by Jen Peters
Her mother straightened up. Her voice was forcibly cheery when she spoke. “So what’s happening with the inn?”
Ree sighed. “Weird. I mean, the business side is going okay—we have more ads coming up, Robin is getting us on Trip Advisor and a number of other places, and Mrs. Markov is coming this afternoon to check it out for her daughter’s wedding. But I haven’t heard from Mitchell Blake all weekend, which is strange for him.”
“Do you care?”
“I should be pleased he’s letting me handle the inn on my own,” she said sourly. “But just thinking about it makes me angry. Part of me doesn’t trust him. And yet…”
“And yet you’ve still got some romantic feelings for him?”
“I don’t want to. But I’ve tried all week, and I can’t seem to turn off the feelings I have.” Despite her mental efforts, the memories kept coming back, flooding her with warm feelings and a longing to see him again.
Mom nodded and was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her words were firm. “Ralph Biali, the lawyer who took your father to the cleaners, was a conniving piece of scum. Some internet research would have raised flags, at least shown us who we were dealing with, but there were also signs that we should have seen. He dismissed our concerns too easily, and I got an unsettling vibe anytime we had dealings with him.”
“So?”
“So Mr. Blake doesn’t come across that way at all. Maybe he’s a better actor, but I don’t think so. His eyes are honest and there’s a generosity about him, a sense of caring, that I never felt with either the scummy Biali or his assistant.”
Ree was quiet. She picked at a hangnail as her heart lifted in hope. “So you think that he might not be a bad guy, despite what he does every day?”
“I don’t know, honey. Maybe just that there’s more to him than his job description.”
Was there any way under heaven that could be true? It would take a miracle, and she wasn’t sure she believed in miracles. And if not, she needed to keep her guard up.
Ree let out a sigh. “I’ll think about it. It’s not like I can find another hotel right away." She looked out over the greenhouse. “And you do your PT and everything the doctor says. But you can’t hide away in here. I can’t do everything at the shop and my job at the inn, too.”
Mom looked at her watch. “Speaking of the inn, what time does your wedding lady come?”
“Not until three, but I want to head over and make sure everything is perfect. So are you able to man the shop now?”
* * *
Ree cast her critical eye over the furnishings while she waited to greet Emily Markov. The wicker furniture was set just so on the porch, the rocking chairs were swaying in the breeze at the other end, and the inside was set as beautifully as it could be with some of the pieces still to come.
A sleek, white Mercedes pulled up, and an elegant blonde in cream-colored slacks stepped out.
Ree wished for Mitch’s reassuring presence, then reminded herself that she didn’t need him. She was just as good as Mrs. Markov, just as smooth, even if her own hair could never be made into a satiny french twist. She had training and skills and ideas, and she knew the mansion inside and out, whether Mitch was there or not. She stepped down the stairs and stretched out her hand. “Mrs. Markov? I’m Ree Swanson, manager of the McCormick Inn. I’m happy to have you here.”
Mrs. Markov shook her hand firmly and looked around, her penetrating glance seeming to take in every detail. “It’s lovely,” she said. “I understand it was half a ruin just a few months ago.”
Ree nodded. “Cosmetic details mostly—the structure was sound. And of course, we’ve renovated inside to create a delightful Bed and Breakfast. But you’re here about a wedding—your daughter, I think you said?"
Mrs. Markov glanced at her. “It’s not as hasty as it sounds. We had reserved The Gables, but you might have heard that there was a fire last week. It will be unusable for a number of months.”
Ree hadn’t known—another drawback of being isolated in a tiny town. On the other hand, it was her own fault if she didn’t tune in to the news, whether online or on TV. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t like to have to find a new venue on such short notice.”
Mrs. Markov grimaced. “There are a dozen girls now having beach weddings next month, but Stacia wasn’t interested. I’d heard that you were opening soon.”
“Not until the 24th, actually, but let me show you the grounds and the mansion, and then we can sit down with the details.” Although if her own wedding location had been cancelled, Ree would have headed to the beach without a second thought.
They walked around the side where the weeds and old garden had been cleaned up, replaced with rose bushes and new shrubs. The forsythia wouldn’t bloom until next spring and the burning bushes wouldn’t have their brilliant color until probably October, but the rest looked nice anyway. There was a seating area and a garden swing. “This area might work for some of the after-wedding mingling, and you might like some pictures here afterwards.”
Mrs. Markov took it all in but didn’t say anything.
And then they came to the backyard. An expanse of sod showed the stripes of its newness, but there was a large enough area for a wedding gathering. A maple tree shaded an area where a wedding arch could go and the backdrop of pine trees and firs would also be beautiful.
Newly planted roses were beginning to bloom and would be in full flower until fall. Purple clematis inched its way up the fence that hid the storage shed.
“The landscaping isn’t as full and rich as it will be next year,” Ree said, “but the florist in town can provide pots of anything you like, which will fill it out. If your daughter wants a wedding arch—”
“Arbor,” Mrs. Markov interrupted.
Ree didn’t hesitate. “Arbor, thank you. If she wants an arbor, it could go under the maple or off to the side with just the evergreens as a backdrop. Or they could stand on the porch, with the wedding guests facing this direction.”
