Innkeeper's Daughter

by Marie Ferrarella

  He could see that she still wasn’t convinced, so he tried again. “And I lit up, as you call it, because I was glad to see my best friend and that he’d lucked out again, defying the odds and staying alive despite the fact that he went to some of the most dangerous hellholes on the planet.”

  “And Wyatt had nothing to do with the way you reacted when he and Uncle Dan first arrived each summer?” she asked, studying his face for any signs of contradiction.

  “Only insofar as the fact that Wyatt was his son and I wanted them both to have a good time while they were here at my inn. But it was catching up with Dan that I looked forward to,” he insisted. “If you recall, I used to urge Wyatt to go join you and your sisters.”

  “I...remember.”

  He refrained from saying that this very fact made his point. If he’d doted on his best friend’s son, he would have kept him around. Taken him out fishing, or some other father-and-son cliché outings. “And?”

  She shrugged awkwardly. “I thought you made him hang around us because you wanted me to be more like him.”

  The sideways thinking of his ordinarily perceptive daughter astounded him. “Granted, Wyatt was a great kid, but so were you. Except, of course, when the two of you got together,” he said, vividly remembering incident after incident when they had gone at each other, bickering incessantly, each trying to embarrass the other. He had thought they were never going to survive that. At least now he was beginning to understand why Alex always seemed to instigate fights. “Back then it was like throwing a lit match into a stream of gasoline—instant explosions.”

  Why hadn’t he recognized what was behind their antagonism earlier? He’d tried so hard to be a good father to his girls, but he hadn’t seen past his daughter’s actions to understand what had caused her to act out against his best friend’s son.

  She’d been insecure in his love for her.

  Well, he’d have to make that up to her. Somehow.

  Alex shook her head, amazed by what she was being told. Had she been wrong all this time? Jealous of Wyatt when there was no reason to be? “I always thought you liked Wyatt more than you liked me.”

  “And here I thought you were the smart one,” Richard said, reaching out for her and taking her in his arms. He hugged her and kissed the top of her head before stepping back. “Now, then, is that one of your famous lists?” he asked, his voice suddenly gruff. He nodded at the paper she had on the counter in front of her. It was covered with entries, not all of which were legible.

  “It’s one of them,” she confirmed.

  “One of them,” Richard repeated in disbelief. “Alex, you do realize this is just a simple funeral for an old friend, not the second invasion of Normandy.”

  “The absence of gunfire gave me my first clue,” she replied. She glanced at her watch, noting that she had already used up too much time. Time she didn’t have to spare. “Now, will you take care of Wyatt for me?”

  “Why do I need to be taken care of?” Wyatt asked, coming up behind her. “’Morning, Uncle Rick. Alex.” He nodded at each of them as he approached the desk where he and Alex had shared a moment last night.

  “You have got to get squeaky shoes,” Alex growled, annoyed that Wyatt had managed to catch her off guard again. If he kept this up, her nerves would be stripped down to nubs by the time the service took place tomorrow.

  “Why? It’s fun to watch you grow pale and then return to normal again,” Wyatt explained. “It’s better than a magic act.”

  Alex ignored his response. “As for why you need to be taken care of, what I meant by that is that I thought my father should help keep you occupied, entertained, if you will. You shouldn’t have to do anything except show up tomorrow for the service and reception.”

  “He was my father,” Wyatt pointed out, as if that would explain something to Alex.

  “And we all loved him,” she responded with feeling.

  “And because we did,” her father interrupted, “we want to set his son’s mind at ease and handle all the details regarding the funeral so that he—meaning you—doesn’t have to.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Wyatt began patiently because he intended to remain calm around his father’s friend, “I don’t want to have all the details handled. I want to be the one handling at least some of them.” He could tell by Alex’s expression that this wasn’t being received well. “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the help,” he told her. “I do. But I want to be involved in this. I need to be involved in this.”

  “If you have one weakness, Alex,” her father chimed in gently, “it’s that you don’t delegate.”

  She gave him a significant look, remembering Christmas dinners that were late when she was a child because her father was helping a guest, or dealing with some aspect or other of the inn’s business.

  “I wonder where I get it from,” she said, looking at him pointedly.

  Richard pretended not to understand what she was referring to. “Never mind that, now. From the looks of it, that ‘to do’ list of yours has given birth to several offspring and we can all pitch in to pare that down.” He put his hand out, waiting.

  Her father was right. She did have a problem delegating, but she knew she had to. Otherwise, her tendency to handle everything herself was going to make her obsessive.

  “Well, I’ve already called all the people on the list that Wyatt gave me,” she told her father. “And everyone on it said they were coming.” She produced a second list from inside the reception desk where she’d left it last night. “I was going to call in the additional food order to our suppliers this morning.”

  Her father took that list from her. “Cris can do that. She’s the one who’ll be preparing the food for the reception.”

  “Speaking of which,” she said, “Cris is going to need help.”

  He didn’t question her. The length of the list of attending guests was convincing. “All right, I’ll handle that.”

  “You’re going to cook?” Alex asked incredulously, staring at him.

