Page 3 of Captiva Café

With each step, her sandals slapped the pavement with purpose. By the time she reached the construction tape, the crew had already turned down the radio and shifted just slightly, as if nature itself sensed a disturbance in the force.

“Well,” Linda huffed, hands on hips. “I suppose this is what we’re calling progress?”

Isabelle didn’t flinch. “Good morning, Linda.”

Gretchen smiled sweetly. “You look very summery.”

Linda waved her hand as if swatting a gnat. “Do either of you have any idea how disruptive this racket has become? I can hear it from my office. Myoffice, which, as you know, is two blocks away and meant to be a space of peace, reflection, and respectable journalism.”

“You run the gossip column and write about fish fry fundraisers,” Gretchen muttered under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” Isabelle interjected smoothly. “We’re working as quickly and as courteously as possible. We’ve kept construction within the allowable hours and followed every ordinance. I assure you, this is temporary.”

Linda’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Temporary becomes permanent if you let it. This island has a tone, Isabelle. It has a rhythm. And that rhythm doesnotinclude jackhammers during breakfast.”

From the corner of the site, one of the contractors accidentally dropped a board, sending a hollow clatter echoing down the street.

Linda jumped.

Gretchen smiled brightly. “Rhythm’s got a backbeat today.”

Linda scowled. “I’ll be writing an editorial. The people of Captiva have a right to know when their quality of life is being threatened by so-called renovations.”

Isabelle tilted her head slightly, her voice smooth and unmistakably French. “Then by all means, write. Just make certain you spell my name correctly. And if you are so inclined, mention that we are restoring the soul of this building—not simply renovating. That tends to appeal to the sentimental.”

Linda sniffed. “We’ll see.”

She turned on her heel and stormed off, sandals slapping indignantly with each step.

When she was out of earshot, Gretchen turned to Isabelle. “Did we just get threatenedandendorsed at the same time?”

Isabelle took a long sip of her coffee and raised one brow. “It is Captiva, non? This is what passes for diplomacy.”

CHAPTER 2

Millie Brenner pressed the receiver to her chest and turned a slow circle in the office, wide-eyed and out of breath. The phone on the desk buzzed again—line two this time.

“Iris?” she called toward the hallway. “Oliver? Anyone? I need backup!”

No answer. Just the sound of the front door swinging open, wind chimes clinking like nervous laughter. The inn was peaceful, as always. Except the phones were ringing like it was high season during a seafood festival.

She scribbled a name and a callback number on her notepad, dropped the pen, then scooped it back up with the reflexes of a woman who had juggled children, catering trays, and cash drawers in the same afternoon more times than she could count. The moment the line cleared, it rang again.

“I—oh for heaven’s sake—” Millie shoved her glasses higher on her nose and bolted for the kitchen. “Maggie!”

Inside, Maggie stood at the prep counter with Iris and Oliver, discussing a new recipe for lemon thyme scones. Lexie the dog sat by the open oven like a volunteer pastry guard.

“I don’t mean to panic anyone,” Millie said, bursting through the swinging door like Paul Revere in a floral blouse, “but we have a situation.”

Oliver turned from the stovetop. “Did someone cancel the strawberry delivery again?”

“No,” Millie said breathlessly. “We’re being mobbed.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Mobbed?”

“Reservation requests. Twenty-six calls this morning. All from people saying they heard about us from—get this—YouTube.”

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