“Wow, it’s really pretty in here.” Carly leaned closer to him to whisper. “So different. Look at that wall of old photos …”

The perky hostess met them just inside the door. “Will there be just the two of you?”

When Ford nodded, she asked, “Is a table near the window all right?”

“Could we maybe have the table closer to the photo wall?” Carly asked. “I’d love to get a closer look.”

“Of course.” The hostess smiled and led the way.

“Mom had great things to say about the food here,” Ford said as he and Carly were seated. “The place hasn’t been open very long, but apparently with Dallas MacGregor’s new film studio opening down the road recently, it’s a good place to celebrity-watch if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I’m not,” Carly said, “but I can’t wait any longer. I have to look at those photos.”

She rose just as the hostess—who was apparently going to be their waitress—brought menus and a bowl of small tan-colored beads to the table.

“Roasted chickpeas,” she said as she placed the bowl in the center of the table. “What can I bring you to drink?”

“Unsweetened iced tea for me, please,” Carly replied.

Ford nodded. “Same for me.”

“All right, then, let’s look at these pictures.” Carly stood before the wall, her arms folded over her chest. “I wish I knew which one was Ellie’s great-great-grandmother.” She scanned the photos.

Ford stood behind, almost but not quite close enough to touch her, close enough that she could hear—but not feel—him breathing. She stood midway between the wall and his body, and she had to force herself to focus on the pictures in front of her.

“I can help you there.” Sophie emerged from the kitchen, a white apron tied around her waist and at her neck.

“Hey, Sophie.” Carly turned and smiled. “We were just admiring your decor. I love this idea.” She pointed to the photos. “It’s so different and so charming.”

“Thanks. The idea was to bring St. Dennis into the room without overplaying the whole Chesapeake Bay thing. You know, the blue claw crabs, the oysters, the crab pots. The stuff that half the restaurants on the Eastern Shore have done. I wanted the place to be more personal to the people who live here.”

“Have you met Ford Sinclair?” Carly asked.

“We have not.” Sophie extended a hand to him.

“But I know the rest of the family.” She smiled. “My brother had his wedding at the inn and I’m happy to count your mother among my friends.”

“Well, then, any friend of my family, and all that.” Ford shook her hand briefly. “Now, can you point out who’s who here?”

“This is my grandma Rose Enright, Lilly Cavanaugh, and Violet Finneran.” Sophie pointed to several faces in turn.

“The Blossoms,” Carly said.

“Right.” Sophie pointed out several other residents—some living, some not. “Oh, and here’s Ellie’s great-great-grandmother Carolina, the one you’re writing the book about.”

Carly grinned and stretched her neck to better see the photograph. Carolina was dressed in tennis whites and held a racket in both hands. At her elbow was a handsome man who appeared to be several years younger than she.

“I wonder who the man is,” Carly thought out loud.

“I have no clue. Someone else in town might know, though.”

“Is that a picture of my parents?” Ford pointed to a photo on the left side of the wall.

“On their wedding day, yes.” Sophie removed it from the wall and handed it to him.

“I’ve seen this one before. My mom gave this to you?” he asked.

“Your sister did. I’d asked Lucy for one so we could surprise Grace on opening night. She seemed very pleased to have it included. Look how beautiful your mother was at that young age. Not that she isn’t beautiful now,” she hastened to add. “Your parents look so happy together, don’t they?”

“They always were.” Ford handed the photo back to Sophie, who returned it to its place on the wall.

“So have you had a chance to look at the menu yet?” Sophie asked, and Ford and Carly both shook their heads.

“You might want to get your order in sometime in the next”—Sophie glanced at her watch—“five minutes or so. It’s almost time for the studio folks,” she explained. “They usually start to roll in around twelve thirty. I thought they’d be big on takeout but it seems they like the atmosphere here, so we get a crowd every day right around now.”

“I’m surprised the tourist crowd hasn’t caught on to that.” Carly looked around at the empty tables.

“It’s a little early for them.” Sophie grinned. “In another half hour, there will be a line out the door. Go ahead and look at the menus. Make sure you don’t miss the specials. Mariel—that’s your waitress—will take your order.”

