Room for Love

by Sophie Pembroke

  The summerhouse sat on the edge of the woods, through the gardens and past the fountain. Last time Carrie had been there, it had been filled to the rafters with Nancy’s boxes of junk. But theoretically it was a proper lodging; she’d even stayed there herself one summer when the inn proper was full. It would be interesting to see what Nate had done with the place.

  The lights of the summerhouse were visible from a way back, glowing yellow against the dark of the woods, warm and inviting. Carrie wrapped her cardigan tighter around her, and stepped up the three wooden steps to the door.

  Nate answered her knock quickly, a paperback in hand, and didn’t look in the least surprised to see her. Stepping aside with a quirk of a grin, he motioned her inside, and shut out the night air behind her.

  “Drink?” he offered, moving to the kitchenette in the corner of the main room, which held a microwave and mini fridge. “I’ve got wine or beer, I think. Or whiskey.” He looked up and saw her still hovering by the door and said, “Sit down, won’t you?”

  Still Carrie hesitated, as he stuck his head back into the fridge. The summerhouse looked nothing like she remembered. It looked like a proper home now, with a sofa, and a desk under the window, and even lamps and one of Nancy’s traditional lumpy patchwork blankets. The door to the bedroom was open, and she could see a real bed beyond, not just a camp bed. And she knew farther back was the tiny bathroom Nancy had put in when she had some idea of this being staff quarters one day. Which it was, now, Carrie supposed.

  Nate stared at her from the kitchenette, a bottle of wine in one hand and whiskey in the other. In a burst of movement, she threw herself down on one end of the sofa and said, “Actually, whiskey would be great.”

  The glass tumblers Nate provided looked like the odd ends of Nancy’s old sets, and probably were. As he settled onto the other end of the sofa, Carrie took a sip of the smooth amber liquid and started to feel properly at home for the first time that day.

  Nate watched her, caution behind his eyes, and she tried to smile for him. “Nancy started me drinking whiskey when I was sixteen,” she said. “Just a half measure, before bed, when I couldn’t sleep. The next summer she decided that if I was going to drink it, I should at least learn what was decent and what would rot my insides.” She took another sip. “This is good stuff.”

  “It should be,” Nate said, with a half smile. “It was a Christmas present from Nancy.”

  “That explains it, then.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, until it started to feel awkward, and Nate said, “Did the papers tell you all you needed to know?”

  Carrie sighed. “And much, much more.” She remembered the second page of Nancy’s letter. “Apparently I have to keep you on.”

  Nate blew out a short breath. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not as much as the bookings we apparently have until the end of time.”

  “Ah.” Nate winced into his whiskey. “The Seniors.”

  “Yeah.” Carrie tried to catch his eye, but his attention was firmly focused on his drink. “You knew about that bit?”

  Nate shrugged those wonderfully wide shoulders again. “Nancy mentioned she wanted them to still feel welcome at the Avalon.”

  Carrie sipped at her whiskey and considered. “It’s that important to them?”

  “It’s their home.” Nate looked up, finally, and caught her eye. When he spoke again, it was with such conviction, Carrie almost wished he hadn’t. “None of them really have anyone, or anywhere, else. It’s not just the three of them, you realize. There’s a whole crowd of people for whom the highlight of their week is playing Bridge with Stan, or dancing with Cyb. It’s important.”

  “A community service,” Carrie said, with a half smile. “Only problem is, I don’t see how it’ll go side by side with a boutique wedding venue hotel.”

  Nate settled back against the arm of the sofa, his left leg folded up over his right. It couldn’t be comfortable, Carrie thought, being such a tall man in a very small summerhouse. “That’s what you’ve got planned for the place?”

  Carrie nodded. “It’s what I do; I’m a wedding organizer. When I was a child, I thought the Avalon would be the most perfect place in the world to have a wedding. I thought... Well, I guess I thought that was why Nancy left the place to me.”

  “She left the inn to you because she loved you,” Nate said, and Carrie had to look away. She was going to have to work with this man. She needed to trust him.

