Also By Ashley Farley
Hope Springs Series
Dream Big, Stella!
Show Me the Way
Mistletoe and Wedding Bells
* * *
Stand Alone
Tangled in Ivy
Lies that Bind
Life on Loan
Only One Life
Home for Wounded Hearts
Nell and Lady
Sweet Tea Tuesdays
Saving Ben
* * *
Sweeney Sisters Series
Saturdays at Sweeney’s
Tangle of Strings
Boots and Bedlam
Lowcountry Stranger
Her Sister’s Shoes
* * *
Magnolia Series
Beyond the Garden
Magnolia Nights
* * *
Scottie’s Adventures
Breaking the Story
Merry Mary
Copyright © 2020 by Ashley Farley
All rights reserved.
Cover design: damonza.com
Editor: Patricia Peters at A Word Affair LLC
Leisure Time Books, a division of AHF Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
About this Story
1. Presley
2. Everett
3. Presley
4. Stella
5. Everett
6. Presley
7. Everett
8. Presley
9. Everett
10. Presley
11. Everett
12. Presley
13. Stella
14. Presley
15. Everett
16. Presley
17. Presley
18. Stella
19. Everett
20. Presley
21. Presley
22. Everett
23. Presley
24. Presley
25. Everett
26. Presley
27. Everett
28. Presley
29. Stella
30. Presley
31. Everett
32. Stella
33. Presley
Other Books in the Series
Also By Ashley Farley
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About this Story
Two lost souls meet by chance in an explosive tale of romance and suspense.
Presley Ingram has often wondered about her birth parents. Yet her 23andMe test kit remains unopened in her bedside table drawer. When she finds an address on a torn envelope in her adoption file upon her adoptive mother’s death, she makes an impulsive decision to travel to the mountains of Virginia in search of answers. In the charming town of Hope Springs, she discovers her dream job as event planner at the prestigious Inn at Hope Springs Farms and the potential for romance with a ruggedly handsome bartender. Presley has an uncanny knack for reading people. While she suspects Everett has a genuine heart, she’s convinced he’s hiding something from his previous life.
Everett Baldwin is on the run from his past. He’s hiding out under an assumed name and working as a bartender while his dreams of becoming a country music star slip away. When opportunity knocks, Everett is forced to face his demons in order to move on with his life. Secrets are revealed and chaos ensues. Will Everett be able to salvage his relationship with the woman of his dreams?
1
Presley
Presley waits in her parked rental car across from the address she found on the torn envelope in her adoption folder. When she discovered the file in her mother’s desk drawer late yesterday afternoon, she booked the next available flight to Virginia. What is she even doing here? She’s not interested in medical history. A genetic testing website could determine if she possesses the dreaded breast cancer gene or whether she’s at risk for Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s. But Presley’s test kit, purchased over a year ago from 23andMe, remains unopened in her bedside table drawer back in Nashville.
Kids on bikes and young mothers pushing baby strollers pass by, seemingly oblivious to the stranger in their midst. The neighborhood is Norman Rockwell picturesque, like one might expect in a small town called Hope Springs. Maple trees with brilliant orange leaves line the street. Pansies in yellows and purples border sidewalks leading to small front porches bearing displays of pumpkins and gourds and mums. Most of the houses are two-story brick colonials with well-tended lawns. But the whitewashed brick and Wedgewood-blue front door make number 237 stand out from the rest on Hillside Drive.
Presley drums her fingers against the steering wheel. She’s been here two hours. Should she leave and come back later? She checks the time on the dash. Five forty-three. She’ll stay until six.
What does she want from the people she’s waiting for? Another family? Because her mother . . . her adoptive mother, Renee, died two months ago and left her all alone in the world. That’s not it. Presley isn’t afraid of being alone. She has no siblings. She lost her beloved father to cancer when she was a young child. This inner sense of disconnect has nothing to do with Renee’s death. Presley feels a calling, like there’s someone else in the universe searching for her. She’s not looking to disrupt anyone’s life. She simply wants to know who her people are. To look into the faces of others and see something of herself.
All her life, Presley has been a square peg trying to fit into Renee’s round hole. Renee was an overachiever, a producer with one of Nashville’s top country music record labels. Renee prided herself on being a hard-ass and faulted Presley for being soft. Presley prefers to think of herself as easygoing and good-natured. Renee’s death was permission granted for her to find her round hole.
When a burgundy minivan rounds the corner at the far end of the street, Presley sits up straight in her seat. She glimpses the attractive middle-aged blonde behind the wheel when the van pulls into the driveway at 237. A pair of teenage girls, dressed in athletic shorts and tank tops with field hockey sticks tucked under their arms and backpacks over their shoulders, emerge from the van. Tall and lean with blonde ponytails, they look enough alike to be twins. Could these girls be her half sisters? Their mother, an older version of her daughters, is slower to get out of the car. She holds a phone to her ear and wears a scowl on her face, either angry or upset with the person on the other end.
