Show Me the Way

by Ashley Farley

  I brush past her on my way out of the office. With tears blurring my vision, I leave the main building for my cottage. I belly dive onto my couch and have a good long, much-needed cry.

  I’ve really blown it this time. I can add Inez to the growing list of employees who no longer respect me thanks to Naomi. Her threat comes back to me. You’ll never see your beloved baby sister again. She has me right where she wants me—in the palm of her hand. Naomi will eventually slip. And when she does, I’ll be there to watch her fall.

  14

  Presley

  Presley dives headfirst into her new job. Collaborating with others passionate about their work inspires her. They’re not merely her teammates. They’re quickly becoming her new friends. The team meets nearly every day, occasionally in Stella’s office but more often in the kitchen. Everett is a genius at mixing herbs, fresh juices, and blends of alcohol into tasty cocktails, and Lucy knows exactly which wines to pair with Cecily’s sumptuous farm-to-table cuisine. But the mood is not festive. Their intense focus on details is riddled with anxiety because of all that rides on the successful outcome of this party—the future of the inn as well as their jobs. And some of them handle the stress better than others.

  Presley catches glimpses of Cecily’s bubbly personality, but mostly, the head chef is wired as tight as a guitar string. Cecily confides in her what Presley already knows. “Jameson’s is make or break for my career.”

  Stella is a great faker, except for when it comes to Naomi, who fails to show up for their meetings more often than not. While Naomi’s lack of interest in the homecoming party appears to irritate Stella, Presley is secretly relieved. Naomi sucks the air out of the room with her hostile attitude.

  Presley is grateful for Everett, who tries to lighten the mood with upbeat playlists and terrible jokes, and Lucy for always being optimistic and cheerful.

  Presley has the least interaction with the head groundskeeper. Katherine is friendly enough, but quiet with an aura of sadness about her. On Friday afternoon at the end of Presley’s first full week at work, after an exceptionally long meeting in Stella’s office, Katherine invites Presley to go for a walk. “I want you to see what I’ve been working on.”

  They take the winding narrow road that runs along the perimeter of the property down to the maintenance shed, which isn’t a shed at all but a sizeable steel building someone had the excellent sense to hide behind a row of Leyland cypress trees.

  Katherine shows Presley around the side of the building facing the lake. There’s a rectangular greenhouse filled with potted orchids, mums, and lilies in fall colors. Stretching down both sides of the greenhouse are raised flower beds planted with rose bushes and hydrangeas and a host of perennials Presley doesn’t know the names of.

  Katherine plucks a drooping pink rose from one of the bushes. “I got a late start last summer, but next spring I hope to plant early. Flower arranging is a hobby of mine. I did the flowers for a few weddings when I lived in Savannah. When I moved here, I decided to grow my own flowers.” Katherine tugs her phone from her back pocket and shows Presley photographs of her most recent arrangements. “I created these with my first crops.”

  “These are impressive, Katherine. And I know a bit about flowers. My mother entertained a lot, and I organized the arrangements for many of her functions. Would you consider doing the flowers for some of our events?”

  Katherine’s lips part in a rare smile. “Yes! That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Stella has already given me her blessing. I’m considering partnering with the owner of a small flower shop on the outskirts of town. Claire is talented. She purchases her stems from a wholesale florist. My goal is to become her primary supplier.” She sweeps her hand at the flower beds. “What you see here is just the beginning. I’ve signed the lease on a field close to here.”

  “That’s exciting, Katherine. I’m happy to support you in any way. The woman at Mountain Flowers on Main Street is working up a price for the homecoming party, but I wasn’t that impressed with her work. If you’d be willing to do the flowers, I’d rather give you the business.”

  “I would love that. Just tell me what you need. The inn has a spectacular collection of containers.”

  As they walk back to the main building together, they talk not only about the flowers for the party but also about decking the inn with trees, wreaths, and poinsettias for the upcoming holidays. When they part on the terrace, Presley feels like she’s made a new friend.