  “There was a financial summary in the pile,” she started, and Nate winced.

  “Yeah. It’s not great, I know.”

  Carrie bit her lip. “I sort of have a plan for that.”

  “Really?” Nate sat up so fast he sloshed whiskey over his fingers, and brought them up to his mouth to lick them off. “What?”

  “My boss, Anna. She’d been talking for a while about having a bespoke Wedding Wishes venue, somewhere we could offer our brides, in addition to the usual hotels. I mean, we know what they’re looking for, and what’s needed. I wasn’t sure how serious she was about it. But with the Avalon just a couple of hours from Manchester...”

  “She thought it would be perfect.” Nate was looking less excited now. He took a sip of his whiskey. “How would it work?”

  “We’re still hammering out the details.” Carrie twisted her glass around between her hands. “Basically, I’ve got this week to figure out if it’s feasible. Anna’s coming up Monday next week to take a look at the place.”

  “Not a lot of time.” Nate stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. “Especially given the length of your to do list.”

  Shaking her head, Carrie said, “I won’t get any of that done by then. I just need to have a plan. To show Anna it’s possible.”

  “And you think it is?”

  “I hope so.” If it wasn’t, she’d have to sell the inn. Go back to her everyday life in Manchester and never see the Avalon again.

  “What if it isn’t?” Nate pressed, his eyes dark and serious in the lamplight.

  “It will be,” Carrie said, with more confidence than she felt.

  Nate nodded. “Okay. So once we’re up and running as a specialist wedding venue, looking after all your clients, what about you? Will you stay and run the place?”

  “I’ve never... I don’t...” Carrie took a breath and started again. “I think Anna plans to put a manager in to run it.”

  “But it’s your inn.”

  “Yes, but...she needs me, you see. To run things back in Manchester.”

  Nate was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’m still not seeing what you get out of this.”

  “I get to keep my inn, and visit as often as I can,” Carrie said. Then, in the name of honesty, she added, “And to be a partner in the company.”

  “So a share of the profits, then.”

  Carrie nodded.

  “I see.”

  “What did you think I was going to do?” she asked, honestly curious.

  Nate shrugged. “There were a number of theories. You could have sold the place for development into flats, for example.”

  “I’d never do that!”

  “Yeah, well, we couldn’t be sure.” Nate sighed. “Stan will be relieved, anyway. He’s been imagining the worst for weeks.”

  “You think they’ll come to a compromise?” Carrie asked, hopeful. “About the dance nights and the Bridge?”

  He eyed her speculatively. “I think it will be fun to watch you try,” he said, finishing off his whiskey.

  “As long as I’m entertaining,” Carrie said, and swallowed the last of her drink.

  “I think you might be.” Nate got to his feet, unfolding slowly from the sofa. “Well, you can’t do anything about it tonight. So can I pour you another, or do you want me to walk you back to the inn?”

  Carrie handed him her glass, finally remembering why she’d actually come down to the summerhouse in the first place. “Actually, I was wondering if you knew what had happened to Pusscat?
I haven’t seen him...”

  Nate chuckled and, covering the room in two long strides, pushed the door to the bedroom fully open. There, nestled in amongst a collection of pillows, lay Puss, curled up and cozy and fast asleep.

  “Please, take him with you,” Nate said. “I could do with a night’s sleep that doesn’t involve a cat hat.”

  “Well, if you insist.” Without thinking about it, Carrie stepped forward and scooped him up. It was only as she turned and saw Nate still in the doorway that she realized she’d effectively invaded his bedroom. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, and hoped it was too dark in there for him to notice. “Sorry. Right, well, I’d better get back.”

  “I’ll walk you,” Nate said with a nod.

  Carrie tried to protest, but he stood firm. “What if Pusscat escapes? He’s been on a diet this summer, you know. Might be able to run a couple of meters a minute, now.”

  He was pretty heavy, Carrie had to admit. “More likely I’ll need your help to carry him.”

