by Nora Roberts
“I don’t know if I’m the right person,” Hope said carefully. “I don’t know if this is the right place or situation for me. My life’s … in flux at the moment. But I do know I’m interested. And I have fallen in love with your concept, and your purpose.”
“That’s a start. Why don’t we walk over, take a look? You and Owen can talk more about details later.”
“I’d really like to see it.”
“I’ll be over in a couple minutes,” Avery told them. “As soon as Franny gets in.”
“Back door’s open.” Owen picked up his briefcase as he rose. “Ry and Beck are putting in a couple hours this morning.”
“You’ll need your imagination,” Justine began as they stepped out. “We’ve come a long way, but there’s a lot left to do before she shines.”
“It’s a big project. Beautiful stonework.” Hope studied the lines as they walked down the side.
Justine talked about a courtyard where Hope saw rubble and hard-packed mud. But the porches looked promising with their charming banjo pickets.
They went into The Lobby, and Hope listened as Justine talked of tile and tables, art and flowers, then moved through a wide arch into what would be the dining room. Coffered ceiling—white trim over deep brown, Justine explained. Tables of glossy wood, left unclothed, each with a little vase of flowers. A small arch of the original stone left exposed in the back wall, with a big, carved buffet in front of it. Chandeliers of iron with oak leaf motif and big globes of stained glass shaped like acorns.
Hope nearly saw it in the unpainted walls, the rough floor, the jumble of material. She saw enough to be sure they’d need a couple of server tables, maybe under the wonderful side windows.
They moved down, more exposed stone, exposed brick, passed what would be the laundry room, the office and into the kitchen space.
She listened again, tried to see the cabinets, many with glass fronts to break up the solidity of dark wood. The granite countertops and stainless steel appliances—wall oven, the range in the island done in cream wood to contrast with the dark.
“There’s no door on the kitchen?”
“We’re leaving it open.” Justine, her sunglasses perched on her head, her thumbs in the front pockets of her pants, scanned the space. “We want guests to be at home, the minute they walk in the door. We’ll keep the fridge stocked with cold drinks—soda, juice, bottled water.”
“Like a big minibar?”
“In a way. Guests should feel free to help themselves. We’re not going to nickel-and-dime people. Once they’re here, the room charge covers the lot. They want a cup of coffee before breakfast—or anytime—and the innkeeper isn’t right on the spot, they can make a cup here, or on the little machine we’re getting for The Library on the second floor. We should have a bowl of seasonal fruit maybe. Or cookies.”
“She already thought of cookies,” Owen pointed out.
“See, same page. That’s the idea. Relax, enjoy, be at home.”
Something in Hope warmed, and that warmth spread as they moved into Reception. She could barely see over boxes and tools, but she began to visualize. A pair of big barrel chairs in soft green in front of the brick fireplace. No desk, no counter, but a long, custom-made table for the innkeeper. Tile floors, tying in with the kitchen and lobby, and all the windows bringing in the light.
She knew she asked practical questions about checkin, computers, storage, security, but by the time they’d finished the main and started up, she understood why the Montgomerys had fallen in love.
“Sounds like my other boys are up on the third floor.” Justine glanced back. “Why don’t we start up there, and the innkeeper’s apartment? You can meet the rest of the family.”
“Perfect.”
She felt a little tug from the left as they started the turn toward the third floor.
“Elizabeth and Darcy,” Justine told her when she hesitated. “Both these front rooms have access to the porch over Main Street.”
For a moment she thought she smelled honeysuckle, turned back to look inside. And jumped when Avery shouted from below. “Are you up there?”
“Heading to three,” Owen called back.
“Took longer than I thought.” Avery jogged up. “What do you think?”
“It’s big, and wonderfully thought-out. I’ve only seen the ADA room on the main level as far as guest rooms. We’re going up to three, working down.”
“You can check out your apartment.”
With an indulgent shake of her head, Hope continued up, gripping the temporary rail. Imagination, she thought as she pulled her hand away again. She could have sworn she’d touched smooth metal.
“The innkeeper’s apartment.” Justine gestured. “And The Penthouse, where somebody’s busy.”
Hope stepped in behind her. She heard the whoosh, thud of a nail gun before she saw him. Sunlight flashed through the window where he worked. For a second, she couldn’t see his face, only had the impression of strength and competence as the nail gun thudded again.
He ran his hand down the wood—the same type of panel she’d seen framing the windows downstairs. Then he lowered the tool, shifted.
He stared at her out of cool, assessing eyes. From somewhere nearby another nail gun thudded. Justine spoke, introducing them, but Hope’s ears buzzed. She barely heard his name, felt a quick and foolish relief that it wasn’t Beckett.
Ryder.
She shook his hand—one with a healing scrape on the back, felt the hard, calloused palm briefly before he dropped it again.
“How ya doing?”
“Fine, thanks.” But she wasn’t entirely sure. The heat rose, seemed to concentrate right on that spot. Her brain throbbed from an excess of details, images.
She wanted suddenly, desperately, to sit down and drink something—anything—very cold.
“Are you okay, honey?”
She looked at Justine, whose voice came down a long tunnel. “Ah … too much coffee this morning,” she managed. “I’m a little dehydrated.”
