by Amberlee Day
“Yeah?”
“Yes, like ...” She glanced at McGee. They were old friends but not exactly close. He might have known about this potential sale before she did, but it didn’t mean she needed to confide all about the work needed at the inn or the packing boxes piled up in the living room. “Just things. Anything else you’ve heard around town that I should know about?”
The cashier finally showed up. Kate had grown up with her too—Pruny Filmore. They’d been more acquaintances than friends, but they’d bonded one summer while taking horseback-riding lessons in the same session, and Kate had always liked her. A plump baby bump bulged under her apron, and Pruny looked hot and worn out. She jumped right in scanning Kate’s groceries, though. “Thanks for waiting. Sorry, Kate. How are things?”
“Pretty good. How about for you, Pruny? Looks like you have a new baby on the way.” She smiled up at her, though being reminded that so many people her age had married and started a family by now didn’t help with that feeling that she wanted to cry.
Pruny patted her stomach, a weary smile under her tired eyes. “Yes, number four already, if you can imagine.”
“Four?” Kate tried to hide the desperate, shocked squeak in her voice with a delighted smile. Meanwhile, her biological clock sent her knees shaking.
“Yeah, I know,” Pruny said like she’d heard it before. “My sister watches the others while Clark and I run the store.”
“That must keep you busy. Remember the old days in middle school, when we spent our days riding horses? You, me, and Mirabelle.”
Pruny’s tired eyes perked up. “Did you know Mirabelle started a business? She runs a stable up in the mountains. Romantic evening horseback rides, a fireside dinner. It’s pretty cool.”
“Sounds amazing. Have you been?”
The weary look returned. “With three kids and a business to run? No. It’s like a carrot dangling in front of me, though. Someday I’ll make time for it.”
Kate’s stomach knotted. Lesson learned: don’t be jealous of someone else’s situation. Both had struggles. “I hope you do, Pruny. I’m sure you deserve the break. How about your grandpa Harold? Is he still around?” She mentally kicked herself. She might has well have asked, Did the old coot die yet?
Pruny nodded her head to one side without missing a beat with the groceries. “Didn’t you see him? He came in for a minute, though for him a minute in the store is five minutes just to walk through.” She chuckled. “Most of the time he holds court out back, sucking on sunflowers since he had to give up his pipe.”
“By himself?” Kate asked. That sounded like banishment for old Harold, who must have been in his nineties by now.
“Nah,” McGee jumped in. “He sits out there with a bunch of his cronies. Mike, Tim, Lawrence, Jamison, all those guys stop in once in a while. Today it’s old Conner Griffith from the jewelry shop and Retha from the café. Since they’re all supposed to be retired, they either hang out in the back or on the café patio, if Retha’s granddaughter lets them.”
“I see. That’s nice for them, businesses staying in the family so they can still hang around where they’ve spent so much of their lives.”
“It is,” Pruny said, though she just looked like she’d rather curl up and take a nap.
They said their goodbyes, and McGee walked Kate to the door. “There is one more thing, Kate,” he said. “I don’t suppose Brenda Lee Mitford’s staying at the Cornucopia?”
“Brenda Lee Mitford?” She almost just said yes, though as far as she knew the woman hadn’t arrived yet, when she remembered who she was talking to.
“She’s that writer, the one that wrote the Love at Home books. You know the one?”
“I do,” Kate said as nonchalantly as she could manage with thoughts of her parents selling the inn spinning through her mind She felt as topsy-turvy as if she’d been on the festival Tilt-A-Whirl ride. “I read one of the books. What about her?”
“She’s supposed to be coming into town for the festival, first time here. I know she’s on the roster for a bunch of events, but nobody seems to know where she’s staying. I snuck a look at the Westbrook Bed-and-Breakfast registry, since that’s the best place to stay in town these days—no offense—but unless she’s listed under an alias—”
“Interesting,” she said, hurrying from the market and McGee. “I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything.”
“You do that,” he called after her. “I’m planning on getting the story. It’s going to be my big break, wait and see.”
