"Prince Edward Island Romance Where Dreams Come True"
Reviewed by Patricia (Pat) Pascale
Posted May 12, 2016
Romance Contemporary | Inspirational Romance
Running away from home after her father betrayed her, Marie
Carrington is desperate and almost broke. Sitting on the
bench in the harbor, Marie counts her money one more time.
All the money she has is not enough to pay for the ferry
ride over to Prince Edward Island and a new beginning. "Now
what do I do? Where can I go?" Watching her, an older
gentleman sitting next to her, gives her a curious glance
and instantly knows she can use some help. He holds out
four paint swatches to her and asks, "Which color do you
like best?" Introducing himself, Jack Sloan tells her he is
renovating a Bed and Breakfast Inn and could use "a ladies
touch." After talking together, Jack buys her a ticket and offers
her room, board, and a salary to come work with him on the
Inn for a few months. Marie is searching for a new
beginning, a place to belong, after an experience that left
her with horrific memories. Accepting his offer, she
arrives at a lovely old house close to the sea. She meets
Seth Sloan, the handyman nephew who is helping his uncle
get ready for the Inn's opening. Seth had a bad
experience too. His fiance stole his money, broke his heart
and left him. Thinking Marie may have untrustworthy
motives, and he feels the need to protect his uncle, so Seth is
"sour" in his treatment to her. Their barbs and insults
produce a rocky beginning but in time, a friendship begins. THE RED DOOR INN is a heartwarming story of second chances,
restoration and hope, with an inspirational thread that
appeals to me as it weaves throughout this feel-good book.
The lovely locale on fabled Prince Edward Island as
described by L.M. Montgomery in my favorite novel of all
time, ANNE OF THREE GABLES, is outstanding. Quaint Bed
and Breakfast inns, filled with nostalgic antiques and
themed rooms have a keen interest for me and I loved
watching the beautification that produced THE RED DOOR INN.
One of my favorite parts in this tale is the notes written
to each other by Marie and Seth on the antique Underwood
typewriter. It is so sweet and very precious! Liz Johnson is a sterling storyteller and introduces a
colorful and appealing cast of characters. Each has a story
of their own. Jack finds a special surprise with Aretha
Franklin (No relation to the singer.) Caden, had me
swooning with her descriptions of her homemade goodies,
especially her peanut butter brownies. WOW! But my
favorite is Seth, with his humor and charm that fought his
way into Marie's heart showing her she is safe, secure and
protected with him always and forever. THE RED DOOR INN is a
not-to-be-put down
book I adored and look forward to the next one, coming
soon, I hope. A trip to Prince Edward Island is going to
the top of my Bucket List too, thanks to Ms. Johnson.
SUMMARY
Marie Carrington is broke, desperate, and hoping to find
sanctuary on Prince Edward Island while decorating a
renovated bed-and-breakfast. Seth Sloane moved three
thousand miles to help restore his uncle’s Victorian B
and B—and to forget about the fiancée who broke his
heart. He wasn’t expecting to have to babysit a woman
with a taste for expensive antiques and a bewildering
habit of jumping every time he brushes past her. The only thing Marie and Seth agree on is that getting
the Red Door Inn ready to open in just two months will
take everything they’ve got—and they have to find a way
to work together. In the process, they may find something
infinitely sweeter than they ever imagined on this island
of dreams.
ExcerptThe change in Marie Carrington’s pocket wouldn’t pay for
a ferry ride across the Northumberland Strait to Prince
Edward Island, let alone a bus ticket to anywhere else in
the world. As she cupped the Canadian dollar coins in her
shaking hand, they clinked together, drawing the curious
gaze of the man in the seat next to her.Marie shifted on the painful plastic chair, putting her
shoulder between all the money she had access to in the
world and the gaze shrouded by bushy, white eyebrows. Two. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Seven twenty-five. The sign on the café attached to the ferry terminal
announced a fish sandwich lunch special for $6.99, but
tax would be more than a quarter. Besides, that would
completely wipe her out. And then she’d be penniless in a
strange town. “Which color do you like better?” The man with the
eyebrows and more wrinkles than she’d ever seen on one
face leaned forward, holding out four paint swatches. Marie rotated farther away from him, shoving her coins
back in her pocket, but he didn’t seem to notice. “My wife liked the pale blue, but I think we need
something brighter for the shutters of a bed-and-
breakfast. Don’t you?” She couldn’t fight the urge to survey the swatches, even
if just out of the corner of her eye. With one finger she
twisted the necklace at her throat, imagining each color
on the front of a robust, two-story Maritime home. He dipped his chin as though waiting for her answer.
