Karen, the concierge, is on the phone at one of two desks cramming the small office. She flaps her hand at Presley. Karen’s warm welcome sets Presley at ease after Naomi’s chilly reception.
In a low voice, so as not to disturb Karen, Stella says, “I’m hoping to relocate security to a different building, which will open up the office next door for you.”
Presley’s fingers graze Stella’s arm. “This is fine. Really. I’ll work remotely from home whenever necessary.”
“Please let me know if it gets to be a problem.” Stella turns back toward the door. “Are you ready for the tour?”
“Let’s do it.” She removes her iPad from her bag and drops the bag on the chair at the empty desk.
Starting at the solarium, they work their way through the first floor of the inn before moving on to the outbuildings. Presley falls in love with the barn at first sight. “No matter what season, this will make for a fabulous wedding reception venue.”
“I think so too,” Stella says.
“For the party, why don’t we book a bluegrass band and have an oyster roast out here?”
Stella’s face lights up. “Brilliant suggestion. Cecily has an excellent source for oysters. Coincidentally, I’ve purchased three tents in varying sizes, and I’m having a Sperry Tent custom designed to cover the terrace at the main building.”
“Wow! Our brides will love it.” A sailcloth tent of that quality must cost a fortune.
They continue down toward the lake, stopping in at the carriage house. The building houses two two-bedroom suites on the second floor with a kitchen and lounge area on the first.
Stella explains, “In 1923, when my great-grandfather built the inn, even though the use of automobiles had become more widespread by then, they still needed a place to store their guests’ horse-drawn carriages.”
“I love the way you kept the integrity of the building when you renovated,” Presley says. “How do you plan to use the carriage house?”
“To accommodate brides’ families during wedding weekends and corporate executives who need a quiet place away from their employees during conferences.”
“Are we using the carriage house for the party?”
Stella shakes her head. “I don’t think we need it. But I envisioned us having an inflatable or two for kids on the lawn out front.”
“Fun! We can come up with some other activities to keep the kids occupied while their parents enjoy themselves.”
Stella gestures at the construction site. “You’ve seen the spa, which is now officially the Summer House Wellness Center thanks to you.” They walk back up the hill to the main building. “I have a surprise that I hope will take some responsibility off of your shoulders.”
Presley palms her chest. “Ooh. I love surprises. What is it?”
“As of Monday, our wine shop and cellar are officially open for business.” Stella motions Presley through the door. “Come on. I’m dying to show it to you.”
On the way down in the elevator, Presley asks, “Who is running the wine shop?”
“Our sommelier, Lucy Jordan. Lucy has worked at the inn on and off for much of her life. In her younger days, she was a server in the dining room. After college, she attended sommelier school and trained at French Laundry, a Michelin three-star restaurant in Napa.”
Presley nods. “I know it well. The food is amazing. My mother and I visited the wine country several times. She always insisted we eat at French Laundry.”
“I’ve heard it’s over the top. I feel blessed to have Lucy on our team.”
The doors part at the basement level, and the women enter another world. In one direction, a tunnel of a room, cool and damp with an arched stone ceiling, stretches as far as the eye can see. Lining the walls are oak shelves housing hundreds, if not thousands, of bottles of wine. A long wooden tasting table with matching backless stools occupies the center of the room. In the other direction, partitioned off by glass, is the wine shop with a checkout counter in the center surrounded by shelves of upright wine bottles.
An attractive woman in her fifties with shoulder-length mahogany hair comes from behind the counter, extending her hand to Presley. “I’m Lucy Jordan. Welcome to the team!”
There it is again. The team. Presley loves the way everyone refers to the staff as one working unit. “Thank you. Your cellar is impressive.”
“Lucy designed it herself,” Stella says proudly.
“With a lot of help from Stella.” Behind black frame glasses, laugh lines crinkle at the corners of Lucy’s brown eyes. Presley’s people reader kicks into action. There’s something special about this woman. Yet she’s sending off a mysterious vibe as well. Is she struggling with inner demons? If so, she’s doing a stellar job of not letting it show.
