by Nora Roberts
“Snuck in once when we were in high school.” Avery studied the steps. “With Travis McDonald, a blanket, and a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple. We made out up there.”
“Wild child.”
“My dad would’ve killed me, still would, so no telling. Anyway, it didn’t last long. He never made it to second before he got spooked. Doors and floorboards creaking. I wanted to check it out, but he was such a wimp about it. He never did make it to second.” She laughed as she started up. “He didn’t smell the honeysuckle, either—or never admitted it.”
“Honeysuckle?”
“Strong—heady, really—like I had my nose buried in a vine. I guess with all that’s going on here now, whoever—you know—walked the night’s moved on.”
“You believe that? In ghosts?”
“Sure. My great-times-three-grandmother is supposedly still haunting her manor house near Edinburg.” Stopping, Avery set her hands on her hips. “Wow. It sure didn’t look like this when I kissed Travis McDonald.”
Rough-framed doorways led off a hallway on the second level where the smell was dust from wood and drywall. They heard workers above on the third floor, below on the main. Clare stepped into the room on her left. The light, dim and faintly blue from the tarp blocking the front windows, washed over the unfinished floor.
“I wonder which room this is. We should probably find one of the Montgomerys. Oh, look, there’ll be a door leading out to the porch. I’d love that.”
“Talk about love.” Avery gestured. “Look at the size of this bathroom. From the looks of the pipes,” she said when Clare joined her, “you’ve got a tub here, shower over there, double sinks there.”
“It’s bigger than my bathroom and the boys’ combined.” Pure and undiluted bathroom envy washed through her. “I could live in here. Could they all be this big? I’ve got to know which room this is.”
She hurried across the bedroom space, and turned through the doorway. And ran straight into Beckett.
His hands came up to steady her. She wondered if she looked as surprised and flustered as he did. Probably more, she imagined, as the hammer slotted in his tool belt probably wasn’t jamming into his hip.
“Sorry,” they said in unison, and she laughed.
“Me, first. I wasn’t looking where I was going. The size of the bathroom in there put stars in my eyes. I was coming to find you.”
“Find me?”
“We probably should have before we came up, but everyone seemed so busy. I need to know which room this is before I move in.”
“Before you . . . Ha.” Jesus, his brain staggered under the scent of her, the feel of her under his hands, the misty lake color of her eyes. “You’d probably like it better when it’s finished.”
“Paint me a picture.”
For a half second he took her literally, and wondered if Owen had picked up the paint yet. Deliberately, he made himself step back. Obviously, his IQ dropped fifty points if he touched her. “Well . . .”
“It’s your design.”
“Mostly. Oh, hi, Avery.”
A laugh danced in her eyes. “I thought I’d swallowed an invisibility pill. I can’t believe the transformation here, Beck. The last time I was in here, it had broken windows, broken bricks, pigeons, and ghosts.”
“The windows and brick weren’t as big a chore as the pigeons, believe me. We’ve still got the ghost.”
“Seriously?”
He winced, adjusted his dusty ball cap. “Don’t spread that around, okay? Not until we figure out if she’ll be a liability or an asset.”
“She. Honeysuckle.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Yeah. How do you know?”
“Years ago, brief encounter. It gets cooler and cooler.” At his expression, Avery zipped a finger across her lips, then her heart.
“Appreciate it. Anyway, this one’s Titania and Oberon.”
“The copper tub.” With a swish of skirt, Clare beelined for the bathroom space.
“The big-ass copper tub,” Beckett confirmed, following her. “Along the wall there. The tiles will accent it, play off it, with coppery and earthy tones. Heated floors. All the baths will have heated tile floors.”
“I’m going to cry in a minute.”
More at ease, he smiled at Clare. “Shower there. Unframed glass doors, oil-rubbed bronze fixtures. Heated towel rack there, another feature in all the baths. Two copper-vessel sinks, each on this kind of foresty-looking stand, copper drum table between. The lighting picks up the organic feel with a vine pattern. John over there.”
“The famed magic toilet,” Avery commented. “Word’s out on those. It’s like a bidet and toilet all in one,” she told Clare, “with automatic flush—and the lid lifts when you walk up to it.”
“Get out.”
