LITMIR.BIZ

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couldn’t even believe the change herself.

      She tilted her head, caught by the smell of spicy soup and fresh bread. Her stomach gave a loud rumble. “If that’s your special chipotle tortilla soup, I promise you my firstborn,” Olivia called to Jilly, who was at work in the kitchen. But it was an easy promise to make. Olivia never planned to have any children.

      Right on cue Jilly pushed open the pink café doors, a big tray in her hands. “No need to give up your children. You get this for free. It’s my new tortilla soup variation, but be careful. Those rolls are fresh from the oven and very hot.”

      “Be still my beating heart,” Olivia murmured. But she quickly discovered that eating soup with her left hand was not going to be easy, especially with her shoulder in a brace.

      Jilly frowned at Olivia’s clumsiness. “Sorry, I should give you a cup. Then you can just drink it.” Jilly carried the big bowl of soup back to the kitchen. “How’s that heating pad? Does it help?” she called over her shoulder.

      Olivia nodded. She wasn’t used to being fussed over. She never asked for help unless she had no other option. Growing up, she had learned that displays of affection were frowned upon. She was expected to excel but to do it quietly, and without any assistance.

      The one thing Olivia had wanted most as a girl was to earn her father’s love and respect, but that had never happened. She had never measured up to his critical eyes.

      Olivia shrugged off dark memories as Jilly breezed back from the kitchen. Steam poured off a big cup of tortilla soup. “So when are you due back in Seattle?”

      Olivia winced. She had put off telling her friends that she had been fired. Her job hunt had been going nowhere even before the accident. Once she had learned that no one was hiring locally, she had sent résumés all over the state and turned up two possible openings, but both had been quickly taken. “I have two more weeks. But I may be able to swing some extra time.”

      Jilly shot a measuring glance at Caro. “How can you do that?”

      “I’ve built up some sick days.” Olivia sipped the hot soup slowly. “This is fantastic, Jilly.”

      “You like it?” Jilly glanced again at Caro. “I—that is, we have a question for you. No, let’s call it a proposition. Caro and I have been talking, and Grace agrees. We want to hire you.”

      Olivia frowned. “Hire me for what?”

      Jilly sat down beside Olivia. “We want you to build a conservatory on the far side of the Harbor House. Your job would be official. We’d be hiring you as our architect of record. You know how hard it’s been to maintain the authentic details of this house during restoration. But with a new conservatory—something bright and welcoming—we could rake in tourists. Then we can add a separate restaurant there, someplace for weekend brunch with a tasteful bar. Every seat would have unmatched views of the coast. With luck, we can book private weddings. That’s where serious money comes in. A yarn shop and a café are nice, but the moneymaker would be the restaurant...and the drinks. I’ve been playing around with recipes, and Grace has already crunched some numbers.”

      Olivia stiffened. “How long have you three been planning this? You never consulted me.” She looked away, hurt at being excluded.

      “Hold on.” Caro put down her box of cleaning supplies. “You had enough on your plate. Your father’s funeral was barely over when we had all those zoning applications to finish. You handled every one so we could focus on the repairs here. We didn’t want to bother you again so soon. And I only heard about this conservatory plan last week. No one is sneaking behind your back.”

      Olivia flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just a surprise.”

      Caro sat down beside her. “Jilly and Walker had the idea first. Then Grace found a picture of a garden restaurant in Britain that was just perfect. We were going to discuss all this with you yesterday, but there was the storm and you were hurt. So what do you think?”

      “It would be a great way to capitalize on revenues. And structure and design fees would be reasonable.” The renovations had run to twice the estimates. Olivia figured it would take five years to dig their way out of debt, but the women were willing to work hard. The Harbor House was a key part of Summer Island’s history. No way could it be lost, torn down for condominiums or a luxury resort.

      And with her job gone, Olivia would have plenty of time to work on a design and then handle the construction plans. “I like the idea. But you don’t need to pay me.”

      “Yes, we do,” Jilly said quickly. “You know how the zoning commission puts us through hoops because this is a historic property. It’s not going to be easy to find an exterior design that preserves the historic style while also serving a busy restaurant. You’re going to earn every penny of your salary.”

      Olivia knew that was true. Dealing with historical buildings was a huge pain in the neck. They were beautiful outside, but their inner structure was usually a nightmare.

      Despite the headaches, Olivia would relish the challenge of the new design. A garden and eating area around the conservatory would be perfect for the coastal location. They could also use the garden plantings to attract the monarch butterflies that migrated south each winter to Pacific Grove and Santa Cruz. Fewer and fewer could be seen near the coast at Butterfly Cove, as available wild land was built up for expensive shore communities.

      “It’s a great idea. I’ll help any way I can.”

      “What about your job in Seattle?” Jilly drummed her fingers on the table. “You can’t be two places at once. This may be more than we should ask of you, Livie.”

      “I’ll make it work.” Olivia took a deep breath. “Now can I have another cup of soup? And this time crank up the heat, will you?”

      Jilly gave a wicked smile. “You want hot? I can give you hot.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THREE HOURS LATER Olivia had died—and gone straight to heaven. She was surrounded by a mound of cashmere, silk and merino, each yarn color-coded and separated by weight and fiber, to be displayed on rustic wooden shelves. Olivia had always been very organized, and she liked the security of knowing what was around her and how to find it fast.

      Olivia had done a big part of the planning for the yarn shop. She had carefully chosen patterns for sale to reflect all ages and all skill levels. Each pattern was carefully inserted in a plastic folder and arranged by garment type. Her own hand-knitted shop samples were displayed on wooden dowels and antique dress forms. She and Caro had chosen the pink toile wallpaper and the curtain fabric. They had found an antique rug at a flea market in Seattle, and Olivia had brought two antique wing chairs of her own down to the shop on loan.

      Now the space was bright and cozy, filled with a sense of welcome and inspiration, ready to become part of the community.

      She put down the last ball of alpaca yarn and studied her list of invoices, pleased with the neat rows of numbers and check marks. All the yarn was accounted for. All the shop samples were finished. The yarn store would be ready to open on time, even if the plumbing repairs held up Jilly’s café opening.

      She reached down for the file folder with the shop yarn orders and winced as pain shot through her shoulder. The pain reminded her that she had at least a week of rest before she would feel even close to normal.

      “Livie, what’s wrong?” Jilly scowled at her. “I told you not to lift anything. That’s what we’re here for. Why didn’t you call me?”

      “Because I forgot, okay? I was distracted, thinking about the yarn shop and how beautiful it will be. I forgot that I’m a helpless mess.”

      “You’re not helpless and you’re not a mess. You did a brave thing in the storm. So stop arguing when we try to help you.” Jilly picked up the box of sorted yarn and carried it to the nearby counter. She read each tag and put the ball in its color-coded

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