Stella glances at her watch. “Oops. I’m due at another meeting. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Presley, full steam ahead with the plans for homecoming. I’ll email the list of brides to you by the end of the day. And check with Cecily as soon as you can. We have a few small parties booked for parents’ weekend on Friday and Saturday nights.”
“I’m on it.” Presley gives Stella a thumbs-up, and waits for her to leave before asking Lucy, “When are you hosting your first tasting?”
“On Friday night, for college parents on a first-come, first-served basis.”
Presley asks, “Would you like for me to arrange a charcuterie board with cheeses and meats that pair well with your wines?”
“I’ve already spoken to Cecily about it,” Lucy says. “You’re knowledgeable about wine. I guess that’s a given in your industry.”
“My mother was a connoisseur. We went to a lot of tastings together.” Presley learned what not to do from her mother. One tastes wine to savor the aromas and flavors. One doesn’t drink wine to get drunk.
“Was? Is your mother . . .”
“Dead? Yes, she passed away two months ago.” Presley changes the subject. She’s not in the mood to talk about her mother’s death. “Stella mentioned you worked at French Laundry. How did you end up back in Hope Springs? I hope I’m not being too personal.”
“Not at all. Mine is the age-old story. I married my high school sweetheart. Grant, my now ex-husband, loves Hope Springs. He refused to live anywhere else. To be with him, I had to move back to Virginia. Around that same time, the sommelier here, at the inn, passed away, and I took his job. After my son was born five years later, I was a stay-at-home mom. Billy Jameson was managing the inn back then. His health had begun to decline, and he was letting things slip. He chose not to hire anyone to replace me.”
“So, you and the inn are starting over together.”
Lucy nods. “In terms of networking. But I never stopped studying wine. I’ve traveled a lot and received several important certifications. I feel as though I’ve been given a golden opportunity.”
Presley smiles at her. “We have that in common.” She removes a bottle of bordeaux from a shelf. She recognizes the label from her mother’s cellar, a vintage worth over a thousand dollars. “Where did all these wines come from?”
“Believe it or not, a lot of them were already here. They were well-preserved, and we have some exquisite vintages in stock like the one you’re holding.”
“Does the wine shop have a name?”
“Hope Springs Cellars,” Lucy says. “Our program isn’t just about our restaurant’s wine list, although Jameson’s plays an important role in our overall success. I want our guests to enjoy a delicious bottle of wine at dinner and purchase a case to take home with them. The opportunities for tastings and wine education with our in-house guests will be limitless, and on slow nights, I’d like to host wine dinners for the locals.”
The women talk for nearly an hour, discussing ways to grow the cellar’s reputation. Presley finds Lucy’s passion for wine infectious, and has faith that she will put Hope Springs Cellars on the map as one of the best in the state if not the country. As she talks, her face comes alive and her eyes twink
le. She is vibrant and intelligent, yet she also has a gentle way about her. Their guests will enjoy working with her to plan the wines for their events.
13
Stella
In a leap of faith, Jack insists on putting both our names on the manor house title. His gesture, meant with the best intentions, makes me nervous when we haven’t even set a date for our wedding. I’d feel better if he’d let me invest in the property, but when I offer my meager savings, he refuses to take it. I’m overjoyed at the prospect of one day living in my ancestral home. After he receives the official documents on Wednesday morning, Jack and I spend that afternoon picking out paint colors and going over the kitchen designs one last time before committing to the contractor.
When Jack returns to work, I stay behind to explore the yard. I’m delighted to discover my father’s name etched in the trunk of an old maple tree at the back of the property. I sit on the ground at the base of that tree, imagining the time he spent here as a child. While I never knew Billy, never got to call him Daddy, oddly enough, I feel my connection to him getting stronger every day. Now that I’ll be spending more time in the house where he grew up, he’ll never be far from my mind.
