Free The Red Door Inn by Liz Johnson Page A

it sure knew how to show off a new side of Marie, whose smile persisted as her gaze shifted from the fur ball in her arms to an antique typewriter on the shelf in front of her, and back to him.
    â€œThis is Seth Sloane.”
    â€œAretha Franklin. No relation to the singer.” She reached around Marie and grabbed his hand, shaking it hard. Her eyebrows bounced, and he got the feeling that if she were twenty years younger, her whole body would have been bouncing. “You’re new to the area—well, nearly everyone is new nextto an old-timer like me. But I’ve seen you at First Church, haven’t I?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” He’d probably seen her at the church too. After all, there were only about a hundred people in attendance on any given Sunday, and he and Jack had been faithfully attending since before the New Year. But unlike her, he stuck out like a thistle in a rose garden. The average age of church members in the area was well over sixty, and most of them looked just like Aretha.
    Thankfully he wasn’t on the island to make new friends his own age. He was there for Jack, and it was good for Jack to connect with his peers. There were plenty of them at First Church of Rustico.
    Besides, the fewer young people he met, the less likely he was to meet single young women hoping for more than he could offer.
    Aretha’s gaze swept over him, and an unheeded chuckle rose from deep in his stomach. He turned his head to cover it with a cough, but his shoulders still shook.
    He had a feeling that if she were thirty years younger, he’d have had to worry about her more than the other women in town.
    Marie shot him a glance filled with questions, but Aretha asked hers first.
    â€œSo what brings you back so soon? Is everything all right with the map?”
    â€œIt’s perfect,” he said. “Jack loved it.”
    Aretha’s face shone with delight. Marie’s just filled with more questions. He could only offer a lift of his shoulder and half a smile in response. No need to let Aretha in on his rotten behavior.
    â€œMarie had an idea for decorating every guest room in the inn with a unique piece, so we’re back to see what you’ve got.” For reasons he couldn’t begin to identify, he dug into his pocket and pulled out Jack’s small-business credit card, waving it slightly. “Jack sent me with the money, so let’s get started.”
    â€œOh, I have some fabulous ideas!” Aretha clapped her hands, sending Chapter, who was apparently tired of being ignored, jumping to the ground and disappearing beneath a desk.
    A phone rang from the back of the room. “I’ll be right back. Start looking, you two,” Aretha called, already vanishing at the end of the row.
    â€œThank you.” Marie glanced at him, then quickly back at the round keys of the typewriter.
    â€œFor what?” He already knew, but he wanted to hear her say it, wanted to hear her say he’d rescued her.
    She couldn’t meet his gaze as she whispered, “You could have told her how stupid I’d been, promising to buy things when I didn’t have any right to.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    Their first civil exchange. No slams. No teasing. No scowling. They’d managed to speak politely to each other for three whole minutes.
    Jack would be pleased with the progress. It wasn’t exactly butter-covered lobster tail, but it was better than three hours ago.
    And if Marie didn’t hate him, it made keeping an eye on her all that much easier.
    Who knew? If she smiled at him every now and then like she was grinning at the typewriter, sticking by her side might not be as miserable as he’d thought.

    Marie wanted that Underwood typewriter. The black one shining in the light coming through the window across the store. The one with the round keys and worn letters from years—probably decades—of use.
    She ran a finger along its