Show Me the Way

by Ashley Farley

  Minutes pass before Stella returns her attention to Presley. “Are you enjoying your stay so far?”

  Presley nods vigorously. “Very much so. I’m no expert, but I’ve stayed in my share of luxury hotels. Whatever the inn was like before, the renovated product is five-star in my book. That it’s been around for nearly a century makes it all the more intriguing.”

  Stella appears impressed. “You’ve done your homework.”

  She laughs. “I read your website.”

  Stella beams. “I wrote the history myself.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how did the inn get so rundown?”

  Stella smiles warmly. “I don’t mind at all. Sadly, Billy had a chronic heart condition. About ten years ago, when his health declined, he allowed the buildings to deteriorate. The place was an absolute disaster when I first got here. We’ve come a long way. But we still have a long way to go.”

  Presley angles her body toward Stella. “How so?”

  “As long as the college is here, we will have weekend guests. We were once a popular spot for small firms who hosted their conventions here during the week. We’re facing some challenges in recovering that corporate business.”

  Presley’s gaze shifts back to the construction. “When will the spa open?”

  “By early spring at the latest. The Summer House, as they called it back in the day, was nothing more than a glorified porch used for bingo nights and dances. I’m hoping the spa and fitness center will help to attract those small conferences.”

  Lifting her chin, Presley stares up at the sky. “Summer House. I like it. Makes me think of the movie Dirty Dancing. Why not call the complex the Summer House Wellness Center?”

  Stella’s blue eyes grow wide. “That’s perfect! The Summer House part will remind our older repeat customers of days gone by, and the Wellness Center will appeal to the younger generation keen on being fit and healthy. You’re a genius, Presley.”

  Presley smiles at her. “Hope Springs Farm is ideal for destination weddings. Are you marketing to brides?”

  “Hmm . . . good question. Whether we’re officially marketing to them, we’re doing all right in the wedding department. We have one booked nearly every weekend next summer. If only I could find an event planner to work with the brides and their mothers. I’ve been recruiting, but no one in this town meets the criteria. I need to broaden my search to the larger Southern cities.”

  “How hard will it be to entice someone to move from a cosmopolitan metro area to a small town? Hope Springs is quaint, but . . .” When her voice trails off, Presley’s implication hangs in the air between them.

  “Quaint or not, Hope Springs is still a small town. He or she will face a culture shock to be sure. I did when I moved here from New York.” Stella chuckles. “It’s funny. I considered myself the quintessential New Yorker, but I love living in the mountains with all this wide-open space to breathe in the fresh air. Quaint, in my mind, means old-fashioned. Once you get to know the town better, you’ll realize it has a certain laid-back sophistication about it.”

  “So, tell me more about the job. I’m from Nashville. I may be able to help you find someone. You mentioned convention and wedding planning. What other types of events do you anticipate?” she asks, more curious about the job than anything.

  “Well, let’s see. Besides graduation and parents’ weekends, we have many events associated with Jefferson College, like alumni and prospective students’ weekends. We’re scrounging around today to host a last-minute booking for a group of football parents tomorrow night.”

  “What about your locals? I imagine your beautiful new facility would be a hotspot for the citizens of Hope Springs.”

  “I’m not sure why the local business has been so slow to come back,” Stella says, her expression pinched. “I have confidence in our menus. Our food is spectacular and reasonably priced. We went down to the wire on the renovations. We almost didn’t reopen on schedule. I’d hoped to have a party, a large open house, to celebrate with the community, but I’ve been too busy to plan it.”

  “You should make your party a priority. Bringing locals in for a free event would give them the opportunity to see the renovated building and sample your cuisine. And do it while the weather is still nice, so your guests can tour the grounds.” Presley places a hand on Stella’s arm. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so bossy.”

  “No apology necessary,” Stella says.

  A white pickup truck appears on the narrow road leading from the main building. The driver, wearing jeans and a hard hat and holding a travel coffee mug, waves over at them as he gets out of the truck. Stella blows him a kiss in return.

  Presley’s gaze travels to the silicone band on Stella’s left ring finger. “Your husband?”

  “Fiancé. He’s also our contractor.” She gestures at the building. “Jack is very good at his job.”

  “I can see that. When are you getting married?”

  “Probably not until next summer. We haven’t even picked out an engagement ring yet.” She turns away from the construction site. “If you’re headed back up, we can walk together.”

  “I’d like that.” As they’re making their way back to the sidewalk, Presley notices another area of construction partially hidden by the forest off to her left. “What’s going on over there?”

  “That’s Cottage Row. We’ve demolished the original cottages and are rebuilding them exactly as they were. They’ll be ready by next summer. Our plan is to offer them for weekly rentals.”

  “How much land do you have here?”

  “Seventy acres total, but much of that is wooded.” As they stroll back to the main building, Stella tells her about the hiking trails and the local bike shop owner who offers guided trips on mountain trails.

  Most of the tables on the veranda are occupied. Stella grabs a menu from the hostess stand and shows Presley to a table for two on the edge of the porch. “I need to take care of some business, but I’ve enjoyed chatting with you. If you’re in the mood for decadence, try the french toast with maple sausage links.”

