The Kissing Tree

by Karen Witemeyer

  It also painted a clearer picture of Miss Phoebe Woodward. This inn wasn’t just an unrealistic exercise in romanticism dreamt up by a naïve young woman who read too many novels. It was a preservation of the abiding love her parents had shared. Yet instead of hoarding the magic for herself, she sought a way to share it with others. Rather remarkable, that.

  “He’s never looked at another woman since,” Miss Woodward continued. “Even when everyone urged him to remarry for practicality, if not for love. ‘A girl needs a mother,’ they said. But he refused to let another woman step into that role, and I was glad for it.”

  She pushed away from the limb, wandered over to the bench, and sat down. “Sometimes I wondered if I was selfish by not encouraging him to look for a new love. But when I asked him a few years ago if he ever thought about marrying again, he said he’d only consider it if he met a woman who made his heart skip a beat the way my mother had.” She shrugged. “I guess that hasn’t happened.”

  Barnabas wondered if the lady herself was waiting for the same lightning to strike.

  “But this wasn’t what you wanted to discuss with me in private,” she said, sitting up a bit straighter as she packed away the softness brought on by family memories and prepared to resume matters of business. “I believe you were going to explain why you pilfered my wallpaper samples.”

  Barnabas slid the rolled samples out from under his arm and tapped the end against his palm. “Right.” He strode over to the bench and gestured to the unoccupied section to her left. “May I?”

  He didn’t want to tower over her while they talked. To do so felt disrespectful, as if he were looking down on her and her ideas, which was far from the truth. After this glimpse into Phoebe Woodward’s soul, not only had his respect for her grown, but the constant itch beneath his skin that had plagued him since inheriting this project had subsided. He was beginning to see the value in what she proposed, even if the manner in which she was going about it made him cringe.

  Something had happened beneath the leaves of this mighty oak. He no longer wanted this inn to succeed for the sake of his employment. He wanted it to succeed for her.

  With a dip of her chin and a wave of her hand, she invited him to join her on the bench. She scooted over as he took his seat, yet as he swiveled to face her, his knees brushed hers. A touch of pink flared on her cheeks, which caused an unsettling ferocity to afflict the beating of his heart.

  Hollis Woodward’s comment about meeting a woman who made his heart skip a beat echoed in Barnabas’s mind, but he shoved it aside. Distraction led to mistakes, and he couldn’t afford to be careless.

  He cleared his throat. “Before I speak to the wallpaper issue, may I ask why you selected such a . . . vibrant shade of pink for the exterior of the inn?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Pink and red are the colors of love. Of romance and valentines. The perfect color for a couples’ retreat.”

  He’d have to choose his words with care if he hoped to navigate those raised hackles without getting pricked. “Tell me, what is the most important element for this retreat? The inn or the Kissing Tree?”

  He held his breath, praying he’d gambled correctly.

  She hesitated only a moment. “There would be no Kissing Tree Inn without the Kissing Tree.”

  Barnabas nodded, the tension in his neck loosening just a touch. “A logical answer. Yet when the inn first came into view today as we walked down the lane, I missed the tree completely.” He gestured to the massive spread of branches and leaves surrounding them. “As large and majestic as this beauty is, I didn’t see it. All I could see was pink. While there is nothing wrong with having a pink inn, a color that vivid is certain to provoke strong reactions from those who see it for the first time. Some will no doubt find it charming, the symbol of romance you intended. But others will find it shocking. Perhaps even off-­putting.”

  Her brows lifted. “As you did?”

  He tipped his head in silent confession. “In my years of property management, I have learned that the key to fetching a good price lies in making the property as attractive as possible to as many people as possible. This means making selections based not only on what the majority of people find pleasing but on what is least likely to displease potential customers. Neutral shades, simple patterns, uncluttered room arrangements. Those tend to generate maximum interest.”

  Miss Woodward fiddled with her glasses, then glanced to the samples in his hand. “I assume you find my choice of paper similarly off-­putting?”