The familiar fear of an uncertain future comes rushing back. What if the inn doesn’t make it? What will happen to my career? There are no other hotels of that caliber in Hope Springs. Returning to New York is out of the question. I could never leave Brian and Opal, Jack and Jazz. Maybe I could get a job in Charlottesville. I could suffer through the hour commute twice a day for a while, but it wouldn’t be practical once we start our family. I’ve grown professionally these past few months. Managing the inn fulfills me in a way I never thought possible. Would I be happy as a stay-at-home mom? I have my doubts.
In order for my dreams to come true, I have to make certain the inn succeeds.
Getting to my feet, I walk through the house one more time before dragging myself back across the street. The inn has become a hostile environment with Naomi lurking around every corner. The look of dismay on Everett’s face during our conversation on Sunday afternoon still haunts me. I’m losing his respect by allowing Naomi to walk all over me. Yet, I can’t get rid of her unless I have absolute proof of wrongdoing. Even then, I risk losing Jazz. And that’s a risk I’m not willing to take. If only I could figure out why Naomi has been keeping late hours at the inn. I would classify her work ethic as average. She’s certainly not trying to impress me. I made a point of stopping by the reservations desk after dinner last night and the night before. Inez, our night agent, reported that Naomi had long since gone home. It’s possible Everett’s mistaken. But something tells me he’s not.
I work in my office later than my usual six o’clock until I can no longer ignore my rumbling stomach. When I pass through reception, Inez’s face is glued to the computer and her ear to the phone. The office behind her is empty. Naomi is nowhere in sight. I continue through the lounge to Jameson’s. A foursome of elderly women are the only occupants of the restaurant.
As I enter the kitchen, I paste on a cheerful face for Cecily who is putting the finishing touches on four plates of food at the prep counter.
I wait until a server swoops the tray of entrees away before asking Cecily, “What’s for dinner?”
“A salad with leftover grilled shrimp. Want one?” Cecily busies herself with cleaning up. Why can’t she look me in the eye? Has she, too, lost respect for me?
I pull a stool up to the counter. “Sure. If you don’t mind.”
Cecily has been down in the dumps these past few weeks. Like me, she’s concerned about the success of the inn. Jameson’s is her big chance to make a name for herself. I try to make conversation with her while she throws together the salad—fresh mixed greens, grilled shrimp, and her homemade ginger dressing—but she has little to say. The bubbly Cecily I first met in May when she was a barista at Caffeine on the Corner is in hiding.
“Try not to worry so much, Cecily. We’re in a transition period. Things will get better. Our homecoming party is the key to bringing in the townspeople,” I say, wishing I felt as confident as I sound.
“I hope you’re right,” Cecily mumbles, setting my salad on the counter in front of me.
“Is something else wrong? You know you can talk to me about anything.”
Cecily’s lips curl up in a smile. “I’m fine. You have enough on your plate without worrying about me.”
I tell her about the manor house while we eat, but I’m unsuccessful in drawing her out of her funk. It dawns on me that I’m being insensitive in talking about my fiancé and our new home when Cecily wants nothing more than to put down roots in Hope Springs with Lyle.
After cleaning my plate, I say goodnight to Cecily and leave the kitchen. At the reception desk, Inez is smiling at her cell phone, probably texting with her boyfriend. Behind her, the office door is closed.
Inez looks up at me, and her smile disappears. “Stella, what’re you doing here so late?”
“Finishing up some work.” I nod toward the closed door. “Who’s in the office?”
Her gaze shifts from me to the door and back to me. “Oh . . . um . . .”
“What’s going on, Inez?” I move behind the counter toward the office door.
“Don’t go in there,” Inez says, stepping in my path. “Jazz is asleep.”
“Jazz? What’s she doing here?”
Inez stares down at her feet. “I’m babysitting her.”
“Where’s Naomi?”