  Entering through the back door, she’s on her way to her office to talk to Karen about renting a hayride for the party, when Naomi pulls her aside.

  “I had a call from one of your brides yesterday afternoon. She claims you quoted her the wrong discount rate on blocks of rooms.”

  Presley is thrown off guard at first, alarmed she could have made such an error when she’s well aware of the block room rate. But then, she realizes Naomi’s trying to cause trouble. She’s notorious for it. She fails to deliver important phone messages and neglects to forward inquiry emails received through the general inbox to the appropriate department. And she blows complaints from guests out of proportion, making a big deal out of nothing when a simple apology to the guest would suffice.

  “I don’t know how that’s possible, Naomi. Every bride receives the same packet of information with the 10 percent discount rate clearly stated.”

  Naomi raises her hands. “Don’t shoot me. I’m just the messenger, repeating what your bride told me. She says you offered her a 30 percent discount.”

  Presley’s jaw goes slack. “That’s absurd. Who’s the bride? I will reach out to her.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Naomi says. “I calmed her down. I told her you were new here and unfamiliar with our policies.”

  Presley glances around the reception area, making certain they’re alone, before leaning across the check-in counter. “Why would you tell a bride her event planner is new to the job? We want our guests to have confidence in us. Now, tell me the name of the bride.”

  “Jody Butler, if you must know. But you’ll only make matters worse if you call her.”

  “I know how to handle it, Naomi. And, in the future, I would appreciate it if you’d direct any calls relating to weddings directly to me.” Presley whirls around and storms off.

  She knows Naomi is lying. Out of all her brides, Jody Butler is the least worried about costs. But Presley calls her anyway.

  “I just wanted to make certain you received the wine list I emailed you yesterday,” Presley says when Jody answers the phone in her bubbly Southern girl voice.

  “I got it!” With a giggle, Jody says, “My daddy is a wine snob. He wants to be the one to choose which wines we serve. He hasn’t had a chance to look at the list, though.”

  “No rush,” Presley says. “If he has questions, he can contact our sommelier. I included Lucy’s contact information in the email. She’s quite knowledgeable. Your dad, being a wine enthusiast, might enjoy talking to her.”

  “Cool! I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  Jody pauses a fraction of a second. “Nope. FYI, I booked my block of rooms earlier today. Y’all are so nice to offer a 10 percent discount. A lot of hotels don’t do that.”

  Presley grips her phone. So, Naomi was lying. “We appreciate your business, and we are excited about your wedding next summer.” They talk for a few minutes about food and bands before hanging up.

  Presley contemplates her options. While she’s tempted to tell Stella about the situation, she decides to talk it over with Everett first. But, with the inn booked to capacity for the college’s alumni weekend, she doesn’t get a chance to do that until Sunday night.

  They are camped out on Big Blue with a leftover pizza from Jameson’s between them. Since her return from Nashville, Presley has spent what little free time she has in the evenings with Everett. They watch movies and eat tubs of popcorn. Sometimes they sit in the dar
k, with the lights from Main Street streaming through the windows, and talk for hours. She shares much about her life while he shares little about his. Presley was raised by an alcoholic. She knows when someone’s hiding something. And Everett is totally hiding something. But, despite having met only a little over two weeks ago, she feels as though she’s known him all her life. Whatever he’s keeping from her, she believes he’ll tell her when he’s ready.

  “I’m telling you, Ev. I wanted to strangle Naomi.”

  Everett rolls his eyes. “Everyone has issues with Naomi. Too bad we can’t get rid of her.”

  “Why would Stella keep someone like that around?”

  Everett takes a bite of pizza and stares up at the ceiling as he chews. How much do you know about the Jameson family?”

  “Not much. Except what you’ve told me about Billy and Stella.”

  He points his pizza at her. “You can’t tell anyone I told you this. Cecily is my primary source of information, although some of it I’ve heard directly from Stella.”

  “You have my word.” She holds up three fingers for Scout’s honor.

