by Melissa Tagg
She looked up. “I-I don’t know.” She chewed on her bottom lip, hope and excitement and just a tinge of fear tangling into an untidy knot. “But any investment from LLI could keep us from going under. When’s he checking in?”
“December 20.”
Her breathing hitched. Three and a half weeks to get ready.
Three and a half weeks to save her inn.
Before finally saying good-bye.
2
So does he still look like a Ken doll?”
Autumn choked on her OJ, giggles pushing through sputters until she finally swallowed. “Ellie Jakes!”
Her best friend leaned over the peninsula counter in Autumn’s kitchen, blond curls flowing over her shoulders. “You can’t deny Dylan’s got the Mattel look down pat.”
“Then it’s no wonder we didn’t last. I’m not Barbie material.” Not with her rust-colored hair and freckled cheeks. “Anyway, it may be true, but I’d never say it out loud.”
Ellie cupped her hands around her coffee mug. “I think you sorta just did.”
Morning sunlight filtered through sheer curtains over the sink and danced in patterns over the peachy-orange wall opposite the window. The room might be small, but between the black-and-white checkered floor and mosaic backsplash, it had personality.
Autumn had made the tiny home her own since moving in shortly after taking over the inn. It had felt like a consolation prize. If she was going to postpone quenching her travel aspirations, at least she could do so in her own space rather than in her childhood bedroom back in town at Mom’s. Plus, the two-bedroom cottage was located on inn property, which made for an awfully convenient commute.
What would happen to the place if her still-unopened letter—tucked into the napkin holder on her kitchen table—said what she hoped?
The click of her waffle maker signaled its readiness. “Breakfast time.”
Ellie pulled out one of the barstools at the counter, groaning as she hefted herself onto the seat. Her stomach swelled under her polka-dotted maternity shirt. Only two months until Autumn’s second honorary niece or nephew was born. “I can’t tell you how happy I was when you called this morning. I love my family, but for once it was nice to leave Tim to coax Oliver into eating his breakfast. I don’t know what that kid’s problem is with oatmeal.”
Autumn poured a cupful of batter into the waffle maker. “Um, it’s oatmeal. And he’s two. That’s your problem right there.”
“Says the girl who still eats Lucky Charms.”
“Hey, am I or am I not making you Belgian waffles with blueberries with homemade maple syrup?” Fine, so the blueberries were frozen and she’d bought the “homemade” syrup at a local market.
Autumn wiped her hands on her yoga pants, turned, and plucked the letter from the napkin holder. “Here. This is why I invited you over.”
“You mean it wasn’t for my sparkling company?” Ellie flipped the envelope, hazel eyes scanning the return address, understanding dawning in her gasp and grin. “The Paris Hotel Grand?”
Autumn nodded, folding her sweatshirt-clad arms and leaning back against the fridge. “Sabine said I’d hear within a few weeks. I was beginning to wonder.”
Sabine had come to Michigan from France as an exchange student back when Autumn was a sophomore in high school. Though she’d returned to Paris after the school year, they’d stayed in touch through the years. So receiving an e-mail a month back from Sabine hadn’t been a surprise.
But what it contained—information about the job opening at the high-end hotel where Sabine worked—had been. So far, Ellie was the only person who knew about the possibility.
Ellie slapped the envelope against the counter top. “And you waited this long to mention it?”
Autumn popped a grape in her mouth from the bowl on the counter. “Thing is, once the letter finally came, I couldn’t make myself open it.”
She’d tried three times last night, had even gotten so far as to slide her finger under the flap and make the first tear. But it’d stopped there, nerves throwing down the gauntlet and her determination coming up short.
Because a no might mean disappointment. But a yes . . . ? Who knew a dream potentially coming true could feel so . . . scary. And yet, how long had she prayed for an open door? Somewhat doubtfully, perhaps, but maybe after all this time God was finally throwing one ajar.
“You want me to open it?”
Autumn snatched the letter back. “No, I will, silly. I just want you here to squeal with me if it’s good news and cry with me if it’s bad.”