“Um . . .” She chews on her lip.
“Your loyalty to Naomi is admirable, Inez. But I’m the one paying your salary.”
“She’s with one of our guests.”
Through gritted teeth, I say, “What guest, Inez? Tell me everything you know.”
“Some businessman, in from out of town. This is his third or fourth time staying here. I don’t know where they go or what they do together.”
I know exactly where they are and what they’re doing together. “When do you expect Naomi back?”
“She said by midnight.”
My heart pounds in my ears, and I want to give Inez a proper lashing, but I hold my tongue. None of this is her fault. She’s covering for her boss and earning extra money babysitting. I step around her and enter the office, closing the door behind me. Jazz is sound asleep on the floor in the corner, curled in a ball with her head resting on one arm. I take her coat from the back of Naomi’s chair and drape it over her, tucking it in around her small body.
Sitting down at Naomi’s computer, I plant my face in my hands. This is so wrong. This woman does not deserve to be anyone’s mother. I have to get my sister away from her, but I have to be smart about it.
I click on the mouse, engaging Naomi’s computer. I sort through files for more than an hour before I comprehend the method to Naomi’s madness. She’s saved files in folders with names that have nothing to do with information held within. I find the document I’ve been hounding Naomi about labeled Cleaning Supplies and attached to a folder marked Housekeeping. I click on the Excel spreadsheet and the contact information for every conference booked at the inn for the past ten years appears. The file was created in December 1999 and last updated six months ago. Naomi has had this information at her fingertips all along.
I access my Gmail account and email the document to myself. I keep searching. Buried in a folder marked Linens are five files from advertising agencies bidding for our business. Last summer, when Naomi returned from rehab and I was looking for something to occupy her time while the inn was under renovations, I put her in charge of researching marketing agencies. She’s had plenty of experience with advertising in the past, and she assured me she could handle this monumental task. The fees on all five agencies are comparable, but creatively, any of four would have been a better choice than the one Naomi chose for us. She deliberately picked the worst firm. This one’s on me. I made the drastic mistake of giving her too much authority.
Outside the door, I he
ar loud talking, and Naomi bursts into the office. Jazz bolts upright and, disoriented, begins to cry. When Naomi yells at me for using her computer, Jazz cries harder.
I jump to my feet. “Admit it, Naomi! You’re deliberately trying to sabotage me. You want to see the inn fail.”
She glares pure hatred at me. “I want what’s rightfully mine. You stole this farm from me.”
I go around the desk to face her. “How do you figure? You and Billy were never married.”
“And you never even knew Billy, yet here you are running the inn.” Naomi jabs a finger in Jazz’s direction. “Jazz loved Billy and he loved her. This property belongs to her. And since she’s my daughter, it’s my responsibility to manage her investment.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. My dream is for Jazz and me to run this business together, one day, when she’s old enough and you’re no longer in the picture.”
Naomi’s face turns a deep shade of purple. “You won’t last that long, Stella. Not if I have my way about it.”
I step closer to Naomi. She smells rank, like day-old underwear, but she doesn’t reek of booze. “You’re fired, Naomi. Pack your things and get out of my inn.” So much for being smart about how I handle her.
“If you fire me, I’ll take my daughter and leave this town. You’ll never see your beloved baby sister again.”
Jazz darts across the room to Inez. Seeing my sister turn to someone else for comfort sobers me. I’m her safe haven, but I’ve scared her. I’m no better than her mother.
“Come on, sweetheart. It’s time to go home.” Naomi yanks Jazz free of Inez and lifts her into her arms. She grabs the child’s pink backpack and coat and turns back to me. “We’ll talk more about this in the morning. Once you’ve had a chance to calm down.” She swaggers out of the office as though she’s won the battle.
Naomi may have won the battle, but I intend to win the war.
I wag my finger at Inez. “Not one word of this to anyone. Understood?”
With quivering chin, she nods her head. “Yes, ma’am.”
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