’t you? I pity the man who married you. No wonder the room is cursed.”

“The room’s not cursed.”

Claire swung around in surprise. She hadn’t heard the door open.

“Eh, that Toivo.” The short, round older woman who stood in the doorway with a breakfast tray had to be the elf’s sister, Emmie. Although her eyes snapped with sharp intellect and her hair was a dark iron gray scraped into a severe braid, the two innkeepers were as alike as a matched pair of salt and pepper shakers.

“Tch, tch. I’ve told the old coot not to carry tales,” Emmie Whitaker said with a peppery flare, stooping to retrieve the folded newspaper on the doorstep before advancing into the room. Mingled scents of hot coffee, fresh orange juice and a sweet, spicy cinnamon bun rose from the tray, making Claire’s mouth water.

The innkeeper set the tray on a side table and fussily rearranged the decorative crocheted bedspread Claire had laid aside. “I’m Emmaline Alice Whitaker. Call me Emmie—everyone does.” She poured a cup of coffee, added cream and two lumps of sugar without asking. “Bay House is my family home. Lived here all my life, along with Toivo. Our younger sister ran away to California. Been married three times, if you can imagine, and had a baby with each husband. I’ve never been married, myself. Looking after Toivo and Bay House is enough for any woman.”

Claire inhaled the steam from the coffee before taking a grateful sip, nearly moaning with bliss. She’d drastically cut down, but the first shot of morning caffeine was an indulgence she couldn’t deny herself. This coffee was heavenly—rich and strong and sweet.

Emmie’s lips tucked into a tight, satisfied smile. “We’re plain coffee drinkers at Bay House. It’s the Finnish way. Don’t be asking me for fancy teas or Italian espresso.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The hostess nodded. “You’ll be down soon for breakfast, Miss Lavender?”

Claire offered her hand. “It’s Levander, actually. Claire Levander.”

“Levander?” Emmie’s hand was plump and strong. “Leave it to Toivo,” she said, tsking again.

“Well, you see, I lost my purse, so I didn’t check in properly,” Claire began. “I’ll need to go and search for it first thing—”

“Goodness gracious. I’d send Toivo looking, but Lord knows what that goofball would come back with. Why don’t you tell us all about it at breakfast? The usual suspects are waiting to meet you, Miss Levander.”

Claire glanced at the sweet roll. It was the size of a softball, oozing with frosting. “Breakfast? Isn’t this breakfast?”

Emmie clucked in disbelief. “Coffee and a roll? Goodness, no. My dear mama, bless her soul, would spin in her grave if I served such a miserly breakfast at Bay House.” She paused at the door, casting a surreptitious glance toward the bridal portrait. “You get dressed and come right down. Never mind that silly talk of curses. It’s pure balderdash.”

Claire, warmed by coffee, was inclined to agree, even though she still felt the bride’s stare like an icicle between the shoulder blades. She turned to look at the portrait. “Who is she?”

Emmie hesitated, smoothing the gingham-checked apron she wore over an orange fleece track suit. “Valentina Whitaker, younger sister to Ogden Whitaker, my great-grandfather, the lumber baron who built Bay House. Poor Valentina was gone long before Toivo and I were born to Mama Mae and Ogden Three.”

“Gone?”

Emmie’s round face crinkled into a hard knot like a dried apple. “Valentina Whitaker jumped off the cliff on her wedding night,” she said through pursed lips, and firmly shut the door behind her.

Well, that cuts it, Claire thought cheerfully as she made her way downstairs fifteen minutes later, carrying a tray with a drained coffee cup and plate empty of all but crumbs and a few daubs of frosting. I’ve been cursed—doomed to throw myself off a cliff on my wedding night.

Oh, the horror, the horror!

She found several houseguests gathered in the dining room around a long, oval bird’s-eye maple table. Their chatter grew silent when she entered.

“Good morning.” Uneasy with their stares, she concentrated on the room, instead. Red stone walls and too many heavy wood furnishings gave it an oppressive feel. The bay window was shrouded by ivy on the outside and heavy brocade drapes on the inside, letting in little light. Trim back the ivy, take out the curtains and half the furniture, and it would be a charming room.

“Morning.” Toivo piped from the head of the table. “Did ya sleep good, Miss Lavender?”

“Wonderfully, thank you, Mr. Whitaker.”

He chuckled. “No bad dreams?”

The pale blue gaze of the spare, middle-aged fellow at Toivo’s left dropped to his plate. The petite redhead who’d warned Claire about the curse watched her with a mischievous pink rosebud of a smile. Two others, clearly tourists, looked up from their blueberry pancakes with pleasant, uninformed expressions.

“Only one,” Claire said as she put the tray on a sideboard and took a seat at the table. She lowered her voice to a sepulchral level. “I dreamed I was falling. It was black and cold. I could hear waves breaking upon the rocks. But I kept falling.” Ever so slowly she drew her napkin from the place setting, dragging out the suspense. “Falling,” she intoned. “Endlessly falling…”

The redhead’s eyes had gone round. She was young—early twenties at most. “Falling?” she squeaked.

Toivo’s moist bottom lip hung open. “B-but how—”

“For gosh sakes.” Emmie Whitaker marched into the room with a platter full of pancakes. “Can’t you tell that our new guest is pulling your legs?”