Mrs. Markov stood first one way and then the other, scrutinizing everything she saw. Finally she said, “Down by the trees—we’ll decide exactly where later. That will let you set up the tables on the porch.”
Ree made a note on her tablet. “Would you like to see the interior now?”
Mrs. Markov followed her back to the porch where Ree held the door open for her. But the elegant woman didn’t seem impressed by the curving staircase or the chandelier or anything at all. She just looked, inspecting everything, then nodded and went to the next room where she repeated the process.
“May I see the guest rooms, please?” she finally said.
Ree led her upstairs where she gave the cozy rooms the same treatment. “We’re still awaiting a few pieces.”
Mrs. Markov nodded. “Do you have a bridal suite?"
Ree pursed her lips. “Not as such, but we have one special room that would work." She was surprised that the couple wouldn’t be heading for an exotic honeymoon location, but led the way down the hall, through the right hand jog, and opened the last door. Inside was a young lady’s dream room: a four poster bed with sheer hangings, a loveseat and extra wingback chair, a delicate writing desk, and a spacious bathroom with a clawfoot tub.
“Is this in your brochure?” Mrs. Markov asked.
“Not yet. The furniture just arrived last week, and there are still a few items needed to finish the other rooms. The photographer is coming on Friday.”
“Do you mind if I take pictures, then?”
“Not at all, whatever you like.”
Mrs. Markov pulled her smart phone from her bag and snapped shots from every angle of the room. Then she proceeded down the stairs, took pictures of the common rooms and welcome hall, and even more outside.
Finally they met back in the dining room. Ree shifted a few place settings of china and silver to the side. “Do you have a wedding planner you’re working with?” she asked.
Mrs. Markov smiled serenely. “Just me. Nobody cares as much as the bride’s own mo
ther, do they?”
They discussed menu options and the number of guests, the afternoon wedding time and when people would be arriving and leaving. Ree shared some ideas for lighting, committed to a solid floor for dancing, and promised an email with floral arrangement ideas. It didn’t seem businesslike to mention that the florist was her own mother.
By the time they were done and Mrs. Markov had slipped her elegant body back into her elegant car, Ree was exhausted. Many, many details to see to plus the dinners coming up, for which they had yet to find a chef. She really didn’t know if hosting a wedding before they were even open would be worth it--perhaps she should have said no from the start. But they were locked in now, and she was due at the flower shop.
She left a message for Mr. Mitchell Blake, but if he didn’t want to answer his phone, she wasn’t going to make an extra effort to track him down.
* * *
Time dragged through the week. Ree forced herself to catch up on her coursework despite the enticing sunny days outside. She placed supply orders and consulted with Harriet and rescheduled a furniture delivery for the inn. She arranged for wedding centerpieces from a florist in Springfield, and ordered lights and tulle and rolls of satin ribbon. The more things she crossed off her to-do list, the more she thought of to add. And she spent more time at the flower shop, while her mother spent more time in physical therapy.
It was more than the tasks, though. She had texted Mitch once, but had no response. And despite her loathing for his career, she missed him. She missed the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. His swirled scent of cologne and peppermint. The way he honestly listened to her ideas.
Her reverie was interrupted by a call from her mother—they had received a rash of calls asking for bouquets to be sent for Parents’ Day on the 27th. She hadn’t even realized there was such a thing, but the work certainly shoved her confused thoughts to the background.
And in the midst of the flowers, Mrs. Markov called.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said abruptly. “I’d like to have canopies on the lawn for the dinner instead of having the tables on the porch. I’d like two large canopies, with a third just for the head table. That will give them room for guests to greet them, as they always do.”
Ree scribbled notes while trying to picture it in her mind. “Of course. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, there’s nothing worse than high heels poking into the grass. Or through a canvas or carpet across the grass. So I’d like a hard floor laid down in the canopies. Can you arrange that?”
“I’m sure we can.” Ree repeated the details back to Mrs. Markov and hung up with a sigh. She hoped canopies were easily available, and that the rental agency would have ideas about finding a portable floor. She hoped Mrs. Markov wouldn’t make any more big changes.
She started to text Mitch, then decided that she should be handling this on her own anyway. No need to bother the boss, especially when he seemed to have disappeared.
Chapter 17
Mitch’s heart wrenched as he pulled slowly up to the inn. It had been an exhausting week-and-a-half, filled with his grandfather’s funeral and the ramifications for the firm. Mitch should still be in Portland dealing with the remaining details and reassuring clients and partners, but he’d had enough. He missed the old man and the small town called to his heart.
The McCormick Inn popped now, bright blue with intricate white trim, the gardens restored and blooming. And Granddad wouldn’t see it finished, see it filled with people and sound again the way it was in his youth.
Mitch wished they had talked more about past times, about what Granddad was like growing up. What it would have been like to lose the symbol of your family’s success in the depression. Was it only their home, or did they own businesses that went under, too? And what did Granddad’s father do here, and how did he end up founding a law firm in Portland?
The one time Mitch brought it up, all the old man had said was, “leave the past in the past, lad. The future is what you need to focus on.”