“Look, Ford, even the menus are unique.” Carly held up the folded light blue paper. “There are little anecdotes about different early residents of St. Dennis.” She looked over the names. “There’s a Daniel Sinclair here …”

“My great-great-however-many-greats grandfather. He built the inn.” Ford appeared to be more interested in the food.

Guess he skipped breakfast, too, Carly thought, and turned her attention to the specials. When it came time to order, Ford went with the burger, and Carly ordered a grilled vegetable wrap.

“Can I get a small, side version of the strawberry, goat cheese, and walnut salad with that?” she asked.

“Of course.” Mariel smiled agreeably, took their menus, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Did you say you were or you were not a vegetarian?” Ford asked.

“I am not, but I love vegetables when they’re done creatively, and I’m willing to bet that Sophie’s are terrific. I take it you’re a meatasaurus?” She sampled the chickpeas. “These are yummy. Crunchy and spicy.”

She passed the bowl over to him, and he popped a few into the palm of his hand.

“I’ll eat just about anything.” He held up the bowl. “Even these.”

Carly laughed. “Oh, please. They’re not that exotic.”

He popped a few into his mouth. “You’re right. They’re spicy. I like them.”

“I’m glad to see you’re adventurous about food.”

“Are you kidding?” He scoffed. “Where I’ve been, you eat what’s available and you don’t think too much of it. These”—he held up the small bowl—“would have been a delicacy.”

“Where have you been?”

For a moment, he looked as if he didn’t understand the question, as if he’d spoken without thinking. “Oh. Africa, mostly.”

“Where in Africa?”

“Central African Republic. Sudan. The Democratic Republic of the Congo. The Southern Nile Republic.”

“Why were you there?” She added sweetener to her iced tea and took a sip, added a little more.

“Who’s interviewing who here?” he asked.

“Sorry. Just curious. I don’t know too many people who have spent time in Africa lately.” She paused, then added, “Actually, I don’t know anyone who’s been there in the past five years.”

“There are a lot of hot spots, to be sure.” He glanced at the door as it opened, and a group of five or six came in. “Looks like the place is starting to fill up.” He turned his wrist to look at his watch. “Right on time, too.”

Carly’s curiosity was piqued, but she sensed that Ford had already said more about himself than he’d intended. “So. The article for next week’s paper.”

“Right. Well, last time we talked a little about you and your plans for the gallery space. Want to elaborate on that a little?” he asked.

“Sure. Our focus is going to be on artists from St. Dennis. Once the gallery is finished, we’re going to ask residents who’d like to exhibit their work to bring them in so we can take a look, see what we have. We know there’s a lot of artistic talent in St. Dennis, so obviously we’re not going to be able to show every work by every artist, but I’ll do my best to make sure that the exhibit is representative of the best the town has to offer.”

“So in other words, you’ll be picking and choosing what paintings you want to use.”

“Yes, but we can’t word it that way.” She lowered her voice. “I have it on good authority—that would be your mother—that there are some pretty poor specimens out there. Only a crazy person would set aside works from someone like Carolina Ellis to exhibit someone else’s paint-by-numbers. Or worse.”

“So how do we want to word that?”

“Exactly the way I said it.” She looked beyond the plate the waitress had just placed in front of her to glare at him. “You weren’t taking notes,” she said accusingly.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.” He leaned back to let Mariel serve his burger.

“You’re a reporter.” Carly picked up her fork and prepared to attack her salad. “Reporters take notes.”

“I’m new at this.”

She put down the fork and reached out her hand. “Give me your notebook.” She paused. “You did bring your notebook.”

“I left it in the car.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Now?” Ford looked longingly at the burger on his plate.

“Now. I’m having furniture delivered this afternoon, so I have to be there on time. I don’t want to be sleeping on the floor this week because no one was there to let the deliverymen in with my bed.” She picked up her wrap and took a bite.

Ford sighed but got up and went out to the car. He came back empty-handed.

“I must have left it at the office. I could have sworn …”

Carly stared at him for a long moment, then started to laugh. “What kind of a reporter … oh, never mind.” She picked up her bag and rummaged through it until she found the long, thin notepaper she always carried with her.

“Pen?” she asked.

“I’ll ask Mariel if we can borrow one.” Ford got up again, walked to the counter, then back again, a pen in hand. He placed it in front of Carly before he returned to his seat, picked up his burger, and took a bite.