  “Well then,” Nate said, grabbing his coat.

  The gardens were invisible in the black night, which was a shame. Carrie would have liked to ask Nate what he was doing with them, but it would have to wait another day. And lovely as the gardens might be, the inn itself had to be a priority, anyway. She wondered if he was any good at DIY.

  She’d turned all the lights on when she’d left earlier, knowing she wouldn’t want to come back to a dark and lonely inn. At least with Puss with her, she wouldn’t be totally alone. And knowing Nate was down in the summerhouse was reassuring, somehow.

  To her surprise, Nate headed not for the front door, but for the terrace, and held open the folding glass doors for her and Puss. “Don’t forget to lock these behind you,” he said, and Carrie nodded.

  On impulse, she paused on the terrace before the door and turned to him, Puss asleep in her arms between them. “Thank you for your help today,” she said, realizing suddenly that, Puss aside, Nate was really very close.

  Close enough that she could watch his smile widen as he looked down at her, his dark gray eyes warm. So close that, when he bent his head to hers and kissed her, very softly, right on the lips, she couldn’t really have moved away if she’d wanted to.

  “Welcome home, Carrie,” was all he said, before disappearing into the darkness of the night and leaving Carrie alone on the terrace with Puss.

  “Apparently this is my number one spot for kissing,” she murmured to the cat, remembering her first kiss there, half a lifetime ago.

  With a deep breath she went inside, locked the doors behind her, and took Pusscat up to Nancy’s attic room to sleep. Time to start dealing with things.

  * * * *

  Carrie knew the first step in any insurmountable task was prioritization. She’d written her list while touring the hotel the previous day, and she had Nancy’s survey, so she’d already identified what needed to be done. Now she just needed to make a schedule based on priorities and timescales.

  Really, it was just like organizing a wedding, if you looked at it right. Most things were, Carrie had found.

  It was Sunday, so Carrie was hoping for a peaceful day pottering around the inn, working on her lists and drinking tea. Nate would probably be sticking to his garden, hopefully embarrassed by his audacity at kissing the boss the night before–an incident Carrie had decided to chalk up to the notorious effects of Nancy’s best whiskey, and chosen to ignore. Even if his lips had been much softer than she’d expected.

  She shook her head. If it wasn’t on her list, it didn’t matter. That was the new philosophy.

  Dance night wasn’t until tomorrow, so there was no reason for the Seniors to be around, and no catering events planned, so Jacob shouldn’t be in. There were no guests, so no reason for Izzie to be scheduled to work, and even if she was, there were plenty of jobs for her to do far out of Carrie’s way.

  No, this was going to be her peaceful, planning day. She could review work schedules, figure out how Nancy had run the place, and then set about making things work her way.

  Even she was surprised at how excited she was at the prospect of so many lists, schedules and timetables. But first, there needed to be tea. And maybe toast. Or crumpets.

  Carrie had slept late, after the whiskey, so it was gone nine when she slipped into the kitchen and found Jacob already prepping a huge joint of meat and another young man she hadn’t met peeling potatoes.

  “Who is that for?” Carrie asked, pausing in the doorway.

  “Sunday lunches,” Jacob said, flashing her a smile. “Even when we don’t have guests, there are a lot of locals who like to stop in for a decent roast. We get a few walkers and such, too.”

  She’d known that, Carrie realized, feeling stupid. Or she should have done, anyway. How many Sundays had she spent at the inn over the years?

  “Of course,” she said, wondering how this would affect her plans for the day. Not too much, she decided. She could hole up in the front drawing room, and the bedrooms were still empty for further inspection. And anything that brought money in had to be good. “I was just looking for some tea...”

  Jacob nodded at a white plastic kettle and toaster in amongst all the industrial kitchen equipment. “That we can do. Mugs and bags are on the shelf above, fridge is under the counter.”

  The corner he indicated was obviously the staff area of the kitchen. The small fridge held only spreadable butter, milk and a couple of Tupperware boxes with Nate’s name written on labels on their lids. The slanting, cursive print really wasn’t what Carrie would have expected from him.