  He did, but the tinge of hurt in her voice made him loath to admit it. “Let’s just say I find these samples excessively . . . feminine.”

  “What’s wrong with feminine designs?” Her eyes flashed, zeroing in on his again. The spark that had temporarily gone missing reemerged with a vengeance.

  Barnabas fought a smile. “Absolutely nothing. But being the non-­romantic, stodgy nag of practicality that I am, I think it important to point out that you are designing this inn for couples. As such, half of the people you are designing for are men. Even more significant is the fact that in the majority of cases, it is the male half who will be footing the bill. While these men will undoubtedly wish to please their wives, if you hope to secure their return business, it would be wise to cater as much to them as to the ladies on their arms.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But I was given to believe that men care nothing about design. That they actually prefer their wives, daughters, or sisters to handle the decorating details for them. Even my father, who is not shy about sharing his opinions, as you know, has never shown any interest in such things.”

  “Not about the public areas of the home, perhaps. But what about the rooms he spends the majority of his time in? I’ve been in his Huntsville home. I’ve seen his study. I imagine his private chambers are much the same. Lots of wood paneling. Darker colors. Artwork featuring rugged landscapes. Maybe even some antlers or a mounted deer head from a prize hunt. No flowers. No lovebirds. Definitely no cupids.”

  Miss Woodward leapt from the bench and flung her arms wide. “But none of what you describe is romantic!”

  “Correct.” Barnabas set the samples aside and slowly pushed to his feet. “But it is what makes a man feel comfortable.”

  He took a step closer to her and started reaching for her hand. He caught himself a few inches away, fisted his fingers, and dropped his hand to his side.

  Good heavens. What kind of reckless impulse had that been? This was a professional partnership, not a personal one. Keep your head about you, man.

  “I’m not advising that we turn your inn into a rustic hunting lodge, Miss Woodward. However, what I am advising is that you give equal consideration to attracting male customers as you give to female ones. Perhaps switch the color palette for the exterior from pink with fern-­green trim to fern green with pink trim. Not only would the more neutral shade be less likely to provoke polarizing reactions from your guests, but it will more easily direct their attention to the main attraction—­this magnificent tree.”

  “And the wallpaper?” Her tone challenged, but her posture had softened. He might just be getting through to her.

  “I propose an experiment. Before any decisions are made about the décor in the public spaces downstairs, let’s collect some scientific data. We’ll each take an upstairs bedroom and decorate it in the style we believe most conducive to romance. Then, in exchange for a free night at the inn during the off-­season, say January or February next year, we’ll ask several local couples to view the rooms as soon as we have completed them and share their honest opinions on an anonymous ballot. We can ask three questions. Which room would they most like to stay in? Which element did they find most welcoming in each room? And if they could change one thing about each room, what would they change? Once we analyze the data, we can use it to inform our choices for the rest of the inn. What do you think?”

  A half grin quirked her mouth. “What I think, Mr. Ackerly, is that your room won’t stand
a chance at winning.”

  five

  Two weeks later, Phoebe stole up the inn’s staircase, cracked open the door to her competitor’s room, and peeked inside. Her stomach clenched. It was worse than she’d thought. Barnabas Ackerly might actually win.

  Glancing behind her to ensure the coast was clear, she inched across the threshold and surveyed the cozy scene her nemesis had created. How had the self-­proclaimed stodgy nag of practicality created such an inviting space?

  He’d obviously taken inspiration from the Kissing Tree, for the walls were papered with a subtle green oak-­leaf pattern that spread like a canopy up from the oak wainscoting she’d had installed in all the bedrooms. He’d used the oak furnishings she’d purchased—­bed, wardrobe, dresser, and washstand—­but he’d added some of his own pieces as well. A natural wood hat stand that looked as if it had been taken directly from the tree outside. A love seat upholstered in fabric resembling the red, gold, and brown leaves of fall that matched the elegant gold hue of the bed’s coverlet and dark red throw pillows. He’d added a decorative wood onlay of leaves and acorns to the molding above the two windows. The lighter stain of the onlay made the acorn details stand out in dramatic fashion.