Ryder flipped open the lid of a cooler for a bottle of water. When she just stared at it, he twisted off the top. “So hydrate.”
“Thanks.” For the first time she noticed the dog—the wonderfully homely mud brown dog—who sat with his head cocked, studying her. “That’s a lovely detail,” she said to keep herself from gulping half the contents in one go. “The side panels.”
“Yeah, they turned out.”
“Shit, out of ammo. You got any—” Beckett sauntered in. “Oh, hey.”
“And here’s Beckett,” Justine announced. “We’re showing Hope around.”
“Yeah, hi. I think we met for about five seconds a couple years ago. Welcome to The Penthouse. I was just across the hall in what may be your apartment. So … Clare’s not with you?”
“I called her before I came over,” Avery said. “She had to stop by TTP, some Internet glitch.”
“Let’s show you the rest of this space before we go through the apartment.” Justine gestured. “This will be the parlor, third-floor porch access through the door at the end of the hall. The bedroom’s in the back, with the bath between.”
Hope followed her down a short hall, then goggled. “This is a huge space. I love the floating wall.”
“My son, the architect. Counter with double sinks on this side, shower there. The tub, and it’s a beauty, on the other side of the wall. We’re going for lush here, intricate tile work, some mosaic touches, crystal sconces with brushed-nickel accents. Contemporary with a touch of Old World.”
The Penthouse equaled luxury, Hope decided, with a big, ornately carved four-poster showcased in the bedroom, with fancy stools at the foot, a dainty side chair.
She had a sense they’d make the space worth the climb.
She felt steady again when they went through the apartment across the hall. The wonderful windows again. A small-scale kitchen, but Owen was right, she wouldn’t need bigger. It jogged off a living room she thought she
could make both cozy and efficient. Not nearly the space she had now, even with the second bedroom, but access to the porch—and to the big, beautifully appointed inn.
It was certainly more than adequate, she mused as she wandered through. And more than twice the size of her first efficiency apartment.
Also a third-floor walk-up, she remembered.
Closet space wouldn’t be a problem. She’d just use the second bedroom for that as she’d have the office downstairs. If she wanted to have a guest, she could …
And when had she decided she wanted this job, wanted this place?
“It’s a good, practical space, and again well laid out.”
“If we come to terms, you can pick out any colors you like for the walls.” Justine smiled at her. “We can go out and see Westley and Buttercup, our other suite. It’s got its own outside entrance.”
“I’d love to see it.”
She loved it all, but she knew better than to leap into something without refining the details, negotiating terms, thinking it through.
This would be a major change—in geography, in lifestyle, in career. She couldn’t make a decision like this without giving it a great deal of thought.
“It’s going to be amazing.” She stood in The Lobby again, taking one last look around. “Every room is special, or will be. And the building has such character, such a good feel to it.”
“Could you love it?” Justine asked.
On a half laugh, Hope shook her head. “I think I already do.”
“Do you want the job?”
“Mom, we really have to—”
Justine simply waved Owen aside.
“We should both … Yes.” Saying it felt terrifying, and absolutely right. “I really do.”
“You’re hired.”
Avery let out a whoop, grabbed a shell-shocked Hope, and danced in a circle. Then she grabbed Justine and did the same. When she started for Owen, he threw up his hands.
“That’s a girl thing.”
So she punched him in the arm.
“I’m so happy. I’m so excited. Hope!” She grabbed Hope again, bounced.
“I—Mrs. Montgomery, are you sure?”
“Justine. We’re in this together now. I’m sure. Owen and his brothers will catch up. Now, why don’t you and I meet for lunch over at Vesta, say, about twelve thirty? We’ll have some wine and talk some more.”
“Yes, of course.”
Clare tapped on the door, pushed it open. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here. I got hung up. If one thing didn’t go screwy this morning, three other things did. Did you already go through?”
“Every room,” Avery said, grinning like a maniac.
“Oh well.”
“I’ll take you through what you haven’t already seen if you like.” Justine set a hand on Hope’s shoulder. “But first, say hello to our innkeeper.”
“You—Really? Really? Oh, Hope!”
Hope told herself she felt giddy because Clare was squeezing the air right out of her. And not because she’d just made one of the biggest decisions of her life more on the basis of emotion and instinct rather than analysis and intellect.
Since the women were talking a mile a minute, Owen slipped out and headed back upstairs.
He found his brothers discussing the logistics of the sink counter in The Penthouse bath.
“Mom hired her.”
“Aesthetically, it plays better if we …” Beckett stopped in midstream. “Huh?”
“I said Mom hired Hope Beaumont.”
“What do you mean, she hired her?” Ryder shoved his measuring tape back in his tool belt. “She can’t just hire her.”
“Well, she did.” Owen raked a hand through his hair. “On the spot. I couldn’t get a word in with all the squealing and dancing, especially after Clare came in and joined the chorus.”
“Clare’s here?”
“Mind on the target,” Ryder snapped. “How the hell did you let this happen?”