  “There are some muffins in the breadbin, too,” Jacob called over. “Help yourself.”

  Carrie took her tea and hot buttered English muffins through to the front drawing room, settled in at the window table, and pulled out her list.

  “Okay. Where to start?” Realizing she was talking to herself, Carrie turned to a blank page in her pad and started to write notes to herself instead.

  First question was, bedrooms or dining room? Which held top priority? They both needed doing, but which mattered most?

  Without decent bedrooms, the Avalon really wasn’t much of an inn. But without a great reception room, what wedding party would want to stay there anyway?

  On the other hand, most of the work in the bedrooms was cosmetic, so it might be quicker to get done. The dining room itself wasn’t bad, structurally, but the terrace outside needed considerable work, according to Nancy’s survey. And from what she’d seen that morning, the kitchen was going to need updating if they wanted to host full-on wedding breakfasts and evening suppers in addition to their normal fare.

  “How many can the dining room hold, anyway?” She’d have to measure it for herself, before the lunch crowd arrived.

  “We can fit seventy for our New Year’s Eve dinner dances,” Cyb said from behind her. “Although, to be honest, we don’t often get that many these days.”

  Carrie blinked, turned and said mildly, “You’re here very early.”

  Cyb grinned, and waved a handful of small, brightly colored bunting at her. Carrie peered closer, and picked out the national flags of Brazil, China and Denmark in the mix. “Just dropping off the decorations for tomorrow night,” she explained. “I had to wash them after last month’s International Night. Walt managed to get Campari and soda all over the bunting during a particularly enthusiastic tango attempt. Stan’s always telling them to put their drinks down first.”

  “Sounds like…fun.” Carrie turned her attention to her list and, to her relief, when she looked up again, Cyb and her bunting were gone.

  So, seventy for a dinner dance. Maybe a hundred, a hundred and ten without the dance floor, then cart everyone off to the bar while they turned the room around for the disco, with tables around the outside. A healthy number.

  “Maybe the bridal suite and the dining room first, then,” she muttered to herself, adding another note to her list.

  “If you mean room twelve, then it
needs new windows,” Nate said, and when she turned around he was actually peering over her shoulder at the list. Carrie resisted the urge to cover her notes with her hands and wondered why he didn’t seem in the least embarrassed about the previous evening.

  “They all need new windows.” Carrie’s gaze flicked involuntarily to back to the huge book of a survey. Many of them needed a great deal more.

  “Yeah, but the bridal suite frames are rotted through. One of the perils of wooden frames.” Nate reached down and snagged half a muffin from her plate. Carrie was starting to think the man really had no concept of appropriate work relationships. “And the terrace isn’t looking great, either. I noticed last night the left side’s sagging something awful.”

  Carrie wanted to ask if that was before or after he’d attempted to stick his tongue down her throat, but that wouldn’t be very appropriate, either. By the time she’d come up with an alternative response, Nate had already left.

  Carrie slumped back in her chair and twisted her pen around her fingers. She wasn’t sure what bothered her more, the fact that he’d kissed her at all, or the way he really hadn’t tried to make it in any way passionate. Rather, it had been the sort of a kiss a brother might give, only on the lips rather than the cheek. Nothing like the sloppy, inexperienced first kiss she’d received on the same spot.

  And apparently he’d been thinking about the bloody woodwork the whole time, anyway. Really, she’d have thought being kissed by a devastatingly attractive man would be better for the self-esteem.

  Back to the list. Carrie pulled the survey onto her lap to see what else might be wrong with the bridal suite, besides the lilac walls and the hideous bedspread.

  Apart from the windows, the room was pretty sound. And, actually, perhaps all the windows should be number one on the list. She’d hate to decorate, only to have to redo it once the windows were in, all because some cowboy of an installer had chipped her paintwork.

  Finally, she was getting somewhere. Starting a new page, she wrote: 1. Windows.