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month—which designer water to serve at her parents’ new No Mutts About It pet spa that just opened next door to the inn. They offer filet mignon dinners, deep fur massages, and “paw-dicures” to overnight poochie guests. Mariel and Ilove pets, but we rolled our eyes at the “paw-dicures.”
Oh, please.
    Wait until I tell Mariel about the mermaid. I’ve no doubt she’ll believe.
    Mariel once told me the sweetest story about how when she was a little girl, her mother used to say that at the end of a beach day, when the tide sweeps all the pretty sand castles out to sea, not to be sad because the mermaids are waiting for them. The mermaids sing a song and turn the castles into cakes.
    Mermaid wedding cakes.
    I don’t believe in mermaids, but that’s such a pretty thought.
    Mariel also says that if you find a treasure on the beach when no one else is around, that it is a gift sent especially to you from the mermaids.
    When I found Salty Dog walking alone on the beach, Mariel insisted he was for me. A gift from the mermaids, she said. I had noticed a boat harbored just offshore that day and briefly wondered if the dog belonged to the owner of the boat. I know now that it was Will Havisham’s boat.
    I smile, remembering the spring morning I first saw Mariel. I was on the beach early. The fog was blanket thick. I spotted something swimming out past the jetty.It was such a chilly day I doubted it was a person, until, sure enough, Mariel popped her head out of the water and called to me.
    Later, when I described the encounter to Tina, about the strange girl with the dark eyes and long ringlety hair swimming in that cold, cold water, Tina said, “Maybe she’s a mermaid,” and we giggled.
    Inside the inn, my mother is at the registration desk checking in new guests, an attractive and well-dressed couple, locked arm in arm, in love.
    “I’ve put you in the Walden suite,” Mother says. “It’s one of our nicest. I think you’ll be pleased. Breakfast is on the sunporch from eight to ten. Fresh cookies and iced or hot tea from two to four. Complimentary appetizers at six, just a few minutes from now, and dinner is served from seven to nine. We’ll keep you well fed at the Bramblebriar.” She laughs. “I’ve taken the liberty of making you an eight o’clock reservation, assuming you might like some time to rest. I do hope you have a wonderful anniversary stay with us. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your time with us more enjoyable.”
    My mother should write a book about customer service. In addition to her talents as a wedding plannerand innkeeper, she has her MBA. This lady knows how to run a business. She graduated top of her class, and shortly after that met Billy Havisham in a swirl of cherry blossoms in a park in Washington, D.C., and got married.
Will Havisham — is he Billy’s son?
Mother looks up sharply, as if she’s read my mind.
    “There you are, Willa,” she says disapprovingly, glancing at the clock. “Hurry and change. You’re serving.”
    I zip up the stairs to my room. I wash my face and put on a jean skirt, pink top, and leather sandals. Running a brush through my hair, I pause to look at the blue-eyed man in the photo on my dresser. I slather on some lotion, a little mascara, blush, lip gloss, and then a squirt of perfume … done. Tina says she’s never met a girl who gets ready faster than me. She says I do a disservice to the female species. If word gets out, all the other Bramble boyfriends will complain. Tina takes a good two hours to primp and pamper, although that girl is so gorgeous she could fall out of bed in the morning and win any beauty pageant on the planet. Tina’s so pretty she glitters. I feel a pang of sadness. Are we really not best friends anymore?
    Down in the kitchen, Sam hands me a tray of mini crab cakes topped with dollops of fresh salsa and tartar sauce. “How was your day, Willa?” he asks with asmile, setting some lemon wedges