by Glynna Kaye
“Then I’ll let her know you’re here.” Lillian’s smile evaporated as she headed to the rear of the inn.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
Knowing what she did from Aunt Viola about Charlotte Gyles and her history of animosity toward Hunter Ridge, why had she encouraged her aunt to email her employer with what might be interpreted as demands? In fact, her aunt had balked at emailing the requests, but Lillian had been persistent, naively placing confidence in the fact that Mrs. Gyles—formerly Mrs. Douglas Hunter of Hunter Ridge—held her aunt in high regard. Hadn’t she, in many respects, indulged Aunt Viola in allowing her to manage the inn when she’d retired from her librarian position?
Lillian hadn’t expected a backlash.
The kitchen and dining room were empty of both aunt and guests, so she let herself into the two-bedroom apartment she and Taylor currently shared with the inn’s manager.
The little girl was sprawled on a floral love seat, her nose buried in a book, and Lillian’s heart contracted at her resemblance to Lillian’s younger sister, Annalise. Slim build. An upturned nose. Long-lashed green eyes that reflected a wary fragileness not often seen in a child her age.
But was that any surprise?
Her mother, red-eyed and sniffling, had dropped her daughter off on the first day of June, whispering that she needed time to breathe. To live life apart from the never-ending responsibility of child-rearing. She had a new man in her life—of course. And right then and there, she handed off Taylor’s overstuffed suitcase, gave her bewildered daughter a hug and drove away.
Again.
The look Taylor gave Lillian as she entered the apartment and placed the ticket envelope on the table was anything but welcoming. That was a familiar pattern that always followed when the child’s mother put in an unexpected appearance. In a few days, however, Taylor would recover from her mom’s visit Saturday, and all would be well again—or fairly well—between aunt and niece.
Drop off. Visit. Reclaim. Drop off. Visit. Reclaim.
How long would it be before Annalise again tired of the latest man in her life and bounded back into Taylor’s, sweeping her from Lillian’s arms and away from a stable home? Annalise wasn’t a bad person, but she was immature and too often thought solely of herself. Was Lillian morally obligated to try to gain legal custody? Or was she fooling herself that if given the opportunity she could eventually break down the walls her niece had built around her heart, which had her pulling away when anyone got too close.
Shortly after Taylor’s arrival, Lillian had guiltily consulted a lawyer. But he’d warned that with her being a single woman, currently working part-time and in temporary housing with an elderly aunt, she didn’t have much to prove that her situation was superior to her sister’s. And now, if the inn closed, they’d lose the roof over their heads until other arrangements could be made. So things would look worse than ever, should she attempt to take legal action now.
“Is Aunt Viola here, Taylor?”
Focused again on the book, she didn’t look up. “Nap.”
That extreme weariness was one of the reasons Lillian continued to stay on with an aunt who’d always welcomed her for visits when as a child and adolescent Lillian needed an anchor in the storm of her parents’ seminomadic lifestyle. An anchor against which Annalise chose to rebel.
As much as Lillian wanted to continue the discussion with Denny, however, she wouldn’t wake her aunt. She’d be groggy. Not at her best. Not how Lillian wanted Charlotte Gyles’s son to see her. With a regretful glance at Taylor, she stepped back into the hallway and pulled the door shut. Then, mustering what she hoped was a convincing smile, she returned to the front of the inn, where she’d left Mr. Hunter.
In her absence, he’d moved from the entryway into the front parlor and was inspecting the fireplace. Had he checked out the crack in the window? The drapery rod pulling loose from the wall and the water stain on the ceiling? What were his qualifications, anyway, to be “evaluating” the inn?
And judging her aunt.
Unfortunately, the latter was what he was undoubtedly here for as much as anything. To report back to his mother that her aging friend was no longer capable of fulfilling her responsibilities. The condition of the property was a secondary issue.
Sensing her presence, the man turned in her direction with an easy smile, his brows lifted in expectation.
