I was starting to worry. T. J. said to expect you just after noon.” Bess set down her bags in front of the Seascape Inn registration desk, then looked at the innkeeper, Miss Hattie. She did look like Norman Rockwell’s grandma model, just as Maggie had said. Soft, round face, crinkled into a welcoming smile, imprints alongside her nose—obviously from reading glasses, which were absent from her face now—a peach floral dress and, in her left hand, the infamous white lacy hankie. A bubble of sheer pleasure trickled through Bess at finally meeting the much-adored woman. “I’m sorry. I should have called. I got lost coming out of Bangor.” “Happens all the time. Missed the sign for Sea Haven Highway, didn’t you?” “Yes, ma’am, I did.” Bess glanced around the entryway and through the gallery. To her right, beyond a stately, brass-trimmed grandfather clock, she saw the parlor and the living room. A winding staircase partially blocked her view to the left, giving her but a glimpse of a dining room decorated with wainscoting and splashes of pink florals on navy blue.