“It’ll be good, and you know it.” Ellie slid off her stool and placed one arm around Autumn’s waist. At only five foot two, she barely came up to Autumn’s shoulders. “I promise I’ll do my best to be happy for you—but, Num, if you leave, I’m going to miss you.”
“Only Oliver gets to call me Num.” She leaned her head on Ellie’s. “And thanks.”
Ellie straightened. “So you going to open it or wha . . .” She sniffed. “Do you smell—”
“Ahhh, the waffles.” With a jerk, Autumn flipped the lid up on the waffle maker, steam—or was that smoke?—billowing in her face. “Ah, man. The first time I make a real breakfast in weeks and—”
Ellie’s eyebrows lifted.
“Fine, months, and it’s ruined.” As in, inedible. The waffle was stuck in charred chunks to the inside of the waffle maker. She’d need an ice pick to clean the appliance before she could make another batch. And it’d need to cool first . . . “So, how do you feel about Pop-Tarts?”
Ellie’s snickers faded to an exaggerated sigh. “Beats oatmeal.” She nudged past Autumn and opened a cupboard, frosted-glass pane rattling. “Let me toast ’em. You open that letter.”
“But Ell—”
“No buts. You’ve waited too long to open it as is. Besides, I don’t trust your recent history with appliances.”
Autumn nodded, lips pressed, the taste of resolve mixing with the smell of her burnt breakfast. “Okay. All right.” She slipped her finger under the flap. “Here goes nothing.”
She ripped into the envelope and pulled out the letter before she could think twice, heart staccato-ing as she scanned the words.
Dear Miss Kingsley . . . Thank you for your time . . . enjoyed the interview . . . reviewed your experience . . . pleased to offer . . .
At Autumn’s shriek, Ellie dropped the box of Pop-Tarts. “You’re in?”
A second piece of paper, narrow and telling, floated to her lap. An airline voucher.
“I’m in.” She skimmed the rest of the letter. “They want me to start on February 1.” Oh Lord. Which would mean moving in January. Less than two months. She dropped onto one of the table’s mismatched chairs. “I’m going to have to start packing. I need to renew my passport.” She hadn’t dared renew it earlier for fear of jinxing the job opportunity. “I have to tell Mom. . . .”
Ohhh. Telling Mom. If she contemplated that too long, she’d give herself hives. “And all this on top of Dominic Laurent coming to the inn.”
Ellie plugged in the toaster. “Explain that to me again. You think his company might be interested in acquiring the inn? Becoming a majority investor? And you’d get, what? A seal of approval or something?”
Autumn nodded absently, mind spinning as the letter fluttered to the table. “We’d become part of their brand, which would up our standing in the industry. I started Googling investment proposals and packages last night.”
If it came to fruition, she wouldn’t have to feel guilty leaving for France. The Kingsley Inn would stay intact and her employees would keep their jobs. She’d find a manager to take over her role. This truly could work out perfectly.
She heard the sound of foil crinkling, the toaster lowering, but breakfast had suddenly shifted into a nonissue.
Ellie lowered into the seat opposite her. “I’m proud of you, Autumn. I’ll miss you like crazy, but I’ll never forget how disappointed you were when things fell through the first time.�
��
She’d had it all planned out after breaking things off with Dylan three years ago. She would quit her job as the inn’s night manager—a position she’d held all through community college—take out her savings, and finally see the world the way Dad had always encouraged her to. Maybe she’d find a job at a travel agency or write for an international magazine.
But then Mom had shocked her by handing over the entirety of the inn operation so she could focus on her growing role on the state tourism board. And Autumn hadn’t been able to hand it back—not knowing all her mother had already lost, not with the strain already between them. Not when she was the only Kingsley left to take the reins of the family business begun by her father’s grandfather.
Well, besides Ava. But her sister hadn’t looked back once after leaving town. Autumn blinked away a wince.
“So when would you leave? Would you at least come home for holidays? Have you prayed about this, Autumn?”