“I’m afraid my aunt’s unable to join us at the moment. If you’d care to wait...?” Please, please don’t let him wait, Lord.
“As a matter of fact—” He glanced at his watch. “I’m joining my father shortly and need to check into my cabin at the Hideaway first. I got to town early and thought I’d stop in to introduce myself. I didn’t plan to inspect the property today.”
Did he expect her to thank him for that? Truth of the matter was that he’d hoped to catch them off guard. Wouldn’t he have otherwise called ahead for an appointment?
“You’ll return tomorrow, then? Say ten a.m.?” She wasn’t working at the library Tuesday, and her aunt would be at her best to meet him in the morning, so she may as well call a few shots here. Control what she could.
“Ten it is.”
He thrust out his hand, and she reluctantly shook it, irritated at the way his larger one engulfed hers and sent a betraying tingle racing up her arm. He’s nice enough to look at, but don’t make the same mistake twice.
For a fleeting moment their gazes locked, questioning, as if seeking to draw out the secrets the other harbored. Then he released her hand and headed out the door.
Intending to follow him onto the porch, she abruptly halted at the threshold, loath to step out on the street where teenager Randy Gray was ogling Denny Hunter’s shiny sports car. Her face heated. Not a single time since she’d left Cameron Gray standing at the altar in June had his younger brother failed to greet her with flapping wings and clucking chicken sounds.
She stepped farther back into the shadowed interior. But too late. The blond fourteen-year-old had glimpsed her and, fists curled under his armpits, he strutted slowly around the back of the car, his head bobbing. The toe of his tennis shoe scratched at the blacktop surface. A cluck. A squawk. Then he threw back his head with a yelping laugh and raced off down the street.
A bewildered-looking Denny glanced back at her.
She held up her hands in a beats-me gesture. “What can I say? Small-town eccentricity. Get used to it.”
Eccentric or not, though, she’d stay inside until certain Cameron’s brother wasn’t circling back. She had to prepare her aunt for what might be coming—and to decide what they were going to do about it if worse came to worst.
Chapter Two
“As much as I don’t look forward to this,” Denny mumbled under his breath when he pulled his car up outside the inn shortly before ten o’clock Tuesday morning, “it can’t be any worse than dinner with Dad last night.”
Like oil and water, he and Doug Hunter had clashed throughout the meal. That wasn’t surprising, considering it was his dad who’d long ago told him he wasn’t an easy kid to love. Maybe he wasn’t, but being respected trumped being loved any day in Denny’s book. And while they’d seen each other intermittently through the years—the last time being when Dad witnessed Denny’s recent wedding fiasco, which, thankfully, wasn’t mentioned during dinner—he didn’t have much hope they’d ever be close.
To Denny’s relief, his grown half siblings and their spouses hadn’t joined them for the meal, and Vickie, his dad’s second wife, excused herself to attend a Bible study group before her husband got revved up to launch in on the sins of Charlotte Gyles. Not surprisingly, what his father related didn’t jibe with the story Denny’s mother told as to what brought about the demise of their relationship—and her acquisition of well over a half dozen of his inherited Hunter Ridge properties in a divorce settlement. Full custody of Denny, too. Mo
re than a few other never-before-heard twists were thrown in. And although he did his best to listen to Doug Hunter rant as he made sure his son “got the truth of it,” Denny wasn’t going to get caught in the middle of a domestic brouhaha that nobody had settled after three decades.
Get over it, Dad.
Considering the example his parents set for matrimony, it’s a wonder he’d ever garnered the courage to ask Corrine to marry him. Then again, she had her own baggage to deal with and her own reasons for accepting his proposal.
Her own reasons for publicly dumping him, as well.
But he wasn’t going to think about that now.
He’d just stepped out of the car when his phone vibrated. As he paced the sidewalk in front of the inn, his assistant, Betsy, filled him in on what had transpired at the office since his departure. His stepbrother, Vic—brand-new VP of operations—had stopped by looking for him. He’d loitered awhile in Denny’s office with the door closed, then left.