She waved behind her in lieu of a goodbye and hurried down the sidewalk with her bags, thoughts swirling through her head like leaves on an autumn breeze. Selling the Cornucopia ... fourth baby? ... Brenda Lee Mitford ... chocolate bar.
And she’d forgotten the lactose-free ice cream, darn it.
So much to think about. She’d start with the chocolate bar as soon as she got home.
Chapter 4
Freddie popped up from his pillow like a jack-in-the-box on a spring at the distinct ringtone from his nightstand. His companion on the other side of the bed—Pumpkin the labradoodle—sat up a second later.
Where was he? A giant wall tapestry hung across from his bed and featured a slew of red and green apples. That answered that question. He was in that fruit inn.
The ringtone sounded again: “The Imperial March” from Star Wars. Dad.
Freddie rubbed at his eyes and cleared his throat before answering. “Hi, Dad.” He hoped he sounded like he’d been up for hours. What time was it, anyway? He pulled the phone back long enough to see it was five-fifty a.m. “Good morning, I should say.”
“You aren’t still in bed, are you?” Freddie could hear the treadmill going, and he pictured his father already working up a good glisten over his tan. “Prescotts have to be on the top of our game if we’re going to stay on top, and that means—”
“Up before the birds, I know, Dad.” It was a familiar mantra.
“I was thinking, since you have Brenda Lee there a day early, you could start the hype before the town’s expecting it. Get her in costume and walk around the town. Take that dog. She could do a little picture posing, that kind of thing. Get the locals and early festival goers drooling and ready to stand in line at the book signings.”
Yeah, that would be great if Brenda Lee was here. “Good plan, Dad. I was already thinking of something similar.” For when she arrived, but no need to tell Dad about the hang-up.
“Good. I’m depending on you, Freddie. Prescott Agency may be the best literary agency in New York, but that’s only because we know how to treat our clients and work the public. There’s a lot riding on how well you do this week, there in ... whatever that place is called.”
“Harvest Ranch, Dad, just like in the books.”
“Right. And don’t forget, we’ve done the research. Even though this is a Podunk town on the map, this is where her fans are looking. The photo ops, book sales, all of it’s going to make for an easy ride for her November book release.”
“Book five in the series,” Freddie said, glancing at Pumpkin before rubbing his eyes. He tried not to think too hard about how his career in his father’s business depended so much on selling books about a country schoolteacher and her dog and their mildly dramatic interactions with townspeople. And yet, the stories sold like hotcakes. All he had to do was keep up the momentum to keep from failing. But how could he do that without the star? “All under control, Dad.”
“I know you won’t let me down, Freddie. And remember when you get home to have your tux ready for your mother’s birthday party.”
“Absolutely.”
Pumpkin jumped down from the bed, stretched, and trotted over to the door expectantly. She was normally well trained, from what Freddie had seen, but how would she do waking up in a strange place?
Freddie hopped out of bed and snatched up the leash. “Gotta go, Dad. Duty calls.”
“Keep me posted. You know how I love getting the play-by-play of a succes
sful promotion.”
Freddie’s stomach clenched. He knew, alright. He knew it all too well.
***
Kate woke up happy to be in her old room. While Mom had boxed up her knickknacks and pretty much everything that put Kate’s personal stamp on the place, her canopy bed remained, and the filmy fabric hung comfortingly over her head. She’d always loved its light mossy-green color.
Rolling up to her feet, she went straight from her bed to her window. The early-morning view of the cottages greeted her, spread in neat rows with the first rays of sunlight hitting the eastern walls. This morning’s view especially sparkled, as a soft fog dappled its way in and out of the buildings, and mist from the fountain spray caught the early light and floated up into the autumn-hued trees like something out of a painting.
Ah, what was this? An early riser, one who managed to improve the view. Kate craned her neck for a better look. Freddie Prescott, Brenda Lee’s gorgeous but manner-challenged agent, was walking the precious celebrity pup, Pumpkin, and neither was wearing a shirt. Probably those were pajama bottoms hanging from Mr. Prescott’s trim waist, and if the light fog wasn’t lying, he was a seriously buff New York rude dude. She wasn’t wrong about him having amazing shoulders, either.