So Mitch looked at the turrets and pictured a boy in shorts playing with his soldiers up in a secret hiding place. He looked at the side garden and wondered if his grandfather had tried to dig to China. Did he climb the big oak tree, surely old enough to have been climbing size eighty years ago?
With a sigh, he moved the gear lever into Park and set the brake. Back to business. He needed to discuss advertising with Ree. Actually, he really didn’t—she was handling things well, and everything seemed under control. But it would be a good excuse to spend time with her, and he’d take any positive vibes he could right now.
He loved her spark, and she drew him like a moth to the flame, more than any other woman he had dated. But he couldn’t quite figure her out. She wasn’t at all like Melanie, who could take the toughest opponent and rake him over the coals. But Ree still held secrets—everyone did.
If she really wanted out of the town, she could have left. Surely there were other people who could help at the flower shop. She had to have some sort of agenda hiding under that gleaming smile, behind those sky blue eyes and fall of glossy curls. Everyone wanted something. Everyone did what they did to achieve that, one way or another.
So what did she want?
Mitch entered the inn and found Harriet hanging pictures, but Ree wasn’t there. Surprised at how empty that left him feeling, he wandered out onto the back porch and soaked up the heat of the day. Progress was happening out here, too. The event floor area had been graded but still needed to be cleaned up, and sod lines were fading in the new grass.
To the right, with the mountains as a magnificent backdrop, a garden area was being prepped. The brush and weeds were gone, and fluorescent flags marked a winding path through it. His focus softened, and he tried to imagine what it would look like with roses and whatever else was planned.
He couldn’t picture the flowers and shrubs much, but he was seized with a vision of a sculpture. Something light and airy, like the running deer he’d seen outside a museum once. Copper or brass to weather the elements. Or perhaps a sundial, solid and sure. Either way, something suitable for a memorial for his grandfather.
He shook his head and tried to file the idea away for later—he really ought to be doing something productive—but it wouldn’t stay put. His grandfather had left quite a legacy, not only for Mitch and the rest of the attorneys in the firm, but in the work the Foundation did—activities for inner city youth, a mentoring program, scholarships for college and grants for law school. Education was important to Granddad. He liked to say that it gave a person wings to soar as high as they could.
Hmm…maybe something with birds.
He heard a slight noise and turned. “Ree.” A smile came unbidden to his lips.
Ree didn’t particularly smile back. “I thought you were dealing with take-over crises in Portland. You haven’t answered your phone all week.”
“I’m sorry, I turned all communication over to my assistant and let him handle things. I’ve been…busy, some items that took all my attention." He couldn’t mention his grandfather without choking up, so he wasn’t going to say anything about it. And he wasn’t quite ready to tell her that, even with all the work to do after his grandfather’s death, he couldn’t seem to stay away from McCormick’s Creek. From her. “He’s working on the background for my next clients now,” he said instead.
She nodded stiffly. “I finished today’s flowers for the shop and came over to talk to Harriet. But we need to talk.”
Mitch frowned. “The inn is going to take more and more of your time. Opening is less than three weeks away. Isn’t there someone else who could help your mother?”
Ree looked away. “Even if there were, the shop can’t afford to pay anyone else. Mom manages to give me some pocket money, but it wouldn’t be near enough if she weren’t feeding and housing me too.”
“Can’t she get a loan? Surely the bank would cover something like this.”
She shrugged. “I�
��m not sure she could repay it—payroll costs would be high, and she mostly makes enough to pay her own living expenses. She doesn’t want to retire with a load of debt hanging over the shop, or she’ll never find a buyer.”
“She’d sell it? Not keep it in the family?”
Ree huffed. “She doesn’t have much choice—I’m an only child, and I sure don’t want it! Besides, it’s been a living for her but it’s not her passion. That’s what the greenhouse at home is for.”
Mitch was surprised. He hadn’t even noticed a greenhouse. “She grows the flowers for her shop?”
“Oh no, she doesn’t have nearly enough room for that. But she has a couple of favorite things she likes to play with. Most of the bouquets we sell include some edelweiss that she grows, and people sometimes like to buy a batwing flower." She saw his incredulous face and shook her head. “Don’t ask—you need to come in and see one.”
Bat flowers—did they go with a Batmobile? He stifled a snort. The idea was a far cry from the daisies and roses he had gotten his first day in town. Talking about it had made Ree relax a bit, though, which was encouraging. “What else does she grow?”
Ree looked thoughtful. “Well, what intrigues her now is breeding lilies. She’s trying to get some of the deeper colors to have the strong scent of the Stargazer lilies. It takes a while, though.”
Hmm, Mrs. Swanson had hidden depths. He never would have pegged her for an amateur geneticist.
Another thought struck him. If she couldn’t afford to hire an assistant, she might be a good candidate for a loan or grant. And doubly so if she had a product that could be developed and marketed.
No need to mention that to Ree now, though, just something to check into later. In the meantime, he really needed to forget about the heavier issues in his life.
“What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
* * *
“Dinner?” Ree had been fighting the lift in her heart and trying to match Mitch’s professionalism. Now the question came out of the blue and slammed her sideways.