Not good.
With an uneasy feeling, he wrapped up the call, tucked his phone away and then stepped up on the porch just as the front door opened. There stood a plump, silver-haired older woman dressed in a dark green paisley-print dress. Considering what his mother had shared about Miss Everett’s health issues, he’d expected a more fragile-seeming woman than the one before him.
She smiled. And although they were likely close to five decades apart, he could see a faint family resemblance to Lillian in that smile.
“Miss Everett, I’m Denny Hunter, Charlotte’s son.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she nodded knowingly. “I remember you.”
Remembered him? Perhaps the downturn in health wasn’t solely a physical one?
Lillian appeared behind her aunt, more casually dressed today in a denim skirt and a scoop-neck blue top. She was every bit as pretty as the day before. “Aunt Viola tells me you were in her Toddler Twos class at Sunday school.”
His mother had taken him to church? He had no recollection of that. To his knowledge, he’d only set foot in a church for weddings and funerals.
“My, my, yes,” the older woman continued as she studied him. Was she looking for similarities between him and his mother? His father? “You were a cute little guy. Chubby. All serious. But you loved the puppet stories. Especially David and Goliath.”
He shook his head. “I wish I shared those memories.”
“I’ll see if I can find photos. I always took pictures of my classes.”
“Let’s not leave Denny standing out here on the porch, Aunt Viola.”
Lillian offered him a slightly warmer smile than the one he’d departed with yesterday. It had been obvious she hadn’t taken his visit well, but she seemed to have recovered her poise and had no doubt by now enlightened her aunt as to the purpose of his trip to Hunter Ridge. Hopefully that had given the older woman an opportunity to absorb it. Come to terms with the possibilities.
“Please come in,” Lillian added. “What do you want us to show you first?”
He’d much rather be left to poke around on his own, but this was Viola’s home as well as an inn his mother owned, and he should respect that.
“Lillian tells me,” Viola said, as they moved through the entryway and into the parlor, “that after reviewing our recommendations, Charlotte has concerns about investing in upgrades to the property. That she may choose instead to permanently close the inn.”
“That’s certainly an option on the table, yes.” One that he’d do his best to get his mother to see the wisdom of. He’d perused the accounting ledger of income and expenses before his trip, and the operation here wasn’t much more than a break-even proposition. He was surprised his stepfather hadn’t discouraged her from throwing away more money on it. Then again, Elden Gyles adored Denny’s mother. Doted on her. Indulged her. Which, according to Denny’s father, had played a part in the breakup of his parents’ marriage.
But while he’d come to the conclusion from afar that the inn was a losing proposition, it didn’t seem like it would be easy now to push for a permanent closing in light of meeting Miss Everett face-to-face. The Sunday-school teacher who’d thought him cute would be forced to find a new home and a job elsewhere.
He logged on to his phone and pulled up a list of concerns that he’d gleaned from Viola’s emails to his mother. “For starters, why don’t you direct me to the items you emailed about? I saw the water stain on the ceiling in this room yesterday. Has the source of the leak been addressed?”
“A toilet upstairs overflowed last spring.” Viola shook her head. “We got a plumber in here to fix that, but not before it did damage down here.”
“I noticed the crack in the windowpane, too.”
“That’s a more recent addition.” She rolled her eyes. “Teenagers were throwing a football around in the street during the wee hours of the morning last weekend, and it got away from them.”
Teenagers. Chicken Man?
Lillian moved to the window and pulled back one of the heavy drapes. “Because the house is old, the window frame has become warped. The repairman suggested it be reframed when he replaces the pane, but that’s a greater expense than a single piece of glass, and we’d want the frame to match the other windows, not be a glaring modernism.”
He keyed a few notes into his phone, aware that Lillian was watching him closely. No doubt she saw him as a harbinger of doom, swooping into her aunt’s quiet, secure world. He was known for his good business sense, decisiveness and an unsentimental eagle eye on the bottom line. That was what people—including his stepfather—counted on him for. Respected him for. But for some reason, it bothered him that those highly regarded traits would be less than admirable to Ms. Keene in this current situation.