  Everett sets down his pizza and wipes his mouth. “So, Billy had an older brother, Ethan, who was killed in a plane crash in the early nineties. He was living in DC at the time. He’d chartered a private plane to fly home for his wedding.”

  Presley’s eyes get enormous. “His wedding? That’s so tragic.”

  “Everything about this family is tragic.” Everett stuffs the last bite of crust in his mouth and wipes his lips with a napkin. “Both Billy’s parents died within a few years of Ethan, allegedly from natural causes but many believe from broken hearts. Billy and Stella’s mother spent their summers together here, on the farm, when they were growing up. At some point they became romantically involved. At least long enough for Stella to be conceived. Stella’s mother is now living with another woman as an openly gay couple in New York. Her lesbian mothers led Stella to believe that her father was a sperm donor.”

  Presley blinks. “Are you kidding me? That’s insane.”

  “Billy wasn’t thrilled when Stella’s mother took off to New York with his unborn child. Sometime later, he struck up a relationship with Naomi, and the two of them produced another child, born out of wedlock. That child is Jazz.”

  Presley’s lips form an O. “I get it now. Stella is stuck with Naomi because she’s the mother of Stella’s half sister.”

  “Exactly.” Everett closes the lid on the pizza box and tosses it like a Frisbee across the room.

  Presley cuts her eyes at him. “What was that for? Are you angry about something?”

  “Never mind.” Leaving the sofa, he picks up the pizza box, sets it on the coffee table, and walks over to the window.

  Presley goes to stand beside him. “Seriously, Everett. I can tell something is bothering you.” She nudges him with her elbow. “You can trust me. Is it something at home? Are your parents okay?”

  He doesn’t speak for a long time, but when he does, his voice is calmer. “My dad just got out of the hospital. He had a stroke. Fortunately, there was no permanent damage. He’s doing better now, but I feel bad, not being there for my mom.”

  “I’m sure you do. Should you go home for a visit?”

  “I should, but I’m not. I can’t leave work right now. I wish I could send them some money to help with the bills. But, with business so slow, I can’t spare a dime.”

  Presley places a hand on his arm. “Hang in there, Ev. We’re working as hard as we can to change that.”

  They stand together in silence for a long time, staring out at a quiet Main Street. The businesses are shut down, and everyone has gone home to prepare for the start of another work week. Presley feels sorry for Everett. She knows all too well the worry associated with having a sick parent. She appreciates him opening up to her, but she senses there’s something more he’s not telling her.

  15

  Everett

  Everett goes to the library early on Monday morning to check his email. There are no new emails from Carla or Louie. He hopes this means they are finally giving up on tracking him down. He suddenly remembers his dream from last night of Carla and Louie chasing him. When Everett comes to a cliff, he jumps off, tumbles through the air, and lands in Clear Bottom Lake. When he sinks to the bottom of the lake, Naomi, wearing a mask and snorkel, comes after him wielding a long spear like a lobster diver.

  The news from home is grim. His mom, who is usually so upbeat, appears to be reaching the end of her rope. Physically, his dad is fine. Emotionally, he hasn’t fully recovered from his stroke. According to his mom, his dad is argumentative and verbally abusive. He’s reverted to the man of five years ago before the diabetes got the best of him. His mom doesn’t outright admit it, but Everett suspects he’s physically abusing her. Everett’s mom is too proud to ask for money, but he senses their financial situation is becoming desperate. He signs into his bank’s website and transfers every dime he can spare, which doesn’t amount to much.

  On the way to work, Everett considers looking into part-time positions at some of the businesses on Main Street, but with his erratic hours at the inn, he doubts he’ll find anything that will mesh with his job at the inn. Besides, the majority of the guests at the inn have money, and most of them are big tippers. Perhaps he should wait it out at Billy’s Bar a little longer. If business hasn’t improved by Thanksgiving, he’ll move on.

