I inhaled the tangy air as I rocked, watching the fog twirl around the rocks and feeling the kiss of a breeze on my cheeks.

The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks was muted, but mesmerizing. I settled myself into a white-painted wooden rocker and took a sip of strong, sweet coffee. As hard as it was to drag myself out of a soft, warm bed while it was still dark outside, I loved mornings on Cranberry Island. Just enough time for a relaxed thirty minutes on the kitchen porch.Įquipped with a mug of steaming French-roast coffee, I grabbed my blue windbreaker from its hook next to the door and headed out into the gray Maine morning. My eyes focused on the clock above the sink: 6:30. The coffeepot had barely finished gurgling when I sprinkled the pan of dimpled batter with brown-sugar topping and eased it into the oven. The recipe was one of my favorites: not only did my guests rave over the butter-and-brown-sugar-drenched cake, but its simplicity was a drowsy cook's dream. I grabbed the sugar and flour canisters from the pantry and dug a bag of blueberries out of the freezer for Wicked Blueberry Coffee Cake.

Fog, it looked like–the swirling mist had swallowed even the Cranberry Rock lighthouse, just a quarter of a mile away. Ten minutes later I was in the kitchen, inhaling the aroma of dark-roasted coffee as I tapped it into the coffeemaker and gazing out the window at the gray-blue morning. As much as I enjoyed innkeeping, I would never get used to climbing out of bed while everyone else was still sleeping. The alarm rang at 6 AM, jolting me out from under my down comforter and into a pair of slippers.

Murder on the Rocks by Karen MacInerney