  “No, I meant I’ll find Cris some help. I’ll ask Dorothy to give her a hand. She took over the kitchen when Cris went to Disneyland with Ricky and Andy for a few days last year, remember?”

  What Alex predominantly remembered was having to take over when Dorothy had become overwhelmed with having to prepare several meals at the same time. Dorothy was a good cook, but she wasn’t a fast one.

  Alex had another solution. “Tell you what, Dad, why don’t you call Rosemary and have her help Cris?” she suggested.

  Rosemary King was a longtime friend of the family. Actually, the woman had been her mother’s friend first. Her best friend. After Rosemary’s husband had passed away, she’d bought a modest home not that far from the inn and dropped by periodically. The habit continued even after her mother had died.

  Alex and her sisters were fairly convinced that over time, the woman had developed feelings for their father. He, in typical male fashion, was utterly oblivious of this particular development.

  Maybe something could be done to help that along a little, Alex thought. And what better time than the present?

  “Rosemary?” her father asked as if he hadn’t heard the name before.

  “Yes, Rosemary,” Alex repeated. “She’s a whiz in the kitchen, in case you never noticed.” Then, anticipating his giving her an argument, Alex reminded him, “You said to delegate.”

  Richard inclined his head, conceding the point. “All right, I’ll give her a call.”

  “And what do you have in mind for me?” Wyatt asked.

  His question caused last night to flash through her mind in vivid detail. The memory brought with it a wave of heat.

  It took Alex a moment to rise above both, as she struggled to collect herself.

  “Well, if you insist on being involved—”

  “I do.”

  “—you can help me direct your father’s friends to the hotel where they’ll be staying. Unless, of course,
they’ve already booked arrangements before they left.” She saw her father stop walking away and look in her direction. Alex knew what he was going to ask before he asked it. “I thought they might like to go to the Fairmont. The hotel is close by, reasonably priced and I’ve already checked to see if they have enough rooms to handle this crowd.” She inclined her head as she answered that question, too. “They do.”

  “The Fairmont,” her father repeated. She knew he was familiar with the hotel, having told the girls countless times how he’d watched it being constructed when he was a teenager. It had a good reputation. “Good choice. I’ll call their reservations desk to alert them of the—”

  “Already done,” she said. “I sent them an email last night, asking if they could accommodate overflow—eleven of the people coming to the funeral are going to be staying here at the inn,” she added. “The Fairmont sent back a confirmation first thing this morning, saying they would be more than happy to put them up.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wyatt looking at her, an amused expression on his face. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I was just thinking that you really seem to know how to get things moving once you set your mind to it.”

  “And this surprises you.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  She almost missed seeing her father smile.

  “Not really,” Wyatt admitted somewhat reluctantly. “My dad used to talk about how he didn’t know how your dad did it, raising four daughters all by himself, each one more capable than the next. He sang your praises a lot, referring to you as a dynamo. I think he was a little envious of you, Uncle Rick.”

  Alex’s father laughed at the comment. “I guess the grass is always greener on the other side.”

  “You were envious of him,” Alex concluded. She was right, after all. Her father did envy Uncle Dan for having a son.

  “Not of him, exactly,” Richard amended, “but I have to admit there were times when I wondered what it would be like just to pick up and follow the latest breaking story, living by my wits and out of a suitcase, instead of making sure each bedroom had enough fresh linens.”

  “Don’t forget to add dodging bullets,” Alex deliberately pointed out.

  “Yes, there’s that, too,” Richard conceded. “I guess, all things considered, I was better off right here, putting up with raised voices and tantrums instead of bullets.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex responded, as if she had no memory of just how very loud and lively she and her sisters could get. “We were all angels. Well, maybe not Stevi. But she grew out of it—just last week.” She winked at Wyatt.

  “I’ll be sure to let her know that,” Richard said with a wide smile.

  Her mission was accomplished, at least this part of it, Alex told herself. She’d finally gotten her father to smile and to focus on something other than this loss that had ambushed him. She knew that it wasn’t over, but each day would get a sliver better and a tiny bit easier.

  “Go call Rosemary,” she instructed, waving him off.

  “I’m on it,” he announced, retreating just as the front door opened.

  Wyatt turned toward the entrance as an older couple walked in.

  “Looks like I’m on, as well,” he said to Alex. The next moment, he came around the front desk to greet the first arrivals.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I DON’T KNOW if I can do this, Alex,” Cris said as she let in yet another deliveryman through the rear entrance of the kitchen. This one was bringing in several cartons of assorted vegetables. “According to the head count you gave me, there’re going to be over a hundred people attending the reception. Maybe close to twice that if they all bring someone with them. That’s two hundred people. I’ve never cooked for more than twenty people at any one time.”

  “I know,” Alex told her. “Which is why I got you help.”

  “Why couldn’t Wyatt have just stuck to the traditional funeral fare? Everybody loves little sandwiches with the crusts cut off—egg salad and tuna? Who doesn’t love that?”

  Alex took her sister by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Calm down, Cris. Deep breaths.”

