After returning Rose’s phone, Everett takes off running. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the inn. Covered in sweat, he charges through the front doors. He ignores Naomi when she calls after him as he hurries around the corner to Stella’s office. Her door is open and she’s talking on the phone.
When she sees Everett, she tells the person on the other end she’ll call them back and hangs up.
Everett expects Stella to be angry, but she smiles at him when she waves him into her office and her tone is sincere when she says, “Come in, Everett. Or should I call you Rhett?”
“Either is fine. Everett is my given name.” When his butt lands in the chair opposite her desk, his legs begin to bounce up and down. He can’t be here right now. He came here to explain about last night, but his thoughts are too jumbled to make any sense. He doesn’t care about this job. Stella will probably fire him, anyway. He has a career waiting for him in Nashville. He needs to be on the highway to Atlanta. The only thing that matters is getting to his mom.
He jumps to his feet. “I’m sorry, Stella. I just got off the phone with my mom. I have a family emergency. I need to get home as soon as possible.”
Stella’s brows become one. “Oh. I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”
“Honestly, no. But it will be. Despite what Naomi says, I didn’t take any money from the inn.”
“I want to believe you, Everett. I truly do. But I can’t ignore the fact that you lied on your employment application.”
He hangs his head. “I don’t blame you.”
Coming from behind her desk, Stella, with one hand cupping his elbow, walks him to the door. “Your family is the most important thing right now. Be careful on the drive.”
Stella is a remarkable person, honest with strong morals. She’s worked hard, she’s persistent, and she should have success. When they reach the door, he leans down and gives her a hug. “I mean this as a friend, Stella. Beware of Naomi. I’m not sure what’s driving her agenda, but she doesn’t have the inn’s best interests at heart.”
Everett doesn’t wait for Stella’s response. He rushes back toward the reception desk. Relieved to find Naomi gone, he asks Valerie, the guest service agent, to ring Louie Daniels’ room. “Tell him he has a guest in the lobby who needs to speak with him.”
Valerie’s searching her computer for the room number when Louie and Carla emerge from the elevator. Louie’s battle scars are way worse than Everett’s. Both his eyes are black, and blood oozes from a gash above his right eyebrow.
Everett walks toward them. “Here’s your money.” He shoves the bank envelope at Louie. “It’s all there, if you wanna count it.”
“I believe you.” Louie takes the envelope from him and shoves it in his pocket.
“I didn’t steal your money, Louie. I forgot I had it in my truck. Then, after I left town, I had no way to get it back to you. Be honest, man. What is the money for? Was Waylon paying you on the side for our gig?”
His bloodshot eyes bulge. “Dude! No! I would never cheat you. You’re like a brother to me. Waylon bought an old dirt bike of mine.”
Everett’s cheeks burn. He’s reached a new level of low. “I’m sorry for doubting you.”
“And I’m sorry about the way I acted yesterday. We can work this out, Rhett. The band needs you.”
Everett lets out a sigh. “You will find out soon enough, so I might as well tell you now. I’ve been talking to Wade Newman. He wants me, Louie, not the rest of the band. It’s a tough break, I know. But that’s how it goes sometimes. Sorry, bro.” Everett turns and heads toward the door.
Carla calls after him, “Wait! Rhett! What about the baby? This is your kid.”
Everett returns to where they’re standing. “I’m not the father, Carla. I’m the sperm donor. You made the decision to get pregnant on your own. You can raise it on your own.”
This time, when he turns his back on them, he keeps on going.
23
Presley
Presley works from home on Monday morning. Still dressed in exercise clothes from her yoga workout, she answers emails and prepares notes for her wrap-up meeting with Stella at noon.
