Read The Inn at Angel Island for Free Online Page A

The sign above read, “Medical Aid—Walk-in Clinic. Emergency Services. Visiting Nurse.”
    She wondered if they had a fax machine. Her problem was definitely an emergency, though not of a medical nature. There was an automotive garage on the corner of the block with one lonely old-fashioned-looking gas pump in the small lot. That place had always been there, though if a vehicle needed serious repairs, it usually had to be towed to the mainland, Liza recalled. She doubted they had a fax.
    On the opposite side of the street, she noticed another storefront office. This one had even more official-looking lettering on the window that read, “State of Massachusetts Environmental Protection Agency . ” And another sign below that read, “Angel Island—Village Office.” Between the two bureaucratic offices, there must be a fax machine, she reasoned. But as she drew closer, she could tell both were closed.
    She checked the hours listed near the door and saw that the state office was open only once a week, and the village office had limited morning hours three times a week. Though there was a number to call and a night court held once a month.
    What in the world did people visit night court for out here?
    Speeding tickets? Inappropriate trash dumping?
    She passed another little shop that had colorful signs for homemade ice cream. Now that place was definitely new. If only it had existed when she was a kid. A hand-written sign on a sheet of notepaper was stuck to the inside of the glass door. “See you in the spring!” Liza wondered how the shop survived here, even in the summertime.
    Finally, she ended up at Daisy Winkler’s place, her last hope. The small cottage stood diagonally opposite to the General Store on the town square. Surrounded by a sagging picket fence, the building was two stories high but in dollhouse proportions. Painted pale yellow with a violet door and gingerbread trim on the roof, eaves, and porch, it looked like something out of a fairy tale, and she doubted that anything even remotely technological was going on within. But Marion had said there might be a fax machine here, and Liza had to ask.
    Liza walked up to the cottage and opened the creaky wooden gate. She passed a painted sign that hung near the path. “Winkler Tearoom & Lending Library—Books Are Our Best Friends.”
    Liza remembered this cottage but didn’t recall its present incarnation. When she was younger, it had been an antique shop, one that she was rarely allowed to visit with her aunt, in fear that she and Peter might break something. But the name Winkler definitely sounded familiar.
    A brass bell with a pull chain hung near the door, and Liza rang it. The tinkling sound hardly seemed loud enough to alert anyone inside, but she soon heard steps approaching. A small face peered at her through the front window, then the curtain quickly snapped back, making Liza wonder if she passed inspection.
    The front door soon opened. A small, birdlike woman stood in the doorway, peering up at Liza through thick round glasses. Liza assumed it was none other than Daisy Winkler. Who else could it be?
    She had wild, curly hair, a rusty reddish gray color. A bunch of curls gathered on her forehead, and the rest swirled in a haphazard upswept style around her head. She wore a golden-colored crocheted sweater over a dark burgundy skirt that nearly reached her ankles. Liza’s gaze lingered on the skirt. Yes, it was velvet and possibly Victorian. A bit formal for a weekday morning, but this woman clearly had her own sense of style. She held a messy pad in one hand and a pencil in the other. There were also at least two more pencils stuck in her bird’s nest of a hairdo.
    The little woman smiled, looking pleased to see a visitor. “Can I help you? We’re not open yet for tea, but you’re welcome to browse in the library.”
    “I’m not here for the library . . . not this time,” Liza amended, not wishing to offend her. “Marion Doyle at the General