Secrets of the Riverview Inn

by Molly O'Keefe

  She was thirty-seven years old and a liar, now. Another black mark on Jared’s hell-bound soul.

  “I ran my own business for five years previous to France and at the same time worked at a holistic health center as part of an integrated care system for people suffering from terminal illness. It felt important to give those people as much comfort as I could. As their bodies could fee.

  “That’s all right here, Delia.” Gabe looked down at his clipboard, where she guessed her résumé was. “I’m hoping to find out a little bit about you. About what you think you can offer and what you think we can offer you.”

  Right. She felt desperation well up in her gut like sticky tar, clinging to her courage and will, dragging her down to someplace scary.

  “I want to be a part of something that people love. Something generous and good,” she said, the truth like an elixir, clearing away the fear and despair, the hunger and sleeplessness. Jared used to mock her for thinking she could help people with her “rubdowns.” But she’d seen the proof firsthand.

  But even as she said the words, they felt like a lie. She hadn’t been living a generous life in far too long. Jared’s poison had infiltrated her being and she felt small and bitter. So she reached deep into the reasons she’d become a massage therapist, trying hard in this beautiful place to reconnect with the woman she’d once been. “I want to work side by side with people who work hard to do their best, to provide the best experience for guests. I want to help people recover, to feel better, to step lighter and maybe laugh a little more. That’s why I loved working at the holistic center. I want to make people’s lives a little bit easier—”

  “Done. You’re hired.”

  Delia blinked and Gabe laughed. “It’s why I started this inn. I wanted to give people a home away from home and you fit into that perfectly.”

  She eyed him skeptically. Nothing. Nothing in her life lately had been this easy. When she’d read the ad for this position on line, it had read like a dream come true considering her suddenly changed circumstances—seasonal, middle of nowhere, starting immediately.

  She’d applied on her first day in South Carolina and the second she got the e-mail from Gabe asking her to come up for an interview, she’d packed Josie into the car and driven north.

  Gabe finally shrugged. “Truth is, we haven’t had that many applicants. Not many people are excited about living in the Catskills in the middle of winter.”

  That made her laugh. She wasn’t all that excited about it, either. And she certainly never would have come here if she didn’t have to. But it would be the last place anyone would look for her. She was a Southern woman, with blood as thin as sweet tea.

  “But,” he was quick to state, “even if we’d gotten the résumés I do believe you’d still get the job. You’re a good fit—I could tell when you walked in. I have instincts about people.”

  You and me both, buddy. She just hoped he trusted his more than she did her own.

  She clenched her hands a bit tighter behind her back to stop herself from throwing her arms around him.

  “I suppose you’d like to know the particulars?” he asked, and she pretended to be interested.

  “Of course.”

  “On paper the salary isn’t much but it includes room and board. Tips, of course, are yours. You need to let Chef Tim know of any dietary problems—”

  “That’s great.”

  “You’ll be a contract employee. So no health benefits. Taxes will be your problem. Cash under the table for the first two months after that checks will be made out to Delia Johnson.”

  “That’s no problem.”

  She needed to get an ID made. Something fake. If she stayed that long.

  Delia shook her head. She didn’t need any more. A roof, food for her daughter, someplace safe for her to catch her breath and figure out what to do next.

  “It would be a real pleasure to work here,” she said. “A real—” relief, blessing, gift, godsend “—pleasure.”

  Gabe held out his hand and Delia put her clammy palm into his. “Welcome aboard, Delia Johnson. We hope you’ll stay awhile.”

  Not likely, she thought, but shook on it anyway.

  Max shook the snow out of his hair and stomped his boots on the rug at the front door. Gabe hated when he used the front door, tracking in snow and mud from outside, which was pretty much why Max used it.

  The winter months were slow. All he had to pass the time was building his shed and irritating his brother. And the snowstorm outside was making the former impossible.

  I’m thirty-six years old, he thought. I should have more in my life.