  The color palette was definitely darker and more masculine than what she had selected for her chamber, but the room had a rustic charm that lent it a cozy air.

  She moved deeper inside the room, her gaze examining everything from floor to ceiling. There were no carpets on the floor, no little decorative boxes on the chest of drawers to hold a lady’s hairpins, no mirror beyond the small one above the washstand for a lady to check her appearance before going out.

  Apparently the perfect Mr. Ackerly had missed a few things. A little zing of triumph surged through Phoebe’s chest. Though it didn’t really feel like victory. More like . . . affirmation. The man with the perfect hair and the perfect business instincts and the perfect understanding of masculine clientele just might need a lady’s help—a lady with a fondness for shocking shades of pink, frolicking cupids, and romantic novels.

  Not that said lady would be helping him today. The judging couples were visiting in less than an hour, and she wanted as many imperfections on display as possible. Not very charitable of her, perhaps, but for once she’d like to get the upper hand against the man her father called a magician. Barnabas Ackerly had the incredibly annoying habit of being right far too often.

  She’d already received dozens of compliments about the new exterior color scheme of her inn. The soft green was such an elegant choice, they said. Like a natural extension of the Kissing Tree. How clever she’d been to switch the pink to an accent color.

  Only she hadn’t been clever at all. Barnabas Ackerly had been. Yet he never corrected anyone’s assumptions. In fact, she’d overheard him praise her outright to Adam Fisher, telling him that she had a wonderful vision for the inn. He’d said he was simply there to offer the occasional bit of advice and assist with logistics.

  The occasional bit of advice? Phoebe snorted softly as she ran her fingers over the edge of the bed’s coverlet. Only on those occasions when the sun rose from the eastern horizon.

  No. That wasn’t fair. Barnabas really had been very collaborative in the days following the wallpaper pilferage. He listened to her ideas. Offered suggestions. Even sought her opinion on areas of operation like menus, entertainment, transportation . . . just not in matters of decorating. He still quailed at the mention of floral patterns and chubby cherubs. Which was precisely why she brought them up on a regular basis. The little flashes of panic that widened his eyes were just too delightful. He needed his composure rattled every now and then. It was only fair, with how often he rattled hers.

  Phoebe grinned as she wrapped her fingers around the short newel post on the footboard. Swinging herself toward the curtainless window—­which she happily added to her list of imperfections—­she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.

  Sucking in a gasp, she spun toward the door as a male hip finished bumping it open.

  “Phoebe! I . . . I mean, Miss Woodward.” Mr. Ackerly shifted his parcels, as if more concerned over what she might see than the fact that he’d caught her trespassing. “What are you doing in here?”

  She fingered the wire rim of her spectacles and bit guiltily at her lip. There was nothing for it. She’d have to make a full confession.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ackerly. I know we agreed to keep the rooms secret from each other until they were complete, but with the judging almost upon us, I succumbed to temptation. I promise I haven’t been inside your room before this moment. I’ve held to the spirit of our bargain, if not to the strictest letter. Please say you’ll forgive me.”

  He set aside what appeared to be two framed pieces of art—­one smaller, one larger—­leaning them against the side of the bureau, then crossed the room to stand in front of her. He didn’t look terribly angry or affronted. In fact, a small smile curved his lips.

  “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

  Was it her imagination, or were his eyes bluer than usual today? And why was she noticing that now, of all times? He already had her at enough of a disadvantage. She didn’t need to get all fluttery over his eyes. Though it was rather hard not to, when they looked as tender and teasing as they did now.

  Get yourself together, Phoebe. He’s here under orders from your father, not out of any kind of affection for you. It’s just business to him.

  “First larceny and kidnapping, now extortion? You’re accumulating quite a list of felonies, Mr. Ackerly.”