The toaster popped.
What was there to pray about? When your dream finally hit the “come true” part, you ran with it, didn’t you? “Let’s not talk about it now, Ell.”
Ellie stood and walked to the counter. “The biggest thing to happen to you since, well, Dylan, and you don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to hear my sage wisdom and sound advice?”
“I have Betsy for that. You’re the one who’s supposed to indulge my reckless avoidance and need for distraction.”
Ellie harrumphed. “I think I was just insulted.”
Autumn rubbed her palms over her knees. “I just need to let it sink in before talking details.” Did her voice sound as shaky as she felt?
Ellie handed her a napkin-wrapped Pop-Tart. She tousled Autumn’s still sleep-mussed hair. “All right. Sometimes I forget you like your mental and emotional space.”
The toasted pastry warmed her fingers through the napkin. She took a sugary bite, chewing as the crumbs of a dozen to-dos scattered through her mind. Ellie was right. She did need to talk about her plans—with Mom. She needed to whip the inn into better shape than it’d been since she could remember, and she’d have to break the news to Harry and Bets and . . .
Ava. But would her sister even care? After all, she’d been back home all of what, five or six times since leaving town six years ago?
“So what do you want to talk about instead?” Ellie topped off their orange juice. “Ooh, I know. Guess who’s back in town.”
Her Pop-Tart stuck in her throat. “I heard.”
And for one needling moment, twin pangs dueled. Which was worse—the thought of all the geographical and emotional distance between her and her sister? Or the sudden lack of distance between her and the youngest Hunziker?
“Can you believe it? Blaze Hunziker, brave enough to come back to Whisper Shore. And his dad throws him a welcome home party? What do you want to bet he paid the guests to come?”
“Not nice, Ell.” But possibly entirely plausible. Who faked a marriage with a home-building show host? Blake-also-known-as-Blaze Hunziker’s reputation in Whisper Shore had been rocky enough before he got himself tangled up in a celebrity scandal that read like a reality-TV script.
Autumn only wished she could get as caught up in Blake’s most recent shenanigans as the rest of the town. She’d take that any day over the other memories. Ava’s tears. Mom’s anger. An entire town grieving the loss of its golden boy football star—Blake’s brother, Ryan.
And Blake, who could’ve stopped it all if he’d only listened.
“I changed my mind, Ell. Let’s go back to talking about LLI and France and how I’m going to pack and how much you’re going to miss me.”
And how she’d do everything she could to avoid Blake Hunziker.
Less than twenty-four hours home and he’d already found a way to annoy his father.
At least, Blake assumed that was annoyance written in Dad’s creased brow and wordless response. The airplane keys, brick-heavy in Blake’s thoughts since Dad presented them last night, now splayed on the glass-top desk between them alongside a silence that expanded like the years since their last real conversation.
Then, finally, “Too much, too fast?”
At least the regret in Dad’s voice assured Blake his parents had meant the gift as just that. A gift. Not a purposely torturous reminder.
Blake leaned forward in the leather chair facing his father, palms on the knees of his jeans. “It was a generous gesture, Dad.” Which might be the understatement of the decade. “But I don’t fly anymore.”
The heady aroma of espresso from the machine in the corner of Dad’s office niggled Blake’s stomach. Shouldn’t have skipped breakfast, but he hadn’t wanted to put this off.
After six years, he’d lost his taste for avoidance.
Dad pushed aside a folder bearing the Hunziker Hotel logo on the front and fingered the ring of keys. “All you ever used to talk about was having your own plane.”
“Used to. Not anymore.”
Dad abandoned the keys and pushed his chair back from his desk, sighing with the movement. “You did all that training to get your commercial license. Went to work with that skydiving crew right after college.” His pause stretched, strained and uncertain. “If this is about Ryan—”
“Of course it’s about Ryan!” Blake’s words toppled out before he could control them, hands sliding off his knees and exasperation wheezing through him. Did Dad really have to ask?