  “I might just do that. Thank you.” Presley rarely strays from her strict nondairy, gluten-free diet. But today, when the server comes to take her order, she asks for the french toast. Why not? She’s on vacation.

  The fishermen she noticed in the game room last night eat in silence at the two tables nearest her. Their bloodshot eyes tell of their hangovers, and as they pay their bills, she overhears them groaning to their waitress about their long drive back to Atlanta.

  As Stella said, the french toast is total decadence, and Presley eats every morsel on her plate. She sits on the veranda for a long time, staring out at the mountains and replaying in her mind the past three years. The time is a blur with her mother’s debilitating disease followed by the funeral and preparations for putting Renee’s house on the market. The realtor has assured Presley that, in the current seller’s market, they’ll have multiple offers the first day. While she has no use for a five-thousand-square-foot house, once it’s sold, Presley will be a homeless orphan.

  4

  Stella

  As I pass through the lounge, I glimpse my reflection in an antique mirror. Pausing in front of it, I run my fingers through my unruly mop of brown curls. I noticed Presley eyeing my hair. From shaved head to my current labradoodle look, I should be used to people gawking by now. The truth is, I’d do it all again. My grandmother, Opal, has told me many times how much my support means to her. And that means all the world to me.

  I straighten my shoulders, and with head held a little higher, I continue on my way.

  I’m alarmed to find my uncle, Brian, waiting for me in my office. I’m always on the alert these days, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Brian.” I kiss his cheek when he stands to greet me. “I wasn’t expecting you. I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  “Not at all. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d check in with you.”

  "You�
��re lying,” I say with a laugh, even though I’m being serious. “Your visits always have a purpose."

  He snickers. “True. But you need to relax a little.”

  “How can I relax when I'm on an emotional roller-coaster ride? My life has been out of control since this past April, when you suddenly appeared in my life and announced that my supposed sperm donor of a biological father was none other than rock legend Billy Jameson.”

  “That’s fair. You have been through a lot. Your hair is growing out.”

  I smooth my curls. “This particular punishment was self-inflicted. How was Opal’s doctor’s appointment yesterday? She hasn't called, and I've been so worried.”

  “She wanted to tell you in person, so be surprised when she comes by later today. The leukemia is in remission.”

  “That’s fabulous news.” I throw my arms around him, and he lifts me off the floor. When he releases me, I plop down in the chair behind my desk.

  He takes a seat opposite me and asks, “How’re things here?”

  “Slow. The weekends are busy, but on Sundays, the inn becomes deserted. Are you sure we can afford to keep our doors open?”

  “I’m positive. By the way, I’m glad you pushed me to hire an accountant. Diana is excellent. I’ve just come from a meeting with her, and we are rock solid. At least for the time being.”

  I furrow my brow. “What’re you keeping from me, Brian?”

  “The spa facility is running a little over budget, which I fully anticipated. But there is plenty of money in the estate to fall back on if we get in a jam. I’ve told you before, Stella, you have to spend money to make money. We’re in a transition period. Things will turn around soon. Once we get the spa building and Cottage Row open, guests will swarm the place like bees on honey.” His confident tone contradicts the worry lines around his eyes.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. You’ll see.” Brian crosses his long legs. “Now, tell me about Jazz. How’s she doing?”

  “Fine. I guess. I see little of her these days. I know we agreed to give Naomi a chance, but I can’t get rid of this sick feeling in my gut that something is wrong in Jazz’s world.”

  “That’s because you’re more than a sister to Jazz. You’ve been her stand-in mother these past few months. It’s normal for you to experience separation anxiety.”

  I hold his gaze. “And what if something happens to Jazz?”

  “We’ll be here to rescue her. Naomi is Jazz’s mother, Stella. She’s earned the right to prove herself.”

  “If you say so. But as you well know, I am extremely wary of the alcoholic mother of my six-year-old half sister.”

  “How’s Naomi performing at work?”

  “She hasn’t burnt the place down yet. I suspect my father kept her on staff for the same reason I do—to have her close to keep tabs on her. I’m sorry to be so negative about Naomi. She just gets under my skin.”

  Brian gives a curt nod. “I understand. She’s given you plenty of reasons to feel that way.” He rises from his chair. “I should get to the office. Call me if you need anything.”

  I walk him to the door. “I will. Thanks for stopping by.”

  He chucks my chin. “Try not to worry so much, Stella. Business will turn around soon, and we’ll be building an annex to accommodate the overflow.”

  I smile at him. “That would be a good problem to have.”

  I lean against the doorjamb watching Brian walk down the hall. When he disappears around the corner, my gaze shifts to the photographs of generations of Jameson family members lining the walls of my office. Sitting at the same mammoth desk where my ancestors sat for nearly a hundred years gives me a sense of belonging like I’ve never known before. But also, a sense of dread for fear I’ll disappoint them.

  I’m so lost in thought, I don’t hear Jack sneak up from behind.

  “Come with me.” Taking me by the arm, he walks me down the hall in the direction from which he came, through the library, and out the french doors on the front of the building to his truck.

  “Where are we going, Jack? I have work to do.”

