The Welcoming

fresh.”
    “Yes, sir.” She was particularly proud of that. The stocked pond had been her idea. “It certainly is.”
    “Fresh when it was shipped in this morning, no doubt.”
    “No.” Charity lowered her pad but kept her smile in place. “We stock our own right here at the inn.”
    Lifting a brow, he tapped a finger against his empty glass. “Your fish may be superior to your vodka, but I have my doubts as to whether it is indeed fresh. Nonetheless, it appears to be the most interesting item on your menu, so I shall have to make do.”
    “The fish,” Charity repeated, with what she considered admirable calm, “is fresh.”
    “I’m sure you consider it so. However, your conception of fresh and mine may differ.”
    “Yes, sir.” She shoved the pad into her pocket. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”
    She might be innocent, Conby thought, frowning at his empty glass, but she was hardly efficient.
    “Where’s the fire?” Mae wanted to know when Charity burst into the kitchen.
    “In my brain.” She stopped a moment, hands on hips. “That—that insulting pipsqueak out there tells me our vodka’s below standard, our menu’s dull and our fish isn’t fresh.”
    “A dull menu.” Mae bristled down to her crepe-soled shoes. “What did he eat?”
    “He hasn’t eaten anything yet. One drink and a couple of crackers with salmon dip and he’s a restaurant critic.”
    Charity took a turn around the kitchen, struggling with her temper. No urban wonder was going to stroll into her inn and pick it apart. Her bar was as good as any on the island, her restaurant had a triple-A rating, and her fish—
    “Guy at table 4 wants another vodka martini,” Roman announced as he carried in a loaded tray.
    “Does he?” Charity whirled around. “Does he really?”
    He couldn’t recall ever seeing quite that glint in her eye. “That’s right,” he said cautiously.
    “Well, I have something else to get him first.” So saying, she strode into the utility room and then out again.
    “Uh-oh,” Dolores mumbled.
    “Did I miss something?” Roman asked.
    “Man’s got a nerve saying the food’s dull before he’s even had a taste of it.” Scowling, Mae scooped a helping of wild asparagus onto a plate. “I’ve a mind to add some curry to his entrée. A nice fat handful of it. We’ll see about dull.”
    They all turned around when Charity strolled back in. She was still carrying the platter. On it flopped a very confused trout.
    “My.” Dolores covered her mouth with both hands, giggling. “Oh, my.”
    Grinning, Mae went back to her stove.
    “Charity.” Roman made a grab for her arm, but she evaded him and glided through the doorway. Shaking his head, he followed her.
    A few of the diners looked up and stared as she carried the thrashing fish across the room. Weaving through the tables, she crossed to table 4 and held the tray under Conby’s nose.
    “Your trout, sir.” She dropped the platter unceremoniously in front of him. “Fresh enough?” she asked with a small, polite smile.
    In the archway Roman tucked his hands into his pockets and roared. He would have traded a year’s salary for a photo of the expression on Conby’s face as he and the fish gaped at each other.
    When Charity glided back into the kitchen, she handed the tray and its passenger to Dolores. “You can put this back,” she said. “Table 4 decided on the stuffed pork chops. I wish I had a pig handy.” She let out a laughing squeal as Roman scooped her off the floor.
    “You’re the best.” He pressed his lips to hers and held them there long after he’d set her down again. “The absolute best.” He was still laughing as he gathered her close for a hug. “Isn’t she, Mae?”
    “She has her moments.” She wasn’t about to let them know how much good it did her to see them smiling at each other. “Now the two of you stop pawing each other in my kitchen and get back to work.”
    Charity lifted her face for one last kiss. “I guess I’d better fix that martini now. He looked like he could use one.”
    Because she wasn’t one to hold a grudge, Charity treated Conby to attentive and cheerful service throughout the meal. Noting that he hadn’t unbent by dessert, she brought him a serving of Mae’s Black Forest cake on the house.
    “I hope you enjoyed your meal, Mr. Conby.”
    It was impossible for him to admit that he’d never had better, not even in Washington’s toniest restaurants. “It was quite good,