“Well? Don’t you think it’s too light?” Finally she whispered, “Unless the house is a deep blue.”
Keeping an eye on him, she scooted to the far edge of her
seat, the armrest digging into her side as she bent to
scoop her backpack into the safety of her lap.
“What?” His eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. Pulling
his glasses from his front shirt pocket and planting them
on his face, he held the color swatch in question to
within an inch of his nose, mumbling her words over and
over. “Deep blue. The house could be deep blue.” After several seconds of peace, she decided he’d
forgotten all about her until he flipped the same blue
color swatch over her shoulder and pointed to the darkest
hue on the row. “Is that dark enough?” “No.” “Then what would be?” Shoulder still in place, she pointed with her other hand
to the blue of his pants. “Maybe with a hint of gray
mixed in.” Holding the color card against a handful of jean fabric,
he nodded slowly. “That might work. But not too much
gray.” He scratched his chin, his whiskers rasping
beneath aged fingers. “What about the trim? Would you do
the same color as the shutters?” “It depends.” “On what?” “Lots of things. What do the neighboring houses look
like? Do you have other colors around the house?”
“Like what?” She relaxed her back a fraction of an inch so that she
didn’t have to strain her neck to watch his reactions.
“Maybe a flower garden or water feature. If you already
have several other colors, keep the trim and shutters the
same color or the house can look disjointed and
unappealing.” “Never thought of having a flower garden.” He poked his
tongue into his cheek, staring at the color cards as
though they’d failed him. “Suppose women might like
that.” “Men too.” He raised one of his bushy brows at her. “Really.” “Well, if I have to have flowers and a red door, I
suppose the shutters and trim should be one color.” “Why a red door?” Marie hadn’t asked a voluntary question
in two months, but this one just slipped out before she
could clamp her hand over her mouth. The old man didn’t seem to notice her surprise. Instead,
lost in the colors in his hands, he cleared his throat.
“We visited the island for the first time fifteen years
ago, and the red doors captured her imagination. She said
we had to have a red door. There was no argument. No
discussion, only—” “The nine thirty ferry will begin boarding shortly.” The
voice of the announcer echoed over the tinny intercom.
“All passengers please make your way to the boarding area
and have your ticket in hand.” The old man shuffled his cards and tucked them into his
pocket before slipping one arm into his oversized coat.