  He looked up and found the little girl, Josie, staring at him as if he were a wild animal coming in for dinner.

  He almost growled just to see what she would do.

  “Hi,” she said after a moment.

  Max looked around for the mother bear but didn’t see her. Should she see him talking to her daughter, chances were not good she’d welcome that.

  He didn’t blame her. Since the shooting, mothers seemed to have a sense about him.

  But this little girl looked so forlorn and small sitting at the big table that he decided to risk the wrath of Mama Bear.

  “Hi, again.” He stepped over to her table and pulled off his gloves, taking a look at the book she had open in front of her. “Sudoku, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Her lip lifted in a half smile and her hair—hidden earlier under her pink hat—fell over her shoulder. Red. Like her mother’s, only a bit more blond.

  Max was at loose ends. It was snowing too hard to work. There were no repairs that needed to be done. No point in shoveling snow while it was still falling. Dad had left yesterday for downstate to talk to his lawyer about something. Alice was lying around with her feet up. And his brother must be checking in Josie’s mother, so he wasn’t around to annoy.

  “I’m bored,” he said, the words popping out before he’d finished thinking them.

  “Me, too.” Josie’s sigh was long-suffering and pained.

  “Yeah?” He pushed out a chair with his foot and sat. He liked kids and he especially liked kids with attitude, which Josie had in spades. “Want to hand me one of those puzzle books?”

  “There’s only one,” she said, and tossed him a different book from the stack. “You can have this.”

  “A Barbie coloring book?” He opened it and grabbed a crayon from the box between them. “My favorite.”

  Josie smiled and bent over her book of math puzzles, but watched him carefully out of the corner of her eye.

  He worked diligently on Prince Charming’s military jacket.

  “So?” he said, coloring over the medals pinned to the cartoon’s chest, saving him the pain of the memories required to have earned those medals. “Where you from?”

  Josie stopped looking at him, focused on the puzzle, running her pencil over the six she’d written until it was black. “We move around a lot.”

  Warning sirens wailed in Max’s head.

  “You sound like you’re from the South.”

  “Texas,” she said.

  “Have you ever seen this much snow?”

  She shook her head.

  “What do you think of it?”

  She wrinkled her nose and he grinned then, changing tactics, he held out his hand. “I’m Max Mitchell. I live here.”

  “I’m Josie G…Johnson.” The sirens wailed louder. Something wasn’t right. “And I think I live here, too.”

  He blinked. “You and your mo—”

  “Josie?” Mama Bear was back and she was not happy. Max put down his crayon and turned to look at Delia standing, all her feathers ruffled, beside Gabe.

  “Hi, Mama,” Josie said, looking like a kid caught stealing.

  “Max.” Gabe stepped neatly into the fray. “I want to introduce you to Delia Johnson. She’ll be our new massage therapist and spa manager.”

  Uh-oh.

  “You’re not a guest?” Max nearly cringed at his o
wn question.

  “No,” Delia said, stepping to stand next to her daughter. She placed a hand on the little girl’s shoulder as if to remind everyone what the teams were. “We’ll be here awhile.”

  Back off, her blue eyes said, and Max stood, ready to comply.

  “Welcome,” he said. “Both of you.” He turned to leave just as the kitchen door swung open and Alice, his very pregnant sister-in-law, waddled in.

  Hot on her heels was Cameron, one of Max’s at-risk kids who now worked here. Formerly Alice’s assistant, these days he was more like Alice’s babysitter.

  “I tried to keep her in the office, like you said. But she wouldn’t stay,” Cameron said, looking both panicked and pissed off. Which, frankly, was a pretty standard reaction to pregnant Alice. She was prickly when she was in a good mood—pregnant she was live ammunition.

  “You’re supposed to be lying down,” Gabe said, his eyes shooting sparks at his wife.

  “I’ve been lying down,” Alice griped. “I’ve been lying down so much my butt is flat. The doctor said small amounts of activity were fine as long as I took it easy.”