Around ten thirty, she’s still at her desk when she notices Everett . . . Rhett . . . whatever his real name is . . . hoofing it down Main Street toward their building. He’s wearing a red baseball cap, flannel shirt, and torn jeans. Why the sunglasses when it’s cloudy out? Is he trying to hide a black eye? He crosses Marshall Street with barely a glance in either direction, and seconds later, she hears the downstairs door slam followed by footfalls on the hardwood stairs. Leaving her desk, she goes to her entryway and presses her ear against the door. He makes three trips—down, up, and back down again—before finally leaving for good. She moves to the window, and seconds later, his truck appears on the street below. As he waits at the stop sign for a line of traffic to pass, she peers into the passenger side windows of his truck. In the front seat is his guitar, and loaded in the back are an air mattress, duffel bag, and hanging clothes. When the traffic clears, he makes a right-hand turn and disappears out of sight.
Presley is angry with him for so many reasons. He told so many lies, she questions whether anything he said to her is true. She expected him to come over last night after the party. Not that she would have let him in. But he didn’t even try to see her. He was home. She heard him playing his guitar. Does he not realize he owes her an explanation? Or does he not care? With his cover blown, he has little choice but to move back to Atlanta to be with his girlfriend while they await the arrival of their baby.
Presley thinks back to their conversation a few weeks ago when she spilled her guts to him about being adopted. He spoke of unwanted pregnancies and abortion. His unwanted pregnancy is the thing he’s been hiding, the problem he’s been trying to sort out. The situation seems relatively simple to Presley. The girl is pregnant. He’s the father. Based on the size of her baby bump, abortion is no longer an option. Their choices are adoption, raising the kid on the fly as single parents, or marriage. But hiding out in the mountains isn’t one of them. Only a coward would do that.
“You are way better off without him, Pres,” she says to her reflection in the mirror as she applies makeup for work. Her brain understands this. But her heart is struggling to accept it. She thought they had something special, a rare and pure love. “Boy, did you get this one wrong. Don’t ever trust your people reader again.”
After blow-drying her hair, she puts on a winter-white long-sleeved sheath with black suede tall boots and a gray cashmere cape. She’s not dressing to impress anyone. She’s dressing to make herself feel better. And it works. She feels good about herself as she walks to work. She’s grateful to have her career and her birth mother to focus on. She was up half the night thinking about Lucy and the boy from Chapel Hill who raped her. The thought of having a rapist’s blood running through her veins makes her skin crawl. She wipes the thought from her mind. Why go down that rabbit hole until she knows for certain she’s Lucy’s daughter?
Her mood improves tenfold when she sees the inn bustling with activity. In addition to the many people moseying about the lounge, small groups of men and women are having drinks in Billy’s Bar, and all the tables in Jameson’s are occupied.
Stella, who is waiting for her at a table by the window, stands and greets her with a hug. “Look at this crowd,” Presley says.
“I know! Isn’t it wonderful?” Stella gives Presley a squeeze before turning her loose. “Don’t you look lovely. Is there a new man in your life?”
“Nope, there’s a new me in my life.” Draping her cape over the back of her chair, Presley sits down opposite Stella. “I didn’t expect to see results so soon.”
“Me either,” Stella says, her face aglow. “I almost feel guilty taking up a table.”
Presley cranes her neck to look back at the hostess stand. “We’re good. There’s no one waiting in line.”
“After last night, we deserve to celebrate.” Stella ges
tures at the ice bucket bearing an uncorked bottle of sparkling rosé beside her. “Compliments of Lucy. She specifically requested that you have a taste.” Stella uses air quotes to emphasize taste. “The vineyard is local. Lucy feels with rosé being so popular, this one will be an excellent and affordable choice for brides on a budget.”
“In that case, I’ll have a sip.” Today of all days, Presley may make an exception and drink a whole glass. Maybe she’ll even have seconds.
Their waiter, Ron, arrives. “Ladies.” He gives a slight bow. “May I pour you some wine?”
“Please!” Stella and Presley say in unison.
With his hand cupped over his mouth as though sharing a secret, Ron says, “Everyone’s raving about Cecily’s salmon salad special.”
Presley doesn’t bother looking at the menu. She already knows it by heart. “Then that’s what I’ll have.”
“Make that two.” Stella hands Ron their menus, and when he leaves, she holds her glass out to Presley. “To the future of Hope Springs Inn.”
