THE INN AT
LAUREL CREEK
CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON
Booktrope Editions
Seattle, WA 2014
COPYRIGHT 2014 CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
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should be directed to: [email protected]
Cover Design by Tatiana Vila
Edited by Clarice Joos
Lyrics by Daniel O'Connor
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-550-9
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-566-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916575
Table of Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DEDICATION
THE INN AT LAUREL CREEK
PREVIEW: UNFINISHED BUSINESS
ALSO BY CAROLYN RIDDER ASPENSON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
KEEP IN TOUCH
MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE
For Jack
Who taught me that time
doesn't determine love.
"I DON'T BELIEVE in miracles," I told Stan Brinker, the owner of The Inn at Laurel Creek Bed and Breakfast. I'd just checked in, and as we walked to my room the old man told me stories of miracles and romances that happened when people stayed at the one hundred and twenty-two-year-old home.
"You don't got to believe me," he said. "Just you wait and see. All sorts of miracles happen here." He pointed to a set of opened French doors at the end of the hall. "Seems a lot of them happen right out there, too." He dragged my suitcase to the last door on the right, right next to the French doors, labeled the Serenity Suite, and opened the door with his key.
That's just what I needed, too. Serenity. "Thank you, Mr. Brinker," I said, grabbing hold of my suitcase and pulling it into the room. "Like I said, I don't believe in miracles but if I do happen to see one, I'll make sure to let you know."
"It's Stan to family, and anyone that stays with us here at the Inn is family, you hear?" He tipped his beat-up, brown cowboy hat toward me and smiled. "You have a mighty fine stay, Ms. Howard. My wife, Lou, serves dinner in the dining room at six o'clock sharp. Tonight's fried catfish, her specialty. You ought not to miss it. If you need anything before that, just holler at one-a us. We're here to please."
"Thank you," I said, closing the door behind him.
I flung myself onto the four-poster bed. "Ah, serenity," I said out loud. "Exactly what the doctor ordered." I scooted to the top of the bed and lay my head on the pillows. They were soft and fluffy, and all I wanted was to bury my head into them and sleep for five days straight. Unfortunately, sleep wasn't what I came to the Inn for. I'd come to have a little me time, to gather my thoughts and figure out how to mend my shattered heart. I was determined to pick up the broken pieces of it that Matthew Bollander left three months ago when he walked out of my life and straight into the arms of another woman. While Matthew and his fiancée—yes, it happened that fast—spent the weekend with friends and family during their elaborate southern wedding, I intended to move on with my life. I didn't know how, but I had five days to figure it out, and I'd be damned if I wouldn't succeed.
I dragged myself off the cozy bed and meandered around the room, inspecting every corner and knickknack, my hand sweeping over the furniture like a kid in a candy shop. The soft pink chair, pushed into the corner by the window, reminded me of my grandmother's. I plopped onto the cushion and wiggled into the seat. "This one's just right," I said. "Perfect spot to list the reasons I'm better off without Matthew."
I dragged myself from the snug, cushy pink patterned chair and wandered over to the fireplace, a bricked in, old school one, with three logs all set for a relaxing fire. I imagined sitting next to the fire that night, working through my emotions with a bottle of Alto Adige Pinot Bianco. I opened my suitcase, took out the bottle and placed in on the dresser, and then unpacked the rest of the suitcase, placing my toiletries in the bathroom.
"Oh wow," I moaned. "That tub is amazing." An old-fashioned copper claw-footed tub sat in the corner of the room, surrounded by candles in all different shapes and sizes. A white velvet robe lay over the tub. I picked it up and held it to my face. The silky smooth material melted into my skin. "Perfection."
I finished unpacking, changed into a fresh pair of cut-off jean shorts and a tank top, grabbed my journal, my iPod, a pen and my ear buds and headed downstairs. Lou was dusting furniture in the main sitting room. "Hi," I said. "I'm Carly Howard. I'm staying in the Serenity Suite."
Lou smiled, wrapped her arms around me squeezed. "Oh, blessed to meet you, my dear." She stretched out her arms, holding me at arms’ length. "Why, aren't you just the prettiest girl ever?"
My face warmed with both pleasure and embarrassment. "Thank you."
From the looks of her skin, she'd spent too much time in the sun, age and laugh lines imbedded into her face. Her long, white hair, pulled back into a bun, was smooth as satin, and she had a smile that stretched from ear to ear. Lou was probably fifty to fifty-five but looked older. She absolutely radiated sincere sweetness and I instantly adored her.
"My husband said you got here safe and sound. He didn't go on about those miracles now, did he?"
I nodded. "Maybe a little."
"That Stan." She waved her hand. "He's always tellin' our guests about 'em. I keep tellin' him he's gonna scare away our visitors, but he keeps on talkin'. Yackity, yackity, yack, all day long. Lawd, my ears. He's lucky he's cuter than a pig's tail or I'd-a kicked him to the curb by now." She winked. "But even though this old house is full of miracles, talkin' about it doesn't make it happen for ever'one. Sometimes it don't happen at all. It's gotta be the right person, and the right time."