Kate shook her head, dropped the curtains, and headed for the shower. What was she doing, mooning over a good-looking man when she was supposed to be depressed over Steven? She obviously wasn’t doing this breakup thing right. To reinforce the proper mood, she reminded herself that she was already out of chocolate. She’d definitely have to hit Choco-Latte today.
Half an hour later, Katie peeked at the desk to find Vernon, Virgil’s twin, on duty. Just as Virgil used his downtime to write, Vernon had his head bent over sketches in a notebook, his pencil scratching on the paper. She didn’t disturb him, but she was glad to see that the door to their serve-yourself continental breakfast bar was open and a faint coffee aroma floated her way. Good, at least she didn’t have to worry about that this morning.
She checked the wall clock: six-thirty. Not a lot to do this early, except ... the stacks of paper on her parents’ desk seemed to be calling her name. Was McGee right? Were her parents getting ready to sell the Cornucopia? She didn’t know how a rumor like that would start unless it was true, and it explained so much. Maybe Mom and Dad were just discouraged by the out-of-date décor and lack of guests? Overwhelmed by the never-ending to-do list? Or maybe they were having other financial troubles?
There was only one way to find out. With a determined sigh, she took a seat behind the desk and plucked the first paper from the tallest pile. If Mom and Dad were struggling and thinking of selling the Cornucopia, the least she could do was find out why.
***
Freddie rolled up his shirt sleeve as he and Pumpkin entered the back door of the Cornucopia Inn lobby. He’d almost tucked in his shirt out of habit but remembered where he was: Podunk, aka Harvest Ranch, Virginia. No need for formalities here, as evidenced by everything he’d seen so far. That manager woman—if she really was the manager; she didn’t look like one—had even made fun of his pocket square. Immature. Evidently, style wasn’t a thing in Harvest Ranch.
And no, he hadn’t imagined it—this place was hideous. With the name Cornucopia Inn, he easily imagined that the lobby decorations were the result of some harvest basket explosion, and all the remnants were stuck permanently to the walls. Ceramic vegetables, painted fruit bowls, produce-shaped letters spelling out words ... To call it too much would be an understatement. At least his cabin wasn’t this bad. Outdated, yes, but not so over-decorated. The fountain area was attractive enough, even with a hokey cement horn of plenty at its center.
The desk clerk looked up and nodded at his entrance.
“Good morning,” Freddie said, though a creepy vibe slid up his spine. This was the same guy from more than twelve hours ago. He’d traveled enough to know that wasn’t normal. “You must work some long shifts.”
“My brother works the night shift,” the middle-aged man said without looking up. “Breakfast is open until ten-thirty.”
A clue, along with the weak smell of coffee, that breakfast was part of the package. Freddie hadn’t expected that from a small-town venue, but okay. He ventured through the open door marked “Breakfast” that he’d somehow failed to see yesterday, probably because of the competing interior design assaulting his senses. A couple of eggs and whole-grain toast would just about hit the spot.
The breakfast “room,” however, turned out to be about nine feet square, with a counter along one wall showcasing a coffee pot, a glass-covered donut display, an identical enclosure containing six plain bagels, and one small table for seating. “Now this is predictable,” he said out loud, putting his hands on his hips.
“Not exactly the Four Seasons?” came a chipper female voice behind him, and he turned to find that cute but annoying manager coming in behind him. She didn’t slow her pace but cut in front of him, plucking an apple fritter from the donut case. She paused in front of him, tore off a large bite with her teeth, and mumbled, “I bet donuts scare you. I’d bet you’re one of those.”
Cute but annoying confirmed. His tendency would have been to tease and flirt a little, but watching her devour that hunk of sugar and grease didn’t help his empty stomach. “If you mean do I avoid putting junk in my body, you’re right. But that’s just my education talking.”