He reached for and missed the other arm twice before
Marie set her bag back on the floor, stood, and held the
jacket open for him. “Thank you.” She nodded and slipped back into her seat, fighting the
urge to hug her knees to her chest and let the tears
roll. She could sit here for hours, but it wouldn’t make
the money she needed appear. She’d never have enough for
the ferry traveling north. She couldn’t come up with the
sixteen dollars to keep moving. “Aren’t you going on the boat?” He wasn’t from New England or the Canadian Maritimes. Any
self-respecting man from that area would know it was a
ship or a ferry, not a boat. “No.” Her fingers brushed over her pocket and the outline
of her meager funds pressing through the black corduroy. His eyebrows pulled into a V that looked like a single
angry caterpillar. “Have some more ideas to ask you
about.” She looked anywhere but into his ice-blue eyes, her gaze
finally resting on the posted ferry schedule above the
ticket counter. “I’m not going to Prince Edward Island
today.” If she was honest with herself, she probably
wasn’t ever going to make it to PEI. More than likely
she’d have to call her father back in Boston and face
him, no matter how much she hated that. “Don’t you want to go to the island?” Her laugh was more stinging than humorous, even to her
own ears. Of course she wanted to go to the island. Of
course she wanted to keep putting more and more distance
between her and her past. She’d grown up reading books set on the island, dreaming
of finding a home there. She’d even managed to squeeze
one of her favorites by the island’s beloved author into
her backpack. Of course, the corners were bent and the
edges worn, but she’d never loved the book or the dream
of the island any more than she did sitting just a few
miles away. Of course she wanted to go to the island. But wanting wouldn’t get her more than a toe in the icy
water. “I don’t have a ticket.” “That all? I’ll get you a ticket.” She shook her head, swallowing the hint of hope that was
quickly coupled with certain disappointment. “Thank you,
no. I can’t accept.” But he was halfway to the counter already, spreading the
mouth of his cracked wallet and pulling a colorful bill
from within. He said something to the raven-haired ticket
agent, who tipped her head to shoot a curious glance
around his arm. Grabbing her bag, Marie jumped to her feet. If she were
lucky, a wave would crash into the building, sweeping her
away. Away from prying eyes and inquiring stares. Away
from old men who asked too many questions. Away from that
ever-present emptiness. But luck wasn’t on her side. A familiar tightness rose in her chest, and she gasped
for even the shallowest breath. Oh, not again! Not with an audience and no place to lie
down. She tried to fill her lungs as a band squeezed around
them. The ground shifted, her whole world tilting as she
stumbled toward the chair she had just vacated. Squeezing
her eyes shut against the black spots that danced in the
edges of her line of sight, she leaned forward, fighting
for a breath. Pain shot down the middle of her chest, but
no amount of rubbing soothed the throbbing. She was going to pass out in front of everyone. A hand grabbed her forearm, and she jerked away from the
searing touch. “You getting sick?” The old man’s now familiar voice made his hand on her
shoulder barely tolerable, but she couldn’t fight the
blaze in her chest enough to get the air needed to reply.
Finally, she wiggled her head, her hair swiping across
her shoulders. “You sure?” His hands guided her all the way into the
chair, his breath warm on her face as he sat beside her.
“You look a little green. And we’re not even on the water
yet.” Shaking her head again, she gasped, this time rewarded
with a loosening in her lungs. They weren’t full, but the
relief lessened the spinning in her head and the pain at
her sternum. She arched her back and again managed a
wheeze. “Now boarding the nine thirty ferry to Wood Islands. All
ticketed passengers should be in the boarding area.” They
both turned toward the girl in the fleece vest holding
the microphone. “Can you make it to the boat?” Marie blinked into the wrinkled face, pinning her gaze on
a particularly deep crevice between the corner of his eye
and his jawline. “Going to miss . . .” “Well then, let’s get on there before they leave us
behind.” He held out a ticket, the white slip contrasting
his tanned, weathered fingers. “Take this.” “Can’t.” The ticket didn’t budge. Had he not heard? Or
had the words not passed her lips? Finally he squatted before her with an unusual agility
for a man his age. “Why not?” She couldn’t possibly repay him. She had no money. At
least none that she could access without drawing undue
attention. But she wasn’t so low that she had to accept
charity. Another pang seared her heart. Well, maybe she was. He shot a glance toward the entrance to the ferry
boarding area. “If you don’t use this ticket, it’ll just
go to waste.” “I don’t even know your name.” The lines around his mouth grew deeper, his eyes catching
a shimmer from the ceiling lights. “Jack Sloane from . .
. well, I suppose I’m from North Rustico, PEI, now.” “Marie.” Twisting her hands into the hem of her sweater,
she continued, the words barely making it to her own
ears. “I can’t pay for it.” “Didn’t ask you to, Marie.” He winked at her, adding in a
conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll make you a trade. The
ticket for your help in picking out paint colors.” The attack had left her too weak to argue, but the trade
was certainly in her favor. “All right.” She dismissed
his outstretched hand, and they stood together, his knees
creaking like the old screen door at her father’s beach
house. When she slipped her fingers around the ticket, it
fluttered like a flag caught in an ocean breeze, and she
clutched it to her chest, finally catching a full breath. But could he really expect so little in return?