I giggled. "It's okay. I don't believe in miracles anyway."
"Oh, well you just might after a night or two here." She went back to her dusting. "And it just might be you one happens to."
"I can deal with that," I said. "Oh, do you happen to have a bottled water? I'd like to take a walk by the creek and maybe sit there for a bit. It's a little warm out, and a water would be nice."
She put down the duster and motioned for me to follow her. "I've got just the thing for ya," she said. We walked into the back hall near the kitchen, and she pulled open a drawer under the stairs. "This here's our hiking kit," she said, handing me a small drawstring bag. "It's got a little throw to sit on if you need to rest for a spell, some bug repellant, because them bugs over at Laurel Creek are ever'where this time of year." She crooked her finger and headed into the kitchen. I followed. "I'll get you a few bottled waters and some snacks. Skinny thing like you." Her eyes traveled down my body and back to my eyes. "You could stand to get some meat on them bones."
I wasn't as skinny as she thought, but I wasn't going to turn down snacks. She handed me two bottles of water and a bag with homemade chocolate chip cookies. My mouth watered from the smell of the freshly baked little bites of heaven. "Those look yummy," I said.
"Just baked them a bit ago. It's my momma
's secret recipe. Been in the family for years, but if you're as nice as you seem, I might could give you a few hints."
I took a cookie from the bag and bit into it. "Oh my gosh. This is incredible."
Lou winked. "It's all about the secret ingredient," she said. "Now, you take that bag, and you go and have yourself some good ol' quality time up by the creek, ya hear?"
I nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Lou walked me to the door. "Thanks for the snacks, and the throw," I told her. "I didn't think to bring a throw with me."
She patted my back. "Don't you worry about a thing, honey. That's what we're here for. We aim to make you feel right at home." She patted my back one more time, and as I walked down the front porch steps said, "Now, walk on out that-a-way, and go left on down yonder by the fence gate, and the creek is just a stone's throw up the path. Now don't you be late for supper, you hear? It's at six o'clock on the spot."
"Yes, ma'am." I said.
***
The path had a slight incline that continued to build, and I was surprised to realize it wasn't as easy to navigate as I'd expected. I needed to get in better shape once I got back to the city. The path curved and dipped around sugar maple trees with wild, florid azalea bushes covered with pink and purple flowers growing beneath them. Springtime in northern Georgia was stunning, ablaze with vividly colored flowers in yellows, purples, pinks and reds. If anything, the timing of Matthew's wedding gave me a chance to relish in the beauty of nature. And sneeze. A lot. I knew my allergies would be assaulted, so pulled out my allergy spray from the bag and gave myself a few shots up my nose—never enjoyable, but always effective.
The creek began at a dip in the path, and I followed it for a bit, listening to the water bounce off the rocks and travel upstream. I found the perfect spot just where the creek turned and began its descent. I spread the throw Lou gave me and lay down on it, the sun hitting my skin as it peeked through the trees. The rays were the perfect temperature, heating my skin but not making me sweat.
"I could do this forever," I said, closing my eyes and relaxing.
I wasn't sure how long I lay like that, my eyes closed, breathing in the fresh scents of lavender and pine, but the slight sound of soft, muted and rhythmic tones vibrated through the air and grabbed my attention. Someone was playing an acoustic guitar nearby, keeping me from dropping completely into slumber. I sat up and scanned the area for the sweet-sounding melody.
I found the strummer across the creek. A man with shaggy blond hair, just a little too long, wearing a blue t-shirt and khaki shorts sat on a similar throw, with an exact copy of the drawstring bag Lou gave me. He caught me gazing in his direction and our eyes locked. He lifted his mouth into a smile so sexy my body lurched forward, as if being pulled to him. I pushed my hands into the ground to stop myself from running across the creek to him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Did I wake you?" His voice was low and sultry and had me melting into a puddle of Carly mush before he finished a sentence.
My voice came out high and pitchy. "Oh no, not at all. I was just lying here relaxing. Please keep playing. It's beautiful."
"Thanks, it's just a little something I've started working on. It's not finished." He smiled again, and very specific parts of my body became fully aware of his presence.
"You wrote that? Wow. That's really good."
He nodded. "Thanks. It's what I do. I write music. Name's Ben." He raised a hand and waved it, and I couldn't help but notice his long, thin fingers, how they swayed as he waved, and how he spread them wide, only to fold them back together again.
I breathed in a quick breath, catching myself before I let out a squeal of pleasure from watching that small but alluring hand gesture.
What was wrong with me?
Ben. Ben was cute. And Ben played the guitar. Ben wrote music. And Ben had a smile that made my stomach jump. Not to mention that Ben had broad shoulders and thin, muscular arms that filled up and busted out of the short sleeves of his shirt. I reached my arm out, hoping it could stretch across the suddenly monstrous sized creek to touch his muscles. I thought Ben might be just what I needed to fix my broken heart. "Hi Ben, I'm Carly. Nice to meet you." I waved back.
"You too," he said. "I'll let you get back to your relaxing. Got any special requests? I can play and sing just about anything."