  “All I’m saying is...” Cris paused to inhale and exhale. “Squares and tarts are expected at funerals. Why do we need to serve a full buffet meal?”

  “These guests are coming from all over the place,” Alex explained. “Wyatt thought—and I agree—a meal would give them a chance to visit with like-minded people who each share a love for Dan. A tea just...doesn’t seem enough.”

  Cris nodded slowly, and Alex let her go. The delivery guy was standing impatiently at the door, holding out a clipboard. Chris shook off her brief meltdown and went to see what he needed.

  The steady stream of Dan’s friends had temporarily abated. Alex had left Wyatt manning the reception desk. She would have really preferred leaving Stevi, but the latter seemed to be AWOL at the moment, so she’d had no choice.

  Ordinarily there would have been no need to have someone in constant attendance at the desk, but again, there was nothing ordinary about this situation. Wyatt was admittedly better equipped than she was to handle the people who were coming in. After all, they were his father’s associates and friends. He had to know at least some of those people by sight. Besides, the man could be charming when he wanted to be, despite the somber occasion.

  She’d left him with a stack of maps and directions she’d printed up on how to get from the inn to the Fairmont Hotel—and back again for tomorrow’s service. There were also directions on how to get to the funeral parlor for a viewing later on today.

  If there were other questions, questions he couldn’t answer, she’d be back within fifteen minutes, if not sooner.

  He’d nodded, saying something about trying not to miss her while she was gone.

  In some ways, it felt as if nothing had changed and that this was just like any other summer they’d spent at the inn.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  Cris signed the bottom of the greengrocer’s invoice. “You got someone to help out tomorrow? Who?” she asked.

  Alex was aware that “help” wasn’t always that. She was quick to reassure her sister. “I told Dad to call Rosemary. You know she’d be happy to pitch in anytime.” She saw the pensive look on Cris’s face and guessed what was on her sister’s mind. Cris liked to complain that she didn’t have any help, but in actuality she was very possessive of her kitchen and didn’t exactly welcome intruders with open arms. “It was either her or Dad.”

  “Dad?” Cris cried, looking around her well-ordered, organized workstations. Her father was more like the proverbial bull in a china shop. “‘Helping’? In my kitchen?”

  “He thinks it’s his kitchen,” Alex reminded her. After all, it was part of his inn. “And technically, he’s right. But he needs to be at the funeral, not preparing everything that goes with the buffet we’ve planned. Besides,” she speculated, “I think Rosemary needs to get out more. She’s had a crush on Dad for years and I think it’s high time we help it along.”

  Cris stared at her. “What? She has a crush on Dad? Really?”

  “You really do need to get out of the kitchen more,” Alex told her with a laugh. “And who knows, if Rosemary is around more, maybe this’ll be the beginning of something.”

  Cris double-checked the items in the cartons that had been delivered, making sure she had everything she’d ordered.

  “Or the end of it,” she murmured.

  Alex shook her head. “I keep forgetting what an optimist you are,” she said dryly. She looked around the area. “By the way, where’s Ricky?”

  “Stevi took him to the park for me. They should be there for a good part of the day. I’ll be able to get a head start on tomorrow’s menu.”

  Alex detected a weary note in her sister’s voice. There was still an incredible amount of things to do. “Hang in there, Cris. This’ll all turn out well in the long run,” she promised.

 
Cris looked up at her. There were three inches separating them, not to mention that she was in flats while her sister was wearing high heels. “Except for Uncle Dan,” she said quietly.

  Alex frowned. She didn’t want to seem callous, but she was trying very hard not to think about the man’s passing because she still felt unequal to the task. She didn’t really want to open the doors to that reality until it became more manageable and less like falling into a huge, dark, bottomless abyss.

  “Yeah,” she said equally quietly, “except for that.”

  Cris went over to the freezer, to see if she had the right number of mini croissants for the sandwiches, placing that tray next to a tray of mozzarella and tomato salads. “Do you ever think about it, Alex?”

  Cris asked the question so absently, she’d almost missed it. “Think about what?”

  Cris turned around to look at her. “You know, dying.”

  She could honestly say she’d never contemplated it.

  “I’m usually too busy just trying to make it to the end of the day to think about that.” She looked more closely at Cris, wondering what was going on in her sister’s head. “Why, do you think about it?”

  “I’ve got a son to worry about,” Cris reminded her. “So, yes, I think about it, about not being around for Ricky.” She blew out a long, soulful breath. “It kind of comes with the territory.”

  Alex didn’t see the problem. “It’s not as if you’re alone, you know. If anything, heaven forbid, ever happened to you, there are still three of us here for Ricky, not counting Dad. Your four-year-old will be well taken care of. If that’s keeping you up at night, you can stop worrying. Consider the situation handled.”

  Cris shook her head. “No, that’s not my only concern, Alex.”

  She could tell by the tone of Cris’s voice that this sudden, unexpected intrusion of death as a guest at their inn had started her sister thinking.

  “Okay, out with it, Cris. What’s bothering you? Tell me,” she coaxed when Cris hesitated.