????? “What color would you call that?” Jack gestured to the
point where the open sea met the roiling gray clouds.
Marie squinted in the direction of his finger, hugging
that silly pink bag to her chest but finally breathing
normally. He’d been afraid she wouldn’t make it onto the
ferry, the way she’d been gasping for air, but she’d
refused his arm as they boarded. And the salty sea air
turned her pale cheeks pink like his wife’s favorite
flower. After several long seconds, she shrugged one shoulder. “I
don’t know.” “Sure is pretty.” She nodded slowly, thoughtfully, as she
leaned back against the railing, tucking her chin again
into her chest, nearly hidden behind the bag that was
just about half her size. The pack wasn’t so big, really.
She was just a wisp of a creature. “You think I could
paint the house that color?” Without turning toward the sky again, she whispered, “I
think it’d be perfect.” “Even with a red door.” “Especially with a red door.” She offered him a tiny lift
of the corner of her mouth, an obligatory smile. But she
didn’t mean it. He had a hunch she’d be a stunner if she
really smiled, which she hadn’t all morning. Not even
when he pointed out the Caribou Lighthouse as they headed
into open water. Rose had always smiled at the little
lighthouse, delighted by the red roof. “Maybe we should buy a lighthouse and become light
keepers,” his Rose would muse, leaning into his embrace.
“And give up on the bed-and-breakfast?” He only said it
to watch her forehead wrinkle in distaste. “I’d be happy
to take up light keeping, if you really want.” Rose had laughed and smacked his arm. “No so fast, Mr.
Sloane. You aren’t getting off the hook that easy.” Even after forty-one years, he’d loved it when she called
him Mr. Sloane. Without fail it was accompanied by a
twinkle in her eyes that reminded him of the day they’d
met. The day he’d fallen in love with her. But there wasn’t a twinkle in Marie’s eyes. They eclipsed
her face, blue and haunted, as she gazed at the deck.
Free of humor and good spirits, they made his heart ache. What between here and heaven had caused such a pretty
little thing to be so sad? “So what brings you to the island?” She turned those anxious eyes on him and without a hint
of irony said, “You.” She may not have meant it to be funny, but he couldn’t
keep the laughter inside, letting the mirth roll from
deep in his belly. Marie’s eyes remained fixed on him,
but she didn’t say anything more. “You’re quick, aren’t
you?” One bony shoulder poked up, and she wrapped a
finger around the gold chain at her neck, twirling it. “I
meant, why are you headed to PEI?” She turned away from him, putting her shrugging shoulder
between them before whispering, “In the books I read as a
child, it sounded like a magical place.” Her head turned
farther away from Jack, as though she were looking back
at the gray horizon, but she’d closed her eyes, taking
deep breaths through her nose and releasing them slowly
through tight lips. “Where are you staying?” His gut flipped when she didn’t answer him, and he knew.
She didn’t have sixteen dollars to buy a ferry ticket.
She didn’t have two pennies to rub together. She didn’t
have a soul to ask for help or anyplace to go. As if sitting on his other side, Rose whispered in his
ear, “It’s a fine how-do-you-do when you can’t help
someone in need, Jack. Give the poor girl a place to
stay.” Of course, Rose didn’t bother with any particulars. She
never had. Always a big-picture thinker, she wasn’t
concerned with the details. But Marie wasn’t going to
accept anything else for free. She’d fought him on the
ferry ticket. What would she say about a room at his inn? “They sure don’t make these benches for seventy-two-year-
old backsides.” He shifted, relieving pressure from a
sore spot and, in the meantime, leaning closer to her. Marie nodded, but her shoulder dipped enough that he
could see her whole face. Apparently, if he wanted more of a response from her, he
was going to have to ask direct questions. “How’d you get
to know so much about colors and paint and stuff?”
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