From a distance, Presley sees no physical resemblance between the three blondes across the street and her own auburn hair and gray eyes. There’s always a chance the torn envelope got stuffed in her adoption folder by accident. But not likely, since her mother’s other files were in meticulous order. According to Zillow, number 237 was last sold seventy years ago. Presley assumes to this woman’s parents. The official website for the town of Hope Springs identifies the owners of said property as Samuel M. and Carolyn H. Townsend. For what it’s worth, the free online background check Presley conducted lists additional occupants of the home as Anna and Rita Townsend, presumably Sam and Carolyn’s daughters. But this woman must be Rita because, according to Facebook, Anna Townsend—originally from Hope Springs and a graduate of Hope Springs High School—currently lives in Washington state.
This woman appears in her upper forties. No older than fifty. Presley is thirty years old. Which makes the timing right for that woman to have had an unwanted pregnancy in her late teens or early twenties.
Where are Sam and Carolyn? Do they still reside in the house? And what about this woman’s husband? Is he late coming home from work? Or is she divorced?
The woman ends her call and drops her phone into her purse. Removing the mail from the black box to the right of the blue door, she sits down on the front steps and sorts through a stack of envelopes. She’s smiling now, her phone conversation apparently forgotten. Presley is tempted to introduce herself. But what would she say? “Hey. You don’t know me, but I think I may be your daughter.”
The woman looks up from the mail and across the street at Presley. They lock eyes for a fraction of a second. A shiver runs down Presley’s spine, and she averts her eyes. Did the woman see her? Is she making note of the license plate number and make and model of the rental car? Presley’s not ready for this. Breathing deeply so as not to hyperventilate, she starts the engine and drives off.
She heads north to Main Street and west for another six blocks to the Inn at Hope Springs Farm. When researching hotels for the long weekend stay, she was intrigued to see the prominent luxury property had recently reopened after extensive renovations. She’s booked herself a suite. After what she’s been through the past eighteen months, a little pampering is justified.
Surrounded by a crop of yellow and purple pansies, the American and Commonwealth of Virginia flags flap in the breeze in the center of the circular driveway as she travels up the hill to the main building. Under the portico, a uniformed bellman awaits her arrival.
Opening her car door, he says, “Welcome to Hope Springs Farm. Are you checking in this evening?”
“Yes, sir. Presley Ingram is my name.” She hands him the car keys and a ten-dollar tip. “Please make certain my suitcase gets to my room.”
He tips his hat to her. “Will do, madam. Enjoy your stay.”
The inn’s interior is a stylish mixture of old world and new. Hardwood floors swathed in pale Oriental rugs. Antique chests and end tables combined with contemporary seating. Presley feels as though she’s back home in her mother’s house in Nashville as she makes her way through the wide front hall to the reception desk. A striking black woman greets her, introducing herself as Naomi Quinn, the guest services manager. Presley provides her name, and Naomi locates her reservation.
Looking up from her computer, Naomi says, “I have you booked for a one-bedroom mountain-view suite on the third floor.”
“That sounds lovely,” Presley says, handing her a credit card.
Naomi clicks a button and paperwork spits out of her printer. “If you’d like a cocktail or a glass of wine before dinner, off the lounge to your left is Billy’s Bar. Next to the bar, our restaurant, Jameson’s, serves three meals a day, including a complimentary buffet breakfast from seven until eleven in the morning.” Her arm shoots out with finger pointing in the hallway opposite the lounge. “The elevators are down that way on your right.”
“Thank you,” Presley says, taking the key folder from her. “I’d like to have a look around down here before heading up. Will you please advise the bellman of my room number?”
She lifts a walkie-talkie. “I’ll do that now.”
Naomi’s smile doesn’t meet her eyes, and Presley senses something disturbing about her. She’s friendly enough, but she seems sad. More than sad. Troubled. Perhaps Presley is seeing her own somber mood reflected in the woman’s big brown eyes.
Renee had always viewed Presley’s uncanny ability to read other people’s feelings as a curse. But she finds her people reader helpful in gauging how to respond to them. And she’s getting powerful signals to proceed with caution where this woman is concerned. Let it go, Presley. You’re only here through the weekend.