“Ho, ho,” she said, sitting down at the table while she ate. “I guess that educated brain must have escaped my notice, but then I don’t have my tape measure with me.”
Cute, annoying, sassy. “That’s understandable, considering.”
“Considering what?”
He poured a cup of coffee, took a bagel and packet of cream cheese, and joined her at the table. Her eyes widened. She wasn’t expecting him to sit next to her, and he took it as a small victory to have surprised her. New York one, Harvest Ranch zero.
He scooted his chair a little closer for good measure, just to see if she’d move back. She didn’t. If she wasn’t giving him such a hard time, he wouldn’t do something so outwardly creepy. “Understandable that you don’t have a tape measure with you. You don’t exactly strike me as someone prepared for her task, if hotel management truly is your task.”
She frowned at him while she chewed, shaking a finger at him. “I’ve met people like you before. You may not know it because you’re around other New Yorkers all the time, but you’re rude, and a snob.”
He shook his head, squeezing the cream cheese packet over half the bagel. It didn’t go far, so he reached over and grabbed another—a task accomplished without standing, since the room was so small. “Not a snob, just well-traveled. You look more like bookstore clerk than hotel management.”
She stopped chewing, her cheeks full like a chipmunk, and stared at him. “Mm-mm,” she disagreed with him.
“Mm-hm,” he said clearly—no food in his mouth. He swept a hand at her outfit. “Loose sweater—what’s that color, ochre? I’m guessing you wear a harvest-themed palette to go with your inn. Yesterday was clearly avocado. Yoga pants ... tennis shoes?”
“They’re Converse, classics.” He was getting to her. Mission on target.
“Can’t say I’ve seen that combination at the Four Seasons, or even a good Hilton, no.”
“I’ll have you know that when I worked at a Hilton—which I did—I dressed for the occasion. The Cornucopia Inn prides itself in having a homier vibe.” A little bit of donut had strayed to the corner of her mouth, and he watched it while she chewed. Messy, but she had nice lips.
“If you’re going for homey, I’d say you have it down.” When her eyes narrowed, he turned away so she wouldn’t see his smirk. He was winning this little battle. Nice to have something to distract him.
His first bite of bagel was more functional than enjoyable. Definitely not good. A little bland, but not stale. Coffee helped, as did watching the manager chew and process his critique of her attire. He wasn’t wrong
, and she knew it. The cute frown line between her eyes only managed to encourage him, but before he could tease her more, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Every nerve in his body jumped, and he checked the screen: Brenda Lee.
“Excuse me,” he said automatically, leaving his food at the table and rushing to take the call outside. This had better be good news. Pumpkin dutifully followed. As soon as he was out the back doors and out of earshot, he answered. “Are you close?”
“Good morning to you too,” came Brenda’s tired voice.
“Sorry, but you know I need you here, Brenda. Did you find your husband?” She sighed, and visions of his career sinking like a defective battleship flooded his head. “Seriously?”
“What can I say? Vegas is a big place. I don’t know where he could be, since I’ve canceled all the credit cards. I’ve suspected for a while that he has one of his own, maybe more.”
Frustrated, Freddie threw a hand out, not that she could see him. “Then there’s no way you can find him, is there? Just come to Harvest Ranch, do the appearances. He’ll find his way home eventually.”
“Freddie.” Uh-oh. The client wasn’t happy. Brenda’s normally cheerful voice made him feel like he was about to be sent to his room. “This is my husband we’re talking about. Something could happen to him. He might spend all our money, lose our house. Or a loan shark could take advantage of him. You know I can’t leave.”
“I know, I know.” He ran a hand over his chin. What else could he do without sounding like a cad?
“And don’t forget about hurting the brand’s reputation,” she reminded him, not that she needed to. “The Love at Home series is all about wholesome family values, small-town goodness. If word got out that my husband is compulsive gambler ...” She whispered that last part, but she had him there.
“I see that you’re using my own words against me, but you’re absolutely right. I’ll do what I can to stall here, but meanwhile, Brenda, you have to find him. And fast. Are we on the same page with this?”