Nick touched the old stove with reverence. “This must have served many hungry people. Do you know much about the people who built this place?”
“We’ve been researching Amelia and Gustav Erickson,” Ivy said. “They have a fascinating history, but there’s still a lot we don’t know.” Ivy turned to her sister. “Shelly, would you show Nick to his room?” She added the number of one of their best rooms.
Since Nick was going to stay awhile, Ivy wanted him to be comfortable. And if he was handy with appliances, even better. He’d just saved her a repair charge. After Shelly and Nick left, Ivy brought out ingredients and a clean skillet. She struck a match and lit a burner on the stovetop.
After Nick deposited his backpack in the room, he returned to the kitchen.
“Almost ready,” Ivy said. She had prepared a large breakfast for the young man. He looked like he could use a good meal.
Ivy prepared a plate for him and filled a mug with hot chocolate with a generous scoop of whipped cream. “Would you like this in the dining room or your room?”
Nick glanced around, his gaze settling on the casual table and chairs where Ivy wrote grocery lists and Shelly trimmed plants. “Right here in the kitchen is fine. It’s homey. I like that.”
People often enjoyed hanging out in the kitchen. Ivy supposed it reminded them of home or a grandparent’s kitchen. “Where are you from, Nick?”
“Up north,” he said.
“On the coast or back east?”
“That’s right,” he said, tucking into the eggs she’d made.
Ivy started to ask which, and then she realized that technically, both could be correct. As she washed the skillet, she thought about that. In her few months as an innkeeper, she’d learned not to ask too many questions of people. They were paying guests and entitled to their privacy, especially during the holidays.
Some people had nowhere to go for a variety of reasons. The holidays could be lonely for single people without families. In Boston, after her daughters left her at a restaurant on Christmas Eve to return to their busy lives of friends and work, Ivy returned to her rented room and stared at the walls alone, wondering what had become of her former life. And now, here she was, running an inn and serving guests.
Guests. Holidays. She and Shelly had been talking about old photos and how the house was decorated in Amelia’s day when Nick arrived. As she dried the skillet and put it away, a strange sensation tickled the back of Ivy’s neck, and she suddenly had an overwhelming urge to look at the old photograph album. If for no other reason than curiosity, she wanted to see how Amelia Erickson had decorated the old house.
At the table, Nick was eating breakfast with gusto.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Ivy said. “Shall I leave the music on for you?” Shelly’s Christmas jazz was still playing in the background.
“I’d like that very much,” Nick replied.
Ivy made her way out of the kitchen. Shelly was at the front desk on the computer.
Peering over her sister’s shoulder, she thumped Shelly on the shoulder. “You’re not to do internet searches on our guests. Remember our talk about privacy?”
“I can’t find a thing on him,” Shelly said.
“Maybe Nick is short for Nicholas, or Nicolo. He said that people called him that. But you need to stop that right now.” Ivy tapped a key on the keyboard to close out the window. “Did Megan return the photo album?”
“I think she left it in the parlor.” Shelly made a face and opened the browser window again.
“Get off the computer and come with me.”
Shelly glanced over her shoulder. “Did you leave Nick alone in the kitchen?”
“What? Like he’s going to steal the silverware? For Pete’s sake, Shelly, he just fixed the refrigerator and saved us a lot of money.”
“Did he? That’s not what I saw. I saw some kind of weird magic, and coincidentally, the fridge stopped making a noise. So I don’t know why you think he fixed it.”
Ivy couldn’t believe Shelly’s attitude. “You’re usually the one quick to believe in ghosts and alternate explanations.”
“I know you’ve seen Amelia,” Shelly said. “You just won’t admit it.”
“Geez, Shelly. I have to sleep in that room, remember?” Ivy wasn’t sure what she’d seen, but she refused to believe a spirit was inhabiting her bedroom. Or had even paid a visit. She shuddered. “Then why don’t you believe Nick fixed the fridge?”
“I’ve still got a lot of New York in me, Ives. People have to prove themselves.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “Let’s go find the album. Megan probably left it on the bookshelf.”
“Okay,” Shelly said with reluctance.
Megan and Josh, who had been their first guests last spring, were working on a documentary film of Amelia and Gustav Erickson, the former owners. Although the Ericksons had been wealthy San Franciscans who hired Julia Morgan—the first female architect in California—to design a beach house, tracing their past in Europe had been difficult. The couple loved art and had sheltered many treasures during the Second World War in this house. During the war, Amelia Erickson donated the use of the home for physical therapy for injured troops.
“And turn off that computer. Do you want our guest to see what you’ve been up to?” Ivy tapped her foot, waiting for Shelly to close the computer. She felt a sudden sense of urgency to inspect the old photographs.
After Amelia’s death from Alzheimer’s disease, the old beach house remained unoccupied for decades, suspended in her estate and rented out only for occasional charitable fundraisers before Jeremy acquired it.
This past spring and summer, Ivy and Shelly and Poppy had found treasures ranging from priceless European paintings to crown jewels, but they’d returned everything to the rightful owners. Although that had been the right thing to do, Ivy almost wished now that they’d had the chance to profit from those discoveries. Though maybe they had. Some guests had made reservations at the inn out of curiosity after reading a news article.
Ivy led the way into the parlor. She scanned the bookshelves that lined the walls.
“Here it is,” Shelly said, taking out a leather-bound volume and placing it on an antique table.
Ivy sat at the table with Shelly and opened the old album. She turned delicate pages with care until she found the party scenes they’d recalled.
Ivy and Shelly leaned in, peering at the sepia-toned, black-and-white photographs.
“Look at this,” Ivy said. “This looks like a beach party.” People posing on the beach by the house wore old-fashioned bathing suits—bathing costumes, her grandmother would have called them.
“That looked like fun,” Shelly said as she turned a page. “And this must be Christmas.”
Ivy peered closer. In one photo, thick strands of what appeared to be freshly trimmed, natural garlands lined the doorway, windows, and edges of the patio’s stone wall. Not too different than what Ivy would do if she had the resources. Maybe they could take a trip to the nearby mountains and find some natural foliage.
Ivy squinted at a photo. Lanterns lined the walkway to the house—others clustered around the entry. “With candles at night, that must have been beautiful.”