The young woman let out a thankful laugh. “Oh, you had me going! I thought the curse had taken a new form.” She leaned across the table, holding a small, pale hand out to Claire. Her manner was forthright, but her grip was weak. “Cassia Keegan. I’m renting a room here in Bay House.” She nodded toward the staircase. “Didn’t mean to put a scare into you last night, but I thought you should know about—” she hunched her shoulders and dropped her voice in imitation of Claire “—the curse.”

“Here we go again.” Emmie scowled as she forked pancakes and sausages onto Claire’s plate. “Let’s not bother Miss Levander with that nonsense, please, Cassia.”

“I’d like to hear the story,” Claire said, stopping Emmie at two of each. The tourists, introduced as the Bickermanns from Canada, professed their interest.

Cassia’s eyes danced. Compressing her lips, she looked expectantly at Emmie, waiting for the go-ahead.

“So there is a cur—a, uh, legend?” Claire prodded. “I saw the bride’s portrait. It’s…beautiful.” In a Snow Queen sort of way.

The innkeeper tilted her head, weighing the word legend versus the less hospitable curse. Finally she gave the redheaded girl a cursory nod and departed for the kitchen.

Clearly, Cassia was eager to tell the tale. Bouncy auburn waves curled around her heart-shaped face as she glanced from face to face, building the suspense. Her expressive eyes were hazel shaded toward gold and tipped up at the corners like a cat’s. A palpable energy coursed through her slender body when her gaze reached Claire.

Cassia inhaled, her cheeks pinkening with excitement. “If the prophecy of Valentina Whitaker is true,” she announced with utter seriousness, “you will be married before the year is out.”

Claire swallowed. Her fingers clamped reflexively on the lever of the syrup jug. “Pardon?”

Cassia chortled. “Yep. I did try to warn you, Claire. But there’s nothing you can do now. It’s Valentina’s prophecy.”

Gleefully, Toivo quoted, “‘Sleep all night in the bridal room, Turn of year, thee shall have a groom.’”

“Or…” Cassia said.

“Turn of year you’ll be a groom,” said the quiet man at Toivo’s elbow. “Won’t catch me sleeping there.” He wadded up his napkin and left rather hastily.

“Don’t mind Bill’s manners,” Toivo said. “He’s afraid Shari’s got plans for him.”

Claire was mopping up the syrup that had run over the lip of her plate. “Shari?”

“The maid, Shari Shirley. She works here part-time,” Cassia explained. “You’ll run into her soon enough, Claire. She’s forever trying to spend the night in Valentina’s room, but Emmie won’t let her near it, even to clean.”

“I see. And why was I so lucky to land there?”

Toivo’s cheeks became ruddy. “A small mix-up on my part.”

Dishes clashed in the kitchen. “Huh!” Emmie came out, drying her sudsy hands on a towel. You were supposed to be in the blue room, Miss Levander. Color-blind numbskull,” she scolded Toivo, tapping his bald spot. She snatched away his plate as soon as he stuffed a last bite of pancakes into his mouth.

“You should put married couples in the bridal suite,” one of the Canadians suggested.

“Oh, no,” Cassia breathed.

“Goodness gracious, no,” Emmie said.

“Why not?” Mrs. Bickermann asked.

Cassia shook her head. “It’s part of the legend. ‘Happily married, bill and coo, Pay the piper, sorrow’s due.’”

“You can’t believe that stuff.” Claire looked at her sodden pancakes and decided she couldn’t eat despite her usually healthy appetite.

“Absolutely not.” Emmie turned on her heel and returned to the kitchen with her hands full of dishes, using a generously rounded hip to bump open the swinging door.

“It’s happened,” Cassia vowed. “Single women have married, and couples have split up.” Her eyes glowed like those of a child telling ghost stories beside a campfire. “Why do you think Emmie keeps the door locked?”

“It wasn’t locked last night after I moved in. I didn’t have the key.” Claire laughed nervously, wishing for another shot of caffeine to bolster her rocky reactions.

On cue, Emmie entered with another cup, fixed the way Claire liked it. She accepted it with thanks.

Emmie patted her apron pocket. “I’m keeping charge of the key from here on out.” She shot a scowl at her oblivious brother. “Even when there’s no reason to lock the barn door after the cow’s got out.”

Claire smiled into her coffee. “Does that make me the cow?”

“Goodness, no. It means that you may as well sleep in Valentina’s room for the duration of your stay. No use moving you now.”

Cassia waved a hand. “You’re already cursed!”

“Now stop that, pikku,” Emmie scolded on her way to the kitchen. “You’ll be frightening off our guests.”

“No worry here,” Claire said. “I can assure you that I have no plans for marriage. Besides, it’s already May. There’s no way I’ll meet and marry my groom before the turn of the year. I don’t move that fast.” Was she protesting too much?

Cassia tossed her curls. “I almost envy you for getting the bridal suite. Almost.” She flashed a playful grin. “Personally, I’m not ready to settle down. I’ve got to take a good sampling of all the available prospects first. Woof!”

Claire shared Cassia’s laughter, appreciating the other woman’s enthusiasm for the opposite sex even though Claire’s reluctance was a matter of straightening out priorities, not picking and choosing. Her opportunities in that area had been limited. She’d decided early that dating within the company was too complicated. And since her life was the company…