Dad stood then and, with the same slump in his shoulders Blake remembered from Ryan’s funeral, shuffled to the espresso machine. Linus Hunziker looked nothing like a mayor or successful business owner as he refilled his mug—only a still-grieving father with no idea how to respond to his leftover son.
A flurry of wind rattled against the window behind Dad’s desk. The gray and cold that’d had Blake ducking into the high collar of his windbreaker as he walked to the hotel earlier seemed to seep inside now. It matched the office’s sharp, angled furniture and chrome accents—a contrast from the building’s charming brick exterior that blended in with the rest of the downtown.
Dad turned. “Then what’s the plan? If you won’t fly for the hotel, then . . . what?”
Over the years Dad had insisted there was always a place for his sons at the hotel. While Blake had never fully committed to the idea, he knew Ryan had planned to eventually move home and help with the family business.
After his football career, of course. The one tragically cut short. All because of Blake’s thirst for fun and adventure. Which is why it made sense to leave all that behind, settle down.
“Well, I do have that business degree. Thought maybe I could put it to use here at the hotel.” He paused, tracing the stitching along the edge of his chair. “I want a normal life.”
He’d never put the desire into words before. Possibly because he’d never had the desire before. Before his brother’s death, all he’d ever craved was a good thrill. After, all he’d wanted was to forget.
Now he simply wanted . . . to belong. To have a purpose. Something to convince him there was a reason he was still alive when Ryan wasn’t.
“A normal life, huh.” Dad’s expression hovered somewhere between irked and amused. “Is that why the first thing you did when you came back to the States was play house with a celebrity? Do you have any idea how many media calls we’ve fielded since returning home?”
Really? He was still that much of a public curiosity? “Dad, I—”
“Never mind. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Dad gulped down his espresso and set down the cup with a thud. “Next to our dying tourism trade, your short-lived stint as a celebrity is the most popular conversation piece in Whisper Shore, and frankly, I’m tired of my son being the talk of the town.”
Whether Dad intended or not, the verbal punch landed right where it counted—the wound still smarting from the stares and hushed murmurs at Ryan’s funeral. He was the one flying the plane. Suddenly coming here this morning—coming home at all—felt al
l kinds of ridiculous.
But he’d been so sure the whisper urging him home had been a divine nudge. God directing his path or something. Then again, maybe he was just as bad at this faith thing as he was the living-a-normal-life thing.
“And,” Dad went on, still standing, glancing at his watch, “I’m supposed to meet a council member at the city offices in ten.”
In other words, he was dismissed.
Dad straightened his metallic gray tie and reached for his faded leather briefcase, the one he’d carried for as long as Blake could remember.
“Son.”
The word was enough to pull Blake to his feet.
“Walk with me.”
The invitation seemed a peace offering for an argument they hadn’t even had. Which was one more reminder of how long he’d been away. Dad had changed, mellowed. And Blake had missed the transformation.
He followed his father from the office, reminding himself of Kevin just then—a little worse for the wear but eager to please in his own limping way.
Which reminded him, the wayward dog needed a bath. And real dog food instead of table scraps. He still couldn’t get over the fact that Mom had let the mutt in the house last night.
“You mentioned an interest in working at the hotel.” Dad spoke with a sidelong glance as they trekked toward the lobby. “Truth is, I don’t really see you behind a desk.”
“Oh.” Shouldn’t surprise him. He’d suffered through grade school about as well as a grounded bird. But that was then. He’d changed, right?
“I could probably put you at the front desk a few days a week, though, if that’s what you want,” Dad finished.
Blake’s gaze circled the lobby as they passed through. It shined with contemporary fixtures and an upscale aura—slate-colored walls a match for the slew of suits that passed through the hotel on a daily basis. May not have the lakeside view of the Kingsley Inn, but it made up for it in modern appeal.
And when the revolving doors spit them outside, it was like stepping into another century. The cobblestone Main Street echoed old-world, with corner flowerpots and old-fashioned lampposts. The downtown made up of colorful buildings wrapped in perfect right angles around a faded-green town square dotted with trees.