"Yes, well, I'm sure you'll throw something together." He glanced at his watch, a Rolex the size of a life preserver. "But breakfast doesn't start until 8:30." She doesn't eat any fat, so you'll have to have something light for her." And my son and his wife will be joining us. "Can I help you with something?" I couldn't keep the anger from seeping into my voice. I had made it very clear that the kitchen was off-limits to guests–not only was there a sign on the door, but it was listed in the house rules guests received when they checked in. I stood up and swiped at my coffee-stained jeans.
"I was looking for you." Bernard Katz's bulbous nose protruded from the kitchen door. I jumped at the sound of my name, spilling coffee on my legs.
"Natalie!" A voice from behind me shattered my reverie. A tern wheeled overhead as the thrum of a lobster boat rumbled across the water, pulsing and fading as it moved from trap to trap. I inhaled the tangy air as I rocked, watching the fog twirl around the rocks and feeling the kiss of a breeze on my cheeks. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks was muted, but mesmerizing. I settled myself into a white-painted wooden rocker and took a sip of strong, sweet coffee. As hard as it was to drag myself out of a soft, warm bed while it was still dark outside, I loved mornings on Cranberry Island. Just enough time for a relaxed thirty minutes on the kitchen porch.Įquipped with a mug of steaming French-roast coffee, I grabbed my blue windbreaker from its hook next to the door and headed out into the gray Maine morning. My eyes focused on the clock above the sink: 6:30. The coffeepot had barely finished gurgling when I sprinkled the pan of dimpled batter with brown-sugar topping and eased it into the oven. The recipe was one of my favorites: not only did my guests rave over the butter-and-brown-sugar-drenched cake, but its simplicity was a drowsy cook's dream. I grabbed the sugar and flour canisters from the pantry and dug a bag of blueberries out of the freezer for Wicked Blueberry Coffee Cake. Fog, it looked like–the swirling mist had swallowed even the Cranberry Rock lighthouse, just a quarter of a mile away. Ten minutes later I was in the kitchen, inhaling the aroma of dark-roasted coffee as I tapped it into the coffeemaker and gazing out the window at the gray-blue morning. As much as I enjoyed innkeeping, I would never get used to climbing out of bed while everyone else was still sleeping.
The alarm rang at 6 AM, jolting me out from under my down comforter and into a pair of slippers.
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