She wanders down the hallway to the right. A couple is drinking tea by the fire in a cozy wood paneled library. A group of men dressed in khaki fly-fishing attire occupy the adjacent game room. Two of them shoot pool while the others watch a golf tournament on a large-screened television. Moving along, she discovers the octagonal-shaped solarium at the end of the hallway unoccupied. Groupings of rattan furniture, painted a forest green color with cushions covered in a tropical leaf fabric, take up much of the space. She circles the glass bubble of a room. Stone buildings dot the landscape leading to a shimmering lake, while beyond, a mountain range blazes orange with fall foliage. Tomorrow, weather permitting, she plans to explore the grounds.
Leaving the solarium, she works her way back through reception to the lounge on the other side. Richly textured fabrics in hues of gray make up the upholstered furniture and drapes adorning the floor-to-ceiling windows. Accents in various shades of blue add pops of color. The overall effect makes for a warm and inviting space to visit with friends.
She passes through the lounge and enters Billy’s Bar where the patriotic décor features carpet splashed red, white, and blue, and paneled walls painted a high-gloss indigo blue. A marble-topped bar stretches the length of one wall, behind which stands an attractive male bartender approximately her age.
Presley roams about the room, studying the rock and roll memorabilia adorning the walls. Electric guitars displayed in acrylic cases. Framed collections of guitar picks, ticket stubs from famous concert tours, signed album covers of all the greats—Mick Jagger, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Van Morrison.
Presley smiles at the bartender as she takes a seat on one of the white leather stools.
“Welcome to Billy’s Bar. What can I get for you?”
She opens her mouth to ask for a club soda with a lime twist and out spills, “Casamigos on the rocks, please.” She rarely drinks alcohol, but after an unsettling day, she needs something to take the edge off.
“Excellent choice.” He pours tequila over a block of ice in a lowball glass and sets it down on a cocktail napkin in front of her.
She lifts the glass, shakes the ice cube, and sets the glass back down without taking a sip.
She checks out the bartender, who has turned his back on her and is stacking glasses on the shelves lining the walls. While none of his features are striking, she finds the combination of reddish-brown hair, strong jaw, and electric blue eyes appealing. Black pants hug his tight butt and his starched white shirt fits snug to his torso, hinting at six-pack of abs.
What’re you thinking, Presley? You didn’t come here for love. A man is the last thing you need right now.
He finishes stacking glasses and returns his attention to her. When he sees her untouched tequila, he asks, “Is something wrong with your drink?”
Leaning her head down, she sniffs the tequila. The strong fruity aroma is tempting. “I’m still deciding whether to drink it. I’ll pay for it either way.”
“No way! I can’t charge you if you’re unsatisfied.” When he tries to take the glass, she tightens her grip.
“The drink is fine.” Presley gestures at the memorabilia on the wall behind her. “So . . . who’s Billy? I assume those are his guitars.”
“Billy Jameson. He’s a legend around here. You’ve probably never heard of the Wild Hollers, an alternative rock band popular in the late eighties and nineties. He was their lead singer.”
She slaps the bar. “You’re kidding me? I know exactly who Billy Jameson is . . . was. Didn’t he die recently?”
“About nine months ago. Billy’s great-grandfather built this inn. His daughter’s running it now. Have you met Stella?”
“Not yet. I just arrived an hour ago.”
“You’ll meet her soon. She’s supercool.” He leans back against the opposite counter, crossing his legs and folding his arms over his chest. “So, you’re a rock and roll fan.”
“I love every genre of music. But I’m from Nashville. Country is in my soul. Outlaw country is my favorite.”
He nods his approval. “We have that in common. Are you in the music business?”
Shaking her head, Presley looks away. “My mother was. She passed away recently.”
Genuine concern crosses his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. How’d she die?” he says and holds
up his hand. “Sorry. None of my business.”
She smiles at him. “No worries. Mom died of liver cirrhosis. She was a terrible alcoholic. Highly functioning until a few years ago.”
When his blue eyes travel to the tequila, she pushes the glass away. “I don’t know what made me order it. I’m not much of a partier. You learn a lot about what not to do when you live with an alcoholic.” She decides not to tell him about the period in college when her drinking bordered on abusive, and one particularly ugly blackout drunk that scared her into sobriety.
“I don’t drink much myself,” he says, dumping her tequila in his bar sink.
“Oh really? Why not?” She holds up her hand. “Sorry. Now I’m being nosy.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine. I don’t like the person I am when I drink.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Don’t you find it tempting being around alcohol all the time?”
“On the contrary. Being around drunks all the time reminds me of what I’m not missing. Besides, I enjoy meeting new people. Give someone a drink, and they’ll speak more freely about themselves. I like hearing their stories.” He slides a bar menu toward her. “Let me fix you something else. I have a keen knack for mixology. I can make any of the menu items sans alcohol.”
She scans the menu. “I’m impressed with your use of fresh ingredients and herbs. Some of these sound yummy.” She gives him back the menu. “But I’ll just have club soda with a lime twist for now.”
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