“At your service.” Grinning, Beckett stepped back into the bedroom. “Bed there, facing out into the room. Iron, open-canopy four-poster, in copper and bronze tones with a vine and leaf pattern. She’s a beauty.”
“Like a bower,” Clare murmured.
“That’s the plan. We’re going to drape it some, or our fabric people are. Dresser there, flatscreen above. Whitewashed nightstands, and these woodsy lamps. We need a bench under the windows, I think. Soft green on the walls, something flowy on the windows—we’re doing dark wood blinds throughout for privacy, and we’ll work on window treatments. Toss in a few accessories, and that’s a wrap.”
Clare sighed. “A romantic bower for two, midsummer or midwinter.”
“You want to write our brochure copy? I wasn’t actually kidding,” he said when she laughed.
“Oh.” Obviously taken aback, Clare looked around the bare room. “I could help if you—”
“You’re hired.”
She hesitated, then smiled. “Then you’d better give us a very thorough tour. In stages,” she said with a glance at her watch. “I’ve only got a few more minutes right now.”
“I’d really like to see the kitchen space. I can’t help it,” Avery said. “It’s a sickness.”
“I’ll take you down. We’ll work our way up when you’ve got time,” he told Clare.
“Perfect. What’s this one?”
He glanced over as they stepped out. “Elizabeth and Darcy.”
“Oh, I love Pride and Prejudice. What are you—No, no, don’t tell me. I’ll never get to work.”
“Highlights,” he said as they started down. “Upholstered head- and footboard, lavender and ivory, white slipper tub, tiles in cream and pale gold.”
“Hmm” was Clare’s opinion. “Elegant and charming. Miss Bennett and Mr. Darcy would approve.”
“You’re definitely writing the copy.” He turned left at the base of the steps, came up short when he heard Ryder curse from the laundry room.
“Goddamn it.”
“It’s a problem,” Owen responded. “I’ll work the problem.”
“What problem?” Beckett demanded.
Owen shoved his hands in the pockets of his carpenter jeans. “Karen Abbott’s pregnant.”
“Didn’t your mom ever talk to you about safe sex?” Avery asked, ducking around Beckett’s arm.
Owen sent her a bland stare. “Funny. It’s Jeff Corver’s. They’ve been seeing each other since Chad started college last year.”
“Doing more than seeing,” Ryder muttered. “Jesus, she’s got to be forty-couple, right? What’s she doing getting knocked up at that age?”
“I note you don’t question how Jeff Corver could knock her up at his age,” Avery added.
“She’s forty-three.” Owen shrugged. “I know because we’ve been talking to her about the innkeeper position. We were pretty well set. Now she and Jeff are getting married and picking out baby names.”
“Damn it. Well, from our perspective,” Beckett said when Clare sent him a disapproving look. “We know Karen, and she and Mom and Owen were working out all the details. Hell, she’d picked out the paint colors for the innkeeper’s apartment on the third floor.�
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“And she had hotel experience,” Owen put in. “Working at the Clarion. I’ll put some feelers out,” he began.
“I know somebody.” Avery held up a finger. “I know the perfect somebody. Hope,” she said, turning to Clare.
“Yes! She is the perfect somebody.”
“Hope who?” Owen demanded. “I know everybody, and I don’t know the perfect Hope.”
“Beaumont, and you met her once, I think, when she was up visiting, but you don’t know her. We went to college together, and we stayed pretty tight. She’s in D.C., and she’s thinking of relocating.”
“What makes her perfect?” Ryder asked.
“A degree in hotel management to start, and about seven years’ experience at the Wickham—ritzy boutique hotel in Georgetown. The last three as its manager.”
“That’s too perfect.” Ryder shook his head. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch with Hope. It’s the jerk she was involved with, whose parents own the Wickham. He dumped her for some bimbo with a pedigree and man-made tits.”
“She’s working out her contract,” Clare continued, “and that takes spine. Professional spine. She’s looking to move, considering her options.”
“From Georgetown to Boonsboro?” Ryder shrugged. “Why would she?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” Avery countered.