  “Are you taking it easy?”

  “No,” Cameron answered for her.

  “Yes!” Alice amended, shooting Cameron a shut-up-or-die glare. As she turned, she caught sight of the audience and her fair cheeks blazed red. “Oops.”

  “Delia,” Gabe said, his jaw clenched, “this is my wife. Six months’ pregnant and on bed-rest orders from her doctor.”

  “Modified bed rest,” Alice said with a thin-lipped smile. She held out her hand to shake Delia’s and her smile became more sincere. “And we’re being so careful it’s ridiculous. Nice to meet you. Welcome to the inn.”

  “Thank you,” Delia said. “I’m really looking forward to working with y’all.”

  Max noticed that Delia turned on the charm for Alice and Gabe, which made her reaction to him all the more pronounced. He used to have a way with people, pretty redheads included. Now, he felt tongue-tied. Lost. As though he was hidden somewhere and by the time he found the right words to say the moment was gone.

  Everyone had moved on.

  “This is my daughter, Josie.” Delia stepped back and Josie stood to shake Alice’s hand, the total picture of good manners, with no eight-year-old smirk.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Josie said in her soft drawl.

  She glanced at him and he rolled his eyes just to let her know he was on to her.

  “I’m Cameron.” Cameron stepped forward, holding out his hand like a grown-up and Max couldn’t help but feel some pride. When Cameron had first arrived at the inn, he’d been sullen, angry and disrespectful. Looking at the sixteen-year-old now, he’d never guess.

  “I’m going to show my wife back to her bed,” Gabe said, mostly to Alice, who rolled her eyes. “Max? Can you show them to the West Suite and give them the ten-cent tour?”

  Max had been about to make his silent getaway, but now all eyes were on him. Including Delia’s wide blue ones.

  “Sure,” he finally agreed, careful not to look at Delia or Josie.

  He’d spent ten years as a detective and it wasn’t hard to figure out that things were not what they seemed with these two women. And Max hated that. It made his gut act up. He’d left the detective life behind and come here so that his gut could grab a rest.

  He rubbed at his stomach and hoped that the beautiful Southern woman would get tired of the cold and isolation and leave. Soon.

  Gabe and Alice left the room, arguing about the definition of modified and Delia and Josie were left alone with Max. Delia wanted to call the couple back, keep them close, because with their absence, Max Mitchell’s presence became all the more disconcerting.

  He waited silently, a specter at a respectful distance. Still, for every moment that passed, she grew more and more uncomfortable. She wanted to holler, stop staring. But he wasn’t staring. He wasn’t even glancing their way.

  I’m losing my ever-loving mind, she thought.

  She pressed her fingertips against the high neck of her shirt and the bruises along her neck pulsed with a sore, dull ache.

  She was tired. Hungry. Obviously not thinking clearly. Some food and some sleep and a new plan would clear part of this fog and doubt.

  “If you could just show us to our room?” Delia said, making a point of not meeting his eyes. “We won’t bother you for a tour. We need to unpack and clean up, right?” she asked Josie, tucking an arm around her daughter, who nodded eagerly.

  “Do you have any luggage?” Max asked. “I’ll grab it from your car.”

  “I can do it,” she said, and quickly smiled. The last thing she needed was Max Mitchell privy to the sad state of their garbage bag luggage. “I hate to put you out.”

  He looked for a moment as though he was going to argue. Then he nodded, spun on his heel and walked over to the check-in desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out a key, made a note in the old-fashioned register on top of the desk.

  “Ready?” he asked, his thick black eyebrows arched over his dark eyes.

  Delia nodded and Max was off, up the giant staircase that led up to the second-floor rooms. His long legs made short work of the steps and she and Josie practically had to quick march to keep up.

  “Your room is back here,” he said over his shoulder. “You’re essentially alone in this part of the lodge.”

  “Where do you sleep?” Josie asked.