I didn't want him to play the guitar. I wanted him to strum his fingers all over my body instead. I bit my lip to stop myself from making that suggestion.
Of course, when it came to figuring out a song, my mind went blank. "Uh." I pulled my blonde curls back and wrapped them into a ponytail holder. "I can't think of anything, but please, keep playing."
"How about this?" He strummed the strings and a combination moan, hum, sexy groaning sound escaped his mouth.
Good Lord, he could sing too. It made me squirm, and my insides melted. After a few more of those sexy sounds, I recognized the song. "Sunday Morning," a sensual, romantic ballad by Maroon Five. Only he sang it better than the singer, at least in my opinion. I touched my chin to make sure my jaw wasn't hanging open.
There was something familiar in Ben's voice, but I couldn't quite place it. It almost sounded as if he was trying to mimic a singer from a band, but the band's name escaped me. He was really good and could probably out-sing anyone I'd heard on the radio as of late, including whoever that elusive band singer was.
He sang the whole song, and the only time he didn't maintain eye contact with me was when he closed his eyes, hitting the higher notes. I was uncomfortable but not in a bad way, shifting on the throw, sitting on my hands and resting them on my lap. I couldn't take my eyes off him. Watching the way his hands moved, the way his fingers touched the strings of the guitar, the way his Adam's apple floated up and down his neck when his voice lowered. The way he licked his lips and smiled as he sang the chorus, gazing steadily into my eyes the whole time.
My heart rate kicked up a notch and my blood rushed through my body, warming those same parts that awoke just a minute or two before. I crossed my legs instinctively in an attempt to hide the attraction my body wanted to make obvious. Tiny pellets of sweat formed on my forehead. What the heck was happening to me? He was just a guy playing the guitar, but my senses went into overdrive. I could hear every chord his fingers played, every note his voice hit. I could practically feel his eyes blink, taste the moisture on his lips as he licked them between breaths. I wanted to jump up and run, run across that creek and throw myself at him like a pre-teen at a boy band concert.
When he finished, I golf clapped—a pathetic attempt at being cute. Truth be told, I could listen to him forever, but I feared if I did I would actually become that pre-teen at a boy band concert, so instead, I gathered my things to leave. "That was really amazing. You're incredibly talented," I said, stumbling over my words. "I'd love to stay and listen some more, but I need to get back and get ready for dinner."
He set the guitar on the throw. "Got it. No worries. I'll be here tomorrow, too. Same time. Same place." He ran a hand through his hair. "If you're not busy, of course. I'm always happy to have an audience."
Did his teeth sparkle when he smiled or was my imagination in high gear?
"Great. That's great," I said, struggling to speak, afraid I'd say something pre-teenish. "I may just come by. If I'm not busy, I mean." I waved as I walked away, and said, "Nice meeting you, Ben."
"You too, Carly."
He said Carly with such a heated, soft sexiness I actually moaned a little.
***
Lou was watering flower baskets on the front porch of the Inn when I returned. "Did you have a nice walk?" she asked.
I smelled the sunflowers she'd just watered. "I did, thanks for asking."
"I hope you didn't spoil your appetite none eatin' all those cookies," she said.
"No, I didn't. Actually, I got distracted and didn't even have any."
"Well, all righty then. I'm making my special fried catfish. Won all kinds of cookout awards here in tow
n. Even been mentioned in the paper." She snipped a dead bud from another planter. "'Course, if you don't like fish, I could make you something else. Maybe chicken salad?"
"I've never had fried catfish, but I'm sure I'll love it."
"I reckon you will." She took a glass from the serving tray on the front porch table, filled it with ice and poured in lemonade. "For you," she said, handing it to me. "Sit a spell and rest. That walk must-a made you give slap out."
I wasn't sure what "give slap out" meant, but I assumed it was something similar to tired, because that's how the walk back made me feel. "Thank you," I said, taking the glass. "I'm going to do just that." I sat in a rocker on the porch. "This is such a lovely place," I said. "How long have you owned it?"
"Oh, the house has been in my family since it was built way back in the late eighteen hundreds. Eighteen ninety-two, to be exact." She plopped down into the chair next to me and fanned her face with her hand. "My great-grandmammy Abigail Pruitt was born in this house and died here, too. She swore till her dyin' day the house was magical." She rocked in her chair. "She wasn't lyin', neither. I seen all kinds-a miracles in my day."
"Miracles and magic huh?" I said, after sipping the sweet, tangy lemonade. "These next few days could turn out to be pretty exciting."
Lou stood. "That they will, honey. That they will." She patted my knee. "Now I best be gettin' back to my chores, 'fore Stan comes out and catches me takin' a break." She winked, and then walked back into the house.
"See you at dinner," I said.
I sat on porch, rocking in the chair with my eyes closed, enjoying the fresh lavender scent emanating from the wild lavender shrubs growing off the side of the Inn. It was so calm, so peaceful, and I couldn't remember feeling that relaxed in months. A few months before Matthew and I broke up, actually. I made a mental note to remember that the next time I missed him.
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