“Avery and I have been trying to talk her into moving up here, or closer anyway. She likes the area.” The more she thought of it, the more Clare wanted it. “She comes up to see Avery now and then, and we got to be friends. We had a girls’ weekend at the Wickham last year, and I can personally attest, Hope doesn’t miss a trick.”
“Do you really think she’d go from managing urban ritz to innkeeper at a small-town B&B?”
Avery smiled at Owen. “I think she might, especially if the rest of this place is going to be as good as Titania and Oberon.”
“Give me some more data,” Owen began.
“Show me the kitchen space, then you can come over to the shop. I’ll give you more, and I’ll call her if you want.”
“Deal.”
“What does she look like?” Ryder called out.
“One of the many reasons Jonathan Wickham is a jerk? Throwing over somebody who looks like Hope, has her brain and energy, for some pinched-nose, big-racked social piranha.”
“Confirmed. I’ve got to get back,” Clare told her. “Let me know what Hope says. This would be great.” She beamed at Beckett. “Will you be here later? I can probably get back around two or two thirty.”
“Sure.”
“See you later then. Oh, and you’ll be lucky to have Hope if this works out. She really is perfect.”
Ryder scowled as she hurried out. “I don’t like perfect. Because it never is, but you don’t see the trouble until it’s too late.”
“I’ve always admired and envied your sunny optimism.”
“Optimists never see the boot coming until it kicks their balls into their throat. Optimism is how a forty-three-year-old woman ends up with one kid in college and another in the oven.”
“Owen’ll fix it. It’s what he does.”
CLARE MET WITH a sales rep, then chatted with her UPS guy while she signed for a delivery. She loved new shipments, opening the cartons and finding books, the covers that closed in all those stories, all those worlds, all those words.
While shelving, she paused when her phone signaled an incoming text, then smiled at Avery’s message.
H will talk to O tmoro. If click H cms up nxt wkend 4 intrvw. :)
She texted back. Fingers X’d.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful? she thought. Not only for Hope, but all of them. She’d have a friend right down the street, and another right across. She’d be able to pop over to the inn now and then to see Hope, and all those beautiful rooms. They would be beautiful. She was sure of it now.
Oh! She’d book the Titania and Oberon room for her parents’ anniversary next spring. Or maybe Elizabeth and Darcy. A perfect gift, romantic and special. The Montgomerys ought to push that, subtly, in their brochure.
She should make some notes.
She took out her phone to do just that, then tucked it away again when one of her regulars came in with her toddler in tow.
“Hi, Lindsay, hi there, Zoe.”
“Need book!”
“Who doesn’t?” Charmed, as always, Clare plucked Zoe up, set her on her hip.
“I was a block away,” Lindsay said, “and I wasn’t going to stop in. But she got so excited, bouncing in the car seat.”
“I swear, I’m going to hire her the minute the law allows.” Clare kissed Zoe’s dark curls as she carried her back to the children’s section.
By the time they left—two books for Zoe, one for Mommy, and a pretty plush kitty purse for a niece’s birthday—Clare had been filled in on celebrity gossip, town gossip, the niece’s mother’s recent weight gain, and Mommy’s newest diet.
When the door jingled closed, Laurie peeked up from the annex. “I deserted the field.”
“I noticed.”
“You handle her better than I do. She gives me an earache.”
“I don’t mind. She just needs to talk to an adult now and again. Plus she spent more than fifty dollars. Did you take your lunch yet? I can handle things if you want to get out for a bit.”
“I brought mine with me. Lindsay’s not the only one on a diet. I’m going to eat my measly salad in the back. Cassie just got in. She’s getting some net orders together for shipping.”
“I’ll take the front. I need to go back out about two, but I’ll be back before you leave for the day.”
“Give a shout if we get busy. One of us’ll come out.”
She could only hope. The store hadn’t exactly bustled with business today. She could use a few more Lindsays before closing, she thought as she got herself a cold drink from the refrigerator.
She carried it into the children’s section, tidied up the toys Zoe had played with while her mother had her visit. And thought of Zoe’s soft, dark curls.
Clare wouldn’t trade her boys for anything in heaven or on earth, but she’d always secretly hoped for a little girl. Pretty dresses, ribbons and bows, Barbies and ballerinas.