  Delia gave her daughter a stern stare. “You don’t have to answer—”

  “It’s no problem. I’m in one of the cabins this winter,” he said. “My dad usually stays in this part of the lodge, but he’s away for the next week, so you’ve got it to yourself.” He shot a quick grin at Josie over his big, wide shoulder and she grinned back.

  Her daughter clearly trusted him. Liked him.

  He was making an effort, Delia could tell, to put them at ease. His smile, while rusty, had a trace of his brother’s charm and she found herself smiling in return.

  “Is your cabin like the one you’re building?” Josie asked, and Delia looked down at her daughter, stunned.

  “A little bit bigger.”

  “You guys sure got friendly.” She tried to make the comment sound light.

  “Here you go,” he said, standing in front of a wide door with the words West Suite burned in script on the oak panel. He held out the key, and carefully dropped it in her hand when she reached for it.

  The key was warm, hot even, from his skin.

  “Where’s your scar?” Josie asked, and Delia nearly gasped in horror.

  “Josie! That’s not polite—”

  “What scar?” Max asked.

  “Gabe told us about the scar…right here.” She lifted her thin little chin and drew a finger across the white skin of her neck. “He said pirates got you, but I don’t believe him.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Josie,” Delia butted in. “Gabe was kidding—”

  “It was pirates,” Max said, giving Delia a quick smile to indicate Josie’s interest was okay. And then he tilted his face, revealing a thick band of scar tissue that went from his ear halfway to his chin along the hairline of his scruffy whiskers.

  Delia bit her lip and Josie gasped.

  It was bad, that scar. A reminder of something violent. Something bloody and scary. Delia was sure of it.

  She wrapped her hand around Josie’s shoulders, pulling her slightly closer, away from Max. They were running away from those things, from violence and injury and pain. She was trying, desperately, to leave it all behind.

  She quickly unlocked the door so Josie could run in and flop facedown across one of the big beds.

  “Shout if you need any help,” Max said politely.

  “Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to mean it, to not run inside and lock the door against him. “We appreciate it.” From inside the room Josie squealed and Delia stepped farther into the room.

  “Your daughter—”

 
“Is tired,” she said quietly. Earnestly. Code she hoped he understood.

  “Right,” he said as if he’d read her mind. He nodded, stepped back and was gone before she could blink.

  Shaken slightly by Max and her reaction to him, she shut the door behind her and gave herself a moment. Just a moment to give in to all the things she really couldn’t afford. Doubt. Wishes. Hopes that she could fall asleep and everything in her life would be right again.

  Josie darted out of the bathroom to stand in the box of light coming in from the windows. Her hair sparkled and glittered, and her smile, unguarded and genuine, was like a pinprick to Delia’s heart. Josie turned to face her and slowly, like the sun setting on the flat, barren desert she came from, the smile vanished only to be replaced by caution and worry that made Delia want to howl.

  “Everything okay, Mama?” Josie asked, adult worry stamped on her young face.

  The past year had aged Josie, turned her from a little girl to this changeling. Divorce was hard—Delia was proof of that. Having survived, barely, her own parents’ split, she’d always sworn she wouldn’t put her own children through the experience.

  A promise she’d tried so hard to keep. Yet, here she was.

  Delia braced herself against the door, let it hold her up when her knees wanted to buckle, while she wished, with all her heart, with every cell and granule of her self, that Josie had a different kind of mom. A better kind.

  “Everything is great,” Delia lied, smiling. Those divorce books told her that Josie would be susceptible to Delia’s moods, so if she pretended everything was okay, Josie might start to believe it. And maybe Delia could, too. Someday.

  3

  Delia stroked Josie’s hair—clean and sweet smelling—over the pillow while her little girl slept. Josie would never let her do this while awake.

  She used to, of course, six months ago. Before France. Before Jared lost his mind and self-control.

  Delia had thought, stupidly, that the divorce had been bad enough. But this? How could they possibly recover from what Jared was doing to them?