Presley clinks her glass. “To the future.” The wine is delicious, crisp and dry despite the bubbles that tickle her nose. She takes several more sips before removing her iPad from her work tote. “I made some notes about the party. The most urgent thing we should discuss is our marketing plan. I met a young couple last night, Mark and Marcia Porter, who own their own marketing firm here in Hope Springs.” She slides the Porters’ business card across the table to Stella. “According to Mark and Marcia, and I have to agree with them, our advertising materials are blah.” She taps a fingernail on the business card. “This couple is convinced they can quickly turn things around for us.”
“I’m one step ahead of you on finding a new marketing agency.” Stella picks up the business card and studies it. “I’ve been talking to several large nationwide firms, but their fees are so high, and none of them seems to understand my vision.”
Presley opens her iPad, accesses the internet, and flips it around so Stella can see. “I spent some time studying the Porters’ website this morning. I have to admit, I’m impressed. They represent some large national companies, although most of their business is local.”
While Stella explores the website, Presley guzzles the rest of her wine. What has gotten into her today? Is she celebrating the success of the party? Or is she drowning her sorrows about Everett?
“Interesting. They handle the marketing for Paradise Found.”
“I saw that,” Presley says. “Lucy and I ate lunch there last week. The food was horrible, but there wasn’t an empty table in the place. Women love the pink and green theme. Mark and Marcia have done an excellent job promoting them.”
Stella hands Presley the iPad and drops the business card into her purse. “I’ll schedule a meeting with them as soon as possible.”
Something across the restaurant catches Stella’s attention. Presley risks a glance and sees Naomi standing in the doorway. When Naomi locks eyes with Stella, raw hatred passes between them. Naomi hurries away, and Stella drains the rest of her sparkling wine and refills both their glasses.
“There’s something else you should know, Stella. Mark and Marcia have been trying to reach you. They’ve called and come by in person. And they’ve left messages with our guest services manager. Did Naomi ever give them to you?”
“She did not.” Stella doesn’t elaborate, but her face is set in stone.
“Do you believe what Naomi said last night, about Everett stealing from the inn?” Presley realizes she’s overstepping her boundaries, but the wine has suppressed her inhibitions and loosened her lips. And, if she’s honest with herself, she’s desperate for information about Everett.
“I’m not sure I believe her allegation,” Stella says. “But I can’t ignore it either. Not after everything else we heard last night about Everett . . . Rhett.” She chuckles. “What are we supposed to call him?”
Presley shrugs. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Since we know him as Everett, I guess we should call him that.”
Stella stares into her wine. “Sadly, we may never see him again to call him anything.”
Presley’s gray eyes are wide. “Did you fire him?”
“I didn’t have to fire him,” she says. “He had a family emergency. He took off for Atlanta this morning.”
Presley’s stomach clinches, and she fears she might throw up. “Is he coming back?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. He was in such a hurry to leave, I didn’t ask too many questions.”
Presley doesn’t say it, but she’s thinking, He lied about everything else. Maybe he lied about the family emergency as well.
Ron delivers their lunch, and they dig into their salads. The salmon is grilled to perfection and the mixed lettuces are crisp and tossed in a delicious lemon basil vinaigrette. Cecily is rapidly becoming famous for her savory cheese biscuits, her grandmother’s recipe that she refuses to share. Presley scarfs down two and refrains from asking Ron for more.
While they eat, their conversation shifts to the holidays. “People are booking online and calling for room reservations for Thanksgiving,” Stella says. “At this rate, we’ll sell out by the end of the day. I get the impression a lot of them are locals with family coming in from out of town.”
“That’s great news!” Presley says. “I think we’ve turned the corner.”