And if she’d had a girl, her daughter would probably have turned out to be a tomboy, as into action figures and dirt fights as her brothers.
Maybe Avery would fall in love and end up having a baby girl. Then she could be the doting honorary aunt and finally get to buy all the fuss and flounces.
Now that would be fun, she decided while she tidied books, rearranged stuffed animals. Watching Avery fall in love—the real thing—helping her plan a wedding and on to sharing the excitement of a new baby. Their kids could grow up together. Well, her boys had ahead start, but still. Then, years from now, Avery’s daughter and . . . probably Murphy, considering the ages . . . would fall in love, get married, and give them both gorgeous grandchildren.
Clare laughed to herself, running her finger down the cover of a children’s book.
Fairy tales, she mused. She’d always been a sucker for them. And for a happy ending where everything wrapped up as pretty as a bow in a little girl’s hair.
Maybe more of a sucker than ever now, she admitted. Now that she’d known real loss. Maybe that’s why she just needed to believe in that bright, shiny ribbon tied in a bow around happy ever after.
“Daydreaming about me?”
She jumped at the voice behind her, turned and tried not to wince when she saw Sam Freemont in the doorway.
“Just restoring order.” She spoke pleasantly, reminding herself he sometimes actually bought something rather than just pestering her for a date. “I didn’t hear the bell.”
“I came in the back. You should put some security up, Clare. I worry about you working in this place.”
She caught the condescending tone in this place, struggled to remain pleasant. “Laurie and Cassie are in the back room—and there’s a
monitor. In fact,” she said deliberately, “they can see us right now. What can I do for you, Sam?”
“It’s what I can do for you.” He leaned against the framework of the opening. Posing, she noted, in his putty-colored suit—the bold blue tie, she imagined, chosen to play up his eyes. “Got a nice, fat bonus check in my pocket.” He patted it, added a wink. “I’ll take you to dinner at my club. We can celebrate.”
Since he worked—when he chose—for his father’s car dealership, and his mother came from old money, she imagined he often had fat checks.
He certainly bragged about money often enough.
“Congratulations, and thanks for the offer. But dinner at the club doesn’t work for me.”
“You’ll love it. I’ve got the best table in the house.”
Always the best, she thought. The biggest, the most expensive. He never changed. “And I’ll be at my kitchen table, convincing my three boys to eat their broccoli.”
“What you need is an au pair. My mother could help you with that.”
“I imagine she could, if I were interested, which I’m not. Now, I need to—”
“I’ve got some time now. We’ll go have a champagne lunch.”
“I don’t—” The bell jangled on the front door. “Have time. Obviously. Excuse me.”
Rather than moving past him, she went out the other doorway to the main room, ready to kiss whoever had interrupted Sam’s annoying campaign.
“Justine! I was just over at the inn this morning. Carolee. It’s so nice to see you both.”
Justine pulled off her red-framed sunglasses, waved a hand in front of her face. “We walked up from Bast. God, the heat! And you look cool and fresh as ice cream—no, lime sherbet—in that dress.”
Carolee dropped into one of the chairs at the little table by the windows. “God, I could use some lime sherbet. We’re going to treat ourselves to one of your fancy iced coffees.”
“Our special this week is Cookie Dough Jo—it’s sinful.”
“Make it two.” Justine dumped her purse on the table, then swung toward the stack. “I didn’t know this was out yet.” She grabbed a book. “Is this as good as the last one she did?”
“Actually, I think it’s even better.”
“Well, this stop-by’s going to cost me more than the price of sinful coffee.” Justine arched her brows at the sound of the back door slamming.
“Sam Freemont, expressing his annoyance. And the coffee’s on the house, in gratitude for you bringing the end to his pestering me to go to dinner at the club.”
“Sam Freemont’s a little prick who grew up to be a bigger one.” Carolee’s pretty hazel eyes turned hard. “Remember, Justine, how he spread rumors about my Darla? He was after her to go to the prom, and when ‘no’ didn’t work, she finally told him to get lost.”
“Or words to that effect,” Justine added, and made her sister smile fiercely.
“That’s my girl. So, he spread it around she was pregnant, and didn’t know who the father was.”
“And Ryder kicked his ass. Not that he’d ever admit it,” Justine continued,