LITMIR.BIZ

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a signature feature here at the Faraway Inn.” The sheets were excellent quality—super-soft, fine-spun flannel with images of tiny log cabins, bears, and moose on them, made exclusively for the inn. Shay loved them. Usually, the guests did, too.

      Mr. Konrad raised his hand high and then pointed a stubby finger straight down, bringing it to rest on the marble counter between them. All he was missing was a white glove so he could check for dust. He then gestured in the general direction of her name tag. “Well, why don’t you check your computer there, Little Miss Hotel Manager, and see where it says that I can’t sleep on sheets that have a pattern on them. I have a medical condition.”

      “Oh my goodness, that is terrible.” Shay managed to look both compassionate and remorseful as she rapidly tapped on the computer keys.

      “Yes, it is—patterned sheets aggravate my vertigo. I need to sleep on only white or very, very light-colored sheets—with no pattern. My assistant called about this weeks ago and I don’t understand why this concept is apparently so difficult for you people to grasp.”

      “I do apologize, Mr. Konrad. Somehow your request seems to have been overlooked. I will send someone up from housekeeping immediately to rectify this egregious oversight. We have some one-thousand thread-count pima cotton sheets in a light ivory shade that are as soft as butter. But they do have a small monogram along the top edge—you know where the sheet folds over? Will that be acceptable?”

      “Yes, I suppose that will be fine.”

      “Again, Mr. Konrad, I am so, so sorry for the oversight and for any inconvenience this has caused you. Please enjoy some complimentary wine or Alaskan micro-brew here at our own Faraway Restaurant.” She handed him some coupons and a business card. “If there is anything else we can do to make your stay here more comfortable please don’t hesitate to let us know. My name is Shay James. I’m the owner, so you can ask for me personally if you’d like. I wrote our assistant manager’s name there below mine, so if I’m not available she usually is.”

      Shay watched him thaw right before her eyes.

      “Oh... Okay, I, uh, I will.” He added a sniff and then marched away.

      Shay picked up the phone and instructed housekeeping on the sheet change. She spent the next hour checking in more guests and answering the phone to take some pressure off her overworked staff. The inn was full and booked almost solid for the next two and a half months. It was only the first week of June, but they had more reservations for the summer—stretching well into fall—than they’d ever had.

      After the rush subsided, she opted for a cup of coffee from the guest services station. She quickly checked that every carafe was full of their signature “Faraway Brew” and that it was steaming hot. The warm butter-and-chocolate scent drifting from the doily-covered tray reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day. She grabbed two cookies and then walked to her office, located right around the corner from the reception area.

      Her cell phone rang as she swallowed the last bite. She picked up, “Hey, Em.”

      “Shay, hi—how are things going?” Emily was married to Shay’s cousin Bering, and as president of the tourism bureau, she was responsible for enticing this attorney retreat to the Faraway Inn.

      “Good, so far. We have one lawyer with an unfortunate sheet issue, but otherwise nothing too out of the ordinary or outrageous like I’d normally expect from such a large group of uptight type-A personalities.”

      Emily chuckled. “Sheet issue? I don’t even think I want to know... But one of these days you’re going to have to tell me why you hate attorneys so much.”

      “I don’t hate them,” she said. “They’re just...so...self-important?” An unsettling image of Jonah—her ex—popped into her head.

      “Uh-huh,” Emily murmured in a doubt-filled tone. “Shay—”

      “Emily, don’t worry. I promise we will keep these people happy. What you’ve done for the inn—what you’re doing for Rankins is nothing short of amazing and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for all these events and conventions and tourists you’ve been bringing here—”

      “Oh, Shay, I know that and I don’t doubt your professionalism. I’m actually calling about a different lawyer—the one I know you do like.”

      “Caleb?”

      “That’s the one. I was just calling to make sure you remember that you’re on the food loop tonight to deliver his dinner.”

      Caleb Cedar had been best friends with her Grandpa Gus before he’d passed away, and he was like a grandfather to her now. She made an exception for him where attorneys were concerned.

      “Yep, I remember.”

      * * *

      A FEW HOURS LATER, with homemade stew, corn bread, and a fresh-baked cobbler from the Cozy Caribou, Shay pulled up in front of Caleb’s house. The large old colonial-style home stood on the edge of “downtown” Rankins right on the waterfront. Shay could see how some might deem the house a little out of place amongst the more practical and rustic buildings that dominated the town, but since it housed the only attorney in the valley the stately residence in gleaming white clapboard and brick somehow seemed right to Shay. Shay got out of her car and heard the faint sounds of a boat puttering along in the bay. She turned and recognized Crab Johnson’s boat. She lifted a hand and waved in his direction and then used it to shield her eyes. It was a gorgeous early summer evening with the kind of sky so blue it made you want to take off your shoes and wade into the bay or squish your toes into a patch of lush new grass. This was Shay’s favorite time of year—people recovering from winter’s cabin fever, giddy with the onslaught of summer activities and the endless hours of daylight to enjoy them.

      Bear, moose and all manner of wildlife were being spotted with their babies. The Faraway Inn’s own resident moose, Clara, had even shown up last week with her first calf ever. At six years old, Shay had despaired of poor Clara ever being a mother—she’d begun to think that maybe she and Clara had that in common.

      Shay scanned the horizon—how many lazy hours had she and Jonah spent fishing in that bay? Her heart squeezed in a way that it hadn’t in a long time.

      She gathered the Crock-Pot from the car and started up the sidewalk. Ridiculous, she scolded herself, to let this wave of nostalgia creep up on her now. She blamed Emily and her attorney-talk, although it was probably only natural to have thoughts of Jonah occasionally when she came here—to the house he’d grown up in. Once upon a very long time ago he may have been her fiancé, but he was still Caleb’s grandson. Unfortunately for her, he would always be Caleb’s grandson.

      She knocked on the door and decided her odd feelings might be the direct result of hunger. After eating a total of two cookies all day, maybe her blood sugar was haywire or something.

      Shay felt a smile forming as the door began to open. Caleb’s dog, Francis, was barking madly now and she found herself looking forward to a relaxing evening with Caleb. The door swung wider, her smile melting from her face as her brain registered the sight before her...

       Jonah?

      She couldn’t seem to make herself breathe much less speak. This reaction, she knew, was not blood-sugar related. She gripped the Crock-Pot even as she pictured it slipping from her grasp and shattering all over the stone walkway.

      “Hello, Shay.” Jonah’s voice came out smooth and easy, but his eyes were latched on to hers. Caleb hadn’t said anything about Jonah coming home. Jonah never—well, rarely ever, came home.

      She quickly calculated he’d been home a total of eight times in ten years—not that she was counting (not on purpose, anyway), and each visit had seemed briefer than the last, a day or two, or three at the most.

      At first she and Jonah mostly avoided each other, then their tense encounters began to be filled with bitterness and sarcastic jibes, until they finally culminated in a conversation two years ago

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