For the rest of lunch, Presley shares some of her many ideas for holiday events with Stella. Afterward, to work off their wine buzzes, they take a long stroll around the grounds. When they encounter Opal painting down by the lake, Presley makes a date with her to have coffee on the veranda the following morning at nine. At the construction site, while Stella has a word with the architect, Jack gives Presley a tour of the spa building. In addition to a high-end gift shop, a rental office for water sports and a lunch cafe occupy the main level. Spa facilities take up the third floor, and the second floor is all about fitness with an indoor lap pool, dance studios for classes, and a workout room with state-of-the-art equipment.
They rejoin Stella in front of the building where excavators dig for the outdoor pool. “The Summer House Wellness Center will be our crowning jewel,” Presley says to Stella excitedly. “My brain is spinning with ideas.”
Stella laughs. “Then take your brain back to your office, or your apartment, wherever you work best, and make lots of notes while these ideas are still fresh.”
“I’ll do that! See you in the morning.” Phone in hand, typing ideas into her Notes app as she walks, Presley heads back up the hill toward the inn. She’s approaching her apartment building when the first sprinkles of rain from an incoming storm system ping her face.
24
Presley
Presley’s head is splitting from the wine she consumed at lunch. She pops two Advil and changes into yoga pants, an Alabama sweatshirt that once belonged to an old boyfriend, and her fuzzy socks. Curled up with a blanket on Big Blue, she works on her laptop for hours, creating Pinterest boards and brainstorming ideas for events. The distraction keeps her from obsessing about Everett and Lucy, but when she finally closes her laptop at almost eight o’clock, reality hits hard. When the walls of her lonely apartment close in on her, she slips on her rain boots and coat, grabs her purse, and darts across the street to Town Tavern.
Inside the restaurant, she’s greeted with flashbacks of her dinners here with Everett. The point in coming here was to get her mind off him. But the tavern’s decor, neon lit signs on the walls and wooden booths, makes for a cozy spot to hang out on a rainy night. She spots a familiar face at the bar.
She taps Katherine on the shoulder. “Hey there.”
Katherine looks back at Presley with red-rimmed hazel eyes. “Oh. Hey. What’re you doing out on such a nasty night?”
“I live in the building across the street,” Presley says with thumb over shoulder. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“My husband and I had a fight.” She dabs at her eyes with a paper cocktail napkin.
“I’m sorry. Do you want some company, or would you rather be alone?”
Katherine smiles at Presley. “I could definitely use the company right now. Are you eating or drinking or both?”
“Eating.” Presley climbs onto the barstool beside Katherine. “I still have a hangover from the two glasses of sparkling rosé I drank at lunch with Stella. I’m a lightweight. I rarely drink much.” Presley eyes the clear beverage in Katherine’s glass. “What about you?”
She clinks her ice cubes. “Club soda.” She slides a menu across the bar to Presley. “Wanna share some appetizers?”
“As long as we can get the ones with the most carbs.”
When she laughs out loud, Katherine’s face is transformed into a striking figure who reminds Presley of Meredith Grey, America’s most beloved fictional doctor on Grey’s Anatomy.
The bartender, Pete, a young guy just out of college, arrives to take their orders. Accustomed to seeing Presley with Everett, Pete asks, “Where’s your insignificant other tonight?”
“He had to go out of town unexpectedly,” she says in a deadpan tone.
Pete takes the hint and doesn’t press for specifics. “What can I get you ladies?”
Presley orders for them. “We’re going to split a few appetizers. We’ll have the nachos, buffalo chicken wings, and a quesadilla. And a club soda for me.”
Katherine pushes her glass toward him. “I’d like a refill, please.” He takes her glass and walks away. “I’d rather be drowning my sorrows, Presley. But since I can’t drink, stuffing my face with comfort food will have to do.”
“Why can’t you drink?” Presley bites her tongue. “I’m sorry. I’m being nosy.”
“Not at all. I’d like to get it off my chest, if you can stand listening to my sad story.”
Presley grins. “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.”
“Deal.” Katherine shifts in her seat to face Presley, with a smile not reaching her hazel eyes. "My husband and I are trying to start a family, but so far, I’ve been unable to conceive. I want to schedule an appointment with a fertility specialist, but Dean, my husband, says we haven’t been trying long enough.”
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