“Anything else in here?”
Viola looked to Lillian, who nodded for her to continue. “The electrical outlet on that far wall is dead. There’s a buckled floorboard behind the sofa. Wallpaper’s pulling loose in places. I keep gluing it, but it won’t stay down.”
“And the fireplace.” Lillian darted a look at him, as if sensing that evidence for closing the inn was mounting. “The flue is cleaned regularly, but it needs serious work both inside and out for safety’s sake. When we had it inspected, recommendations were made that we need to follow if we intend to use it this coming autumn.”
“Folks do love sitting by a crackling fire on a chilly evening,” Viola added. “It lends a homey touch and an excuse for guests to gather around and get to know each other.”
He knew that to be true. “Do the guest rooms have fireplaces?”
“A few. But they’ve long been sealed up.”
A mixed bag. He continued to take notes as the issues in this room alone rapidly tallied up. It was more of the same as they progressed through the downstairs. A cozy library. Small office. Spacious dining room. Laundry and storage rooms. Assessing a kitchen featuring weary-looking appliances, cracked floor tile and a chipped sink led to an enjoyable chat in the adjoining breakfast nook with an elderly couple who were finishing up a morning break of fresh fruit and pastries. Viola pointed out the entrance to her apartment, but didn’t mention work to be done there or invite him to take a look.
Overall, the house was well cared for. Clean. Neat. But it was aging. Neither the somewhat shabby furnishings, heavy and dark with a south-of-the-border feel, nor flooring and wall and window treatments created an appealing ambience that would lure guests back for a second visit. He hadn’t seen the upstairs rooms yet, but clearly the inn required a lot of work, time and money. Three things he couldn’t in good conscience encourage his mother to invest in—or willingly agree to oversee himself.
A phone in the office rang, and as Viola went to answer it, he noticed her limp, more pronounced than when he’d first arrived. From the hip broken earlier that year, no doubt. Her cheery demeanor had faded as their route progressed
through the inn, giving way to evident weariness. But his presence and known purpose undoubtedly contributed to that. How did his mother expect him to gauge the state of her health? He wasn’t a doctor or physical therapist, and he sure couldn’t count on her niece for an unbiased opinion. But he had a hard time picturing Viola with the 24/7 energy level that an inn demanded.
Inwardly he cringed when Lillian, perhaps sensing the direction his mind was going, gave him an uncertain smile. Letting her aunt down wasn’t going to be easy. Where would a seventy-seven-year-old woman find affordable housing and pick up a monthly paycheck around here? But he couldn’t let his mother keep sinking her capital into a money pit like this just to subsidize the lifestyle of someone she’d known while residing here but a few short years. And long ago, at that.
But then Lillian opened the multipaned French doors just off the breakfast room, and they stepped into a walled-in garden.
And everything changed.
* * *
Lillian caught a flash of surprise in Denny’s eyes as he gazed around the sun-dappled, expansive stone-walled garden.
He glanced at her, his eyes questioning. “This is...unexpected.”
“We call it the Secret Garden. We can comfortably seat about thirty-five or forty for a wedding. Fifteen or twenty for a luncheon.”
“Nice.”
And indeed it was. The perimeter of the one-hundred-foot-deep space featured a variety of trees and bushes and was punctuated by a flagstone walkway leading to a spacious patio that faced a gazebo. Native perennials abounded, skillfully woven in to complement colorful annuals and an occasional stone bench.
“My aunt’s green thumb and artistic eye shine the brightest here.” Despite a short growing season at this more-than-mile-high elevation, the walls provided a protected microclimate of sorts where greenery flourished, colors and textures changing as the seasons passed. Even wintertime brought to it a stark, pristine beauty. “This gem keeps the Pinewood Inn in the black. It’s booked from late spring through midfall for small weddings and receptions, private parties, and luncheons.”