  “You can spare a few minutes for your fiancé.” He blindfolds me with a red bandana and helps me into the passenger seat.

  I can’t see anything, but I hear his boots on the pavement and his truck door slam. The engine starts and we speed off. We make a quick left turn, followed by a sharp right before coming to a stop. Jack turns off the engine, and his door closes again. He’s at my side, holding on to my arm while I climb out.

  “You’d better not let me fall, Jack.”

  “Hush your complaining.” Hands on shoulders, he marches me a short distance. When he removes the bandana, the manor house—a mini replica of the inn with a stone facade and dormer windows—stands tall and proud in front of us.

  I shake my head in confusion. “I don’t understand. What’re we doing here?”

  “We’re going to live here. I bought you your dream house.”

  His hand is on the small of my back. When he nudges me forward, my feet remain cemented to the sidewalk.

  “Wait a minute, Jack.” I swat his hand away. “How did you know this is my dream house? True, I’ve secretly fantasized about living here, but I’ve never told a soul, not even you.”

  “I’ve seen the way you look at it when we drive by. Your grandfather built this house. Why wouldn’t you want to reclaim your family’s ancestral home? You’re a Jameson, Stella. It’s only fitting for you to live here.”

  “But you’ve poured your heart and soul into your dream house. I can’t ask you to leave it.”

  “Too late. The current owners already accepted my offer. Yes, I love where I live now. But this house is special, Stella. Wait until you see the inside.” Taking me by the hand, he drags me up the sidewalk to the covered front stoop. “The owner, Luke Connor, is a friend of a friend. He called me a while back, asking for the name of a roofer to replace some missing snow guards. When he told me he was putting his house on the market, we got to talking and I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He never even contacted a realtor.”

  “That explains why I never noticed a For Sale sign out front. The owners aren’t home now, are they?”

  “Nope. They moved to Charlotte last week.”

  Humph! I never noticed a moving truck either. Guess I need to be more aware of my surroundings. “So, you’ve known about this for a while?”

  Jack grins at me. “About six weeks.”

  My mouth falls open. “Six weeks? Are you kidding me?” I backhand him playfully in the stomach. “Never let anyone accuse you of not being able to keep a secret, Jack Snyder.”

  Jack twists the key in the lock, and when he swings the heavy wooden door open, I gasp at the sight of the sweeping staircase. He scoops me up and carries me over the threshold. “Welcome home, Stella.”

  “Can we afford this?” I ask, still in his arms.

  “I promise you, sweetheart, I will never let us live beyond our means.”

  “But what if the inn fails? I won’t be able to contribute to the mortgage.”

  He sets me down on my feet. “Your salary is not a factor. If things don’t work out at the inn, you can be a stay-at-home mom for our brood of children.” Bracing my shoulders, he gives me a gentle shake. “But things will work out. You need to think positively.”

  I give him a peck on the lips. “I wish I had as much faith as you.” Turning my back on him, I wander through the downstairs. A wide central hallway leads to a room at the rear of the house with windows overlooking the sprawling backyard. The kitchen is circa early eighties and could stand an update, but the rest of the first floor—living room, dining room, library, and great room—appear in excellent shape with random-width oak floors, handsome woodworking, and twelve-foot ceilings. I feel like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music as I ascend the stairs to the second floor.

  Through the window at the top of the stairs, I spot a detached building at the rear of the leaf-cove
red lawn. “Oh, look at that charming building! Is that a guest house or a garage?” I ask Jack, who’s behind me on the stairs.

  “A garage with a second-floor apartment for when your mothers come to visit.”

  I bark out a laugh. “If they ever come for a visit, Hannah and Marnie will stay at the inn.”

  “Then you can use it as your yoga studio,” Jack says.

  “Or a home office for you.”

  We tour four nice-size bedrooms and two full baths before ending up in the master suite, an enormous room with a gas fireplace and sumptuous white marble bathroom.

  Jack and I stand together at one of two windows in the bedroom. “How bizarre to think my great-grandfather stood in this very spot, watching over his inn when he was away from his office. I wonder if he felt the same obligation I feel to stay near the guests in case of an emergency.”

  “That explains why you never stay over at my house.” Jack wraps his arms around me from behind, hugging me tight. “Is this house close enough for you?”

  I lean back against him. “This house is perfect, Jack.”

  He plants a trail of kisses on my neck. “We’ll be happy here, raising our children and growing old together.”

  More than anything, I want to have Jack’s children. But there’s another little girl I can see myself raising in this house. My half sister. Jazz should have a happy home with lots of younger siblings to dote on.

  “Are you ready for surprise number two?”

  I turn to face him. “You can’t be serious.”

  He removes a ring box from his coat pocket. “Marry me, Stella.” He opens the box to reveal a large diamond surrounded by a halo of smaller ones.

  I flash back weeks ago to the young couple who got engaged at the inn. He gave his fiancé a ring nearly identical to this one. My brain is a jumble of thoughts, and I struggle to form a coherent sentence. “But . . . It’s . . . Where’d you get . . . How did you know?”

  His hazel eyes sparkle with mischief. “I heard you compliment the woman. When you stepped away, I asked if I could take a picture of her ring.”