  Good heavens. Had she just flirted with him? She’d intended to spear him with a dose of prudishness and thereby reestablish their boundaries, but her tone had emerged far more playful than prim.

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” His grin widened. “I’ve always been such a law-­abiding citizen too. I guess you bring out the unexpected in me.”

  Double good heavens. Had he just flirted back?

  Phoebe had read countless romantic stories with heroines who experienced heart palpitations when the hero rode to their rescue or slayed a dragon or swept them up in strong arms, but here she was, experiencing unmistakable palpitations over nothing more than a witty rejoinder and a teasing smile.

  Dipping her lashes, she stared at her shoes, hoping the view of sensible black leather would restore her brain to proper, unfanciful functioning. “So, what is this condition of yours?”

  Probably something to do with gaining her promise to forgo all cupid adornments.

  “I’d like you to call me by my given name.”

  Phoebe’s head shot up. A touch of red darkened his face, and his gaze lacked the confidence she was so accustomed to seeing. The always composed, always correct Mr. Ackerly was nervous. The realization turned her insides to butter.

  Clearing a throat that seemed intent upon throbbing in time with her pulse, Phoebe managed a nod. “I agree to your terms, Barnabas. As long as you call me Phoebe in return.”

  He dipped his chin in a small bow. “’Twould be my honor.”

  So gallant.

  So dangerous.

  A stuffy, insufferable wallpaper thief should not set her pulse flittering like a hummingbird’s wings. Even if he was rather dapper, exceedingly intelligent, and possessed of the nicest smile she’d ever seen. One he happened to be aiming in her direction at that very moment.

  Get ahold of yourself, Phoebe. He’ll be leaving as soon as the inn is finished. This isn’t one of your novels.

  Forcing her attention away from the face that suddenly seemed twice as handsome as it had the day before, she latched onto the sight of the framed artwork leaning against the dresser and moved toward it.

  Sidling around him, she gestured to the two pieces. “Some last-­minute additions to the room?”

  Before she could lay a finger on the taller of the two, Barnabas zipped around and blocked her path.

  Phoebe immediately stepped back, retracting her outstretched hand. “I’m sorry. I
shouldn’t have presumed—”

  “No reason to be sorry. I just . . .” He blew out a breath. “Only one of them is for the room. The other is more . . . personal.”

  Seeing the unflappable businessman . . . well, flapping, Phoebe grinned and took pity on him.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll close my eyes while you hide the one you don’t want me to see. Then, when it’s safely hidden away, you can show me the other.”

  Barnabas visibly relaxed. “Excellent suggestion.” His confidence flooding back in, he raised a brow of challenge at her. “Why don’t we make it interesting and see if you can guess what is in the frame?”

  “All right.” Getting into the spirit of the game, Phoebe closed her eyes, then cupped her hands over her spectacle lenses. “Is it a picture of a tree? That does seem to be the prevailing theme of the room.”

  “You picked up on that, did you?” His voice sounded warm, as if a chuckle were just beneath the surface. “Yes, the artwork features part of a tree.”

  “Is there a couple sitting beneath the branches?” Such a tableau was probably more romantic than anything he’d actually choose, but it would make for a lovely addition to the room. This space was cozy and intimate, but there was nothing distinctly romantic about it. Perhaps adding such a painting would give it that missing touch.

  “There are no people in the picture,” Barnabas said from somewhere behind her. The wardrobe hinge creaked. “But couples are represented in more abstract fashion.”

  Abstract? “Like a pair of lovebirds sitting on a branch with their beaks touching?” That would be sweet.

  “No. Much simpler.” The wardrobe door clicked shut, and his shoes scuffed softly against the floorboards as he made his way back to the bureau. “In fact, I’m regretting asking you to guess. You’re bound to be disappointed when you see the actual piece. It can’t compare to that vivid imagination of yours. It’s only a sketch. No color.”