“Hey, don’t blame me. Plus side, Hope’s more than qualified, but—”
“She’s qualified to flounce around some fancy hotel in D.C., where she’s got staff and money to burn. Jesus, she climbed a couple flights of stairs and looked like she was going to keel over.” Disgust laced Ryder’s voice. “Probably because she’s walking around a damn construction zone in shoes with five-inch spikes. She was wearing a suit, for Christ’s sake.”
“Well, it was an interview.”
“She’s city. The innkeeper’s going to be key to whether this place gets off the ground. You and Mom talk to her for five minutes, and she’s on the fucking payroll.”
“I interviewed her for damn near an hour today, not including the phone call from the other day. I read her resume, checked it out.” The more Ryder objected, the more Owen sided with their mother. “She’s smart, and she knows the business. She brought up details we haven’t even thought of yet, and had suggestions.”
“Suggestions are easy. Making them work’s different. What’s going to happen the first time somebody spills their coffee on the floor? Is she going to call housekeeping? We don’t have housekeeping.”
“Did you even read her resume?” Owen shot back. “She’s been working since she was sixteen. She waited tables when she was in high school.”
“Big fucking deal. That’s high school. This is now. What happened to discussing key elements of this place and voting?”
“Ask Mom,” Owen suggested. “But if it came down to a vote, I’d add mine to Mom’s.” The argument solidified his stand.
“That’s just great. What about you?” Ryder stabbed a finger at Beckett.
“Yes, Beckett,” Justine said from the doorway, “what about you?”
Everybody froze, including Clare, who’d come up with Justine. Even as she tried to step back and make herself scarce, Justine clamped a hand on Clare’s arm. “No, that’s fine. This won’t take long. Ryder has objections to my choice of innkeeper, apparently. I take it Owen doesn’t.”
“I maybe would’ve … Not really,” Owen decided. Wisely.
“Beckett?”
Stuck, Beckett looked from his mother to Clare, and back again. “I really only talked to her for a second. It’s a key position, like Ry said. It’s the key position. But I did read her resume, and I agree with Owen that she’s more than qualified. She obviously made a strong impression on you or you wouldn’t have hired her. So … I guess we’ve got an innkeeper.”
“Then that’s settled. Now, before I take Clare out to see W&B, I’m going to tell the three of you morons you’re damn lucky Hope didn’t come back up with me. She might have changed her mind about working for a trio of rude, bitchy men. And you.” She pointed at Ryder. “I’ll give you six weeks after she’s worked here to apologize for questioning my judgment.”
“Mom—”
“That’s all I have to say.” She cut him off with another point of the finger. “Come on, Clare.”
After one apologetic glance, Clare followed in Justine’s steaming wake.
“Great,” Beckett muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face. “That was just great.”
“ ‘I guess we’ve got an innkeeper,’ ” Ryder mimicked. “You only went along like that because you want to get lucky with Clare.”
“Jesus, shut up. And it has nothing to do with Clare.” Or hardly. “She’s qualified; Mom likes her. That’s that.”
“We don’t even know her.”
Though he was fairly steamed himself at this point, Beckett nodded. “So we’ll get to know her. We’ve got that apartment across St. Paul. It’s vacant right now. We put her up there, have her work with Mom and Owen for a while. Ordering supplies, organizing the inventory, whatever. She gets a taste of small-town living, and we get a better sense of her.”
Ryder opened his mouth to protest on principle, then rethought. “That’s actually a pretty good idea. If she bails, or is just a screwup, we’ll know before it’s too late.”
“And if
I could toss some of the phone calls, the lists, the grunt work to her, I’d have more time here and in the shop. We give her the apartment and a small hourly wage.” Owen nodded. “This could work. If she’ll agree.”
“Tell Mom,” Ryder suggested. “She’ll get her to agree.”
“I’ll go run it by her. My idea,” Beckett added, and took off.
He caught them at the base of the outside steps. “Hey! Hold on a minute. Did you get the full tour this time?” he asked Clare as he came down.
“Yes. It’s going to be wonderful. I’ve got more ideas.” She tapped her notebook. “Justine and I are going to talk about them once I get them in some sort of order. Thanks for taking me through. I really need to get going.”
“Can you wait a minute—you could weigh in on this. Mom, how about asking Hope if she’d move up here now, or as soon as she can? We could give her the apartment across the street. It would give her time to acclimate to the town, get to know the area. And she could help you and Owen with the stuff you and Owen do.”
Justine tipped down her sunglasses, eyed him over the top. “Whose idea is this?”
“Well, mine, but Ry and Owen—”
“It’s a good one. You are, temporarily at least, my favorite son. I’ll talk to her about it over lunch. We’ll talk soon, Clare. Just email me some of the copy whenever you think you’re ready.”
“I will.”
“I’m going to call Carolee.” Justine pulled out her phone as she walked away.
“Sorry about the family drama.”
“We have plenty of our own. Does Ryder really not want Hope?”
“He’s just pissed Mom didn’t consult him.” Beckett left out issues like city, suits, and five-inch spikes. “Listen, I thought maybe I’d swing by later, give you a hand with the yard work.”
“The yard work?”
“Get the grass mowed for you. I miss mowing grass.”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you, but I mowed this morning.”
“This morning? It’s still morning.”