  Everett arrives as his coworkers are congregating in Stella’s office for a staff meeting. Sitting across from Naomi at the small conference table, he feels Naomi’s suspicious eyes on him, watching his every move. He can’t go on like this much longer. The stress is getting to him. He’s been distracted at work, breaking things easily, messing up drink orders, and misinterpreting things his coworkers say to him. He doesn’t mean to lash out at them, but controlling his temper is becoming increasingly difficult. He worries he’s turning into his father.

  Music has been the one constant in his life that has brought him any semblance of happiness. With Presley living next door, he can’t risk playing for his audience at Town Tavern. He was forced to ignore them last week when he heard them chanting, “Music Man. Music Man. Music Man.”

  After the meeting, he overhears Presley making plans with Lucy to drive to Richmond for a wine tasting this afternoon. Lucy and Presley have been hanging out a lot lately, which Everett admits makes him jealous. After work, with a bag of leftovers from the kitchen in hand, he rushes home to his apartment, grabs his guitar, and throws open the window. Usually, when he has an audience, he plays popular tunes, encouraging them to sing along. But tonight, with the sidewalk tables at Town Tavern empty, he sings his original songs.

  He works on a new composition for a while before slipping into some of his favorite old ones. For the first time in weeks, he’s able to relax. He strums the first chords of “Show Me the Way.” The lyrics, country music heartbreak at its finest, are told from the perspective of a young man struggling with alcoholism who turns to his mama for help when he reaches rock bottom. The song takes Everett back to the night his life crashed and burned.

  It’s late August, Saturday a week before Labor Day weekend, a typical sultry summer night in Georgia. Inside the Blue By You, the air is stifling, despite the commercial air-conditioning units blowing at full steam. But the crowd, their sweaty bodies pressed together on the dance floor, doesn’t seem to mind the heat. They’re as rowdy as Everett has ever seen them. Do they sense there’s a VIP in the house?

  The guys in the band are Everett’s homies. Louie on drums. Danny on keyboard. Malcolm on bass, and Duane on electric guitar. And they rock the house that night. Everything that can go right does just that. Everett saves “Show Me the Way” for last, and his fans go crazy. He’d produced the solo earlier in the summer, and it had gone viral with the Atlanta crowd, bringing him a minute of fame and attracting the attention of said VIP.

  Wade Newman pulls him aside after the show, heaping praises on his p
erformance. “You’re the next Johnny Cash.” He motions Everett to the door. “I’ve gotta be somewhere. Come outside with me while I wait for my Uber.”

  When Everett opens the door, a wave of humid air steals his breath. “I hope this heat wave ends soon.”

  On his heels, Wade says, “Tell me about it. I’m headed to the beach in South Carolina tomorrow. My wife’s the only fool who wants to be on the beach in this kinda heat.” Wade leans against the building, lights a cigarette, and offers Everett the pack. “Want one?”

  “No thanks.” Everett doesn’t want a cigarette. He wants Wade to give his pitch before his Uber arrives.

  “So . . . here’s the thing, Rhett. You’ve got real talent, as a singer, a songwriter, and a guitar player. Unfortunately, the rest of your group is only mediocre.”

  “But we’ve been together since high school.”

  “All the more reason to make the break now. You’ve gone as far as you can with them. If you want to grow as a musician, you need to spread your wings.” Wade grinds his cigarette butt into the pavement with his loafer. “Listen, man. You have a distinct tone to your voice. Like I said, Johnny Cash. People will hear you on the radio and know it’s you. That immediate recognition will make you a star. If you’re willing to work hard, and I believe you are, you can go all the way to the top.”

  At what price, Everett wonders. He can’t leave his homies behind. Or can he? Hasn’t he always known this might happen? The other guys are good, but they aren’t great. And they’re definitely not driven. While Louie is technically the manager, Everett is the one hustling for gigs.

  Everett is at a loss for words. He can’t tell a guy like Wade Newman that he needs to think about it. Fortunately, Wade beats him to it. “Take a few days to think it over. You know how to reach me if you have questions.” He chuckles. “I’ll welcome the phone call. I’m facing a boring week of sitting inside the air-conditioned beach house while my wife bakes in the sun.”