A few guests linger after checkout time, brunching in Jameson’s and then stopping in afterward for one last Bloody Mary or mimosa before heading home. Two local men spend the afternoon drinking craft draft beer and watching the Redskins lose to the Eagles.
Everett drags his heavy body from one task to the next. He hasn’t felt this down since he quit drinking years ago. Do his Sunday blues have anything to do with Presley? Or is it because he’s currently holding himself hostage while he figures a way out of the mess he’s made of his life?
By six o’clock, the football fans have gone home, the Redskins game is over, and the Giants are now playing the Cowboys. Everett is reconciling his register in preparation of closing early when Jazz comes flying around the corner into the bar. He holds open his arms, and she leaps into them, burying her face in his chest.
“What’s wrong, Jazzy?”
Raising a tiny arm, she points a finger at Naomi and Stella, who are standing just outside the bar in the lounge. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but their voices are raised and their expressions pinched.
“Would a Dizzy Fizzy Ballerina make you feel better?”
She nods into his chest. He deposits her onto a stool and goes behind the bar. When he changes the TV channel to Nickelodeon, Jazz’s face lights up at the sight of SpongeBob.
“How was your weekend?” he asks, and she answers, “Fine.”
He mixes Blood Orange SanPellegrino with papaya nectar and a splash of cranberry—Jazz’s very own signature mocktail he designed especially for her. He adds a sprig of rosemary and slides the glass across the bar to her. He leaves Jazz and goes out to the lounge, standing awkwardly nearby while Naomi and Stella continue to argue.
Naomi’s nostrils flare as she glares at Stella. “If you’re accusing me of something, come right out and say it.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Naomi. I’m asking why you haven’t reached out to organizers of past conferences when you promised me weeks ago you’d make it a priority.”
Naomi’s posture is stiff, her shoulders squared. “I never promised you anything. I said I’d get to it when I had a chance. And I’ve been busy.”
“Busy doing what? There are no guests in the house tonight. Not a single room is booked.” Stella sweeps an arm at the empty lounge. “Every week is like this, Sundays through Wednesdays, sometimes even Thursdays. We can’t survive if we don’t start hosting conferences.”
The hatred in Naomi’s brown eyes makes Everett’s flesh crawl. “If it’s so important, do it yourself.”
Stella’s body tenses. When she balls her fists at her sides, Everett worries she might hit Naomi. “I will. Send me the list of contacts.”
“It’ll take me some time to pull the information together. God, I hate working for you.”
When Naomi storms into the bar, Stella mumbles to her retreating back, “Then why don’t you quit?”
Alone in the lounge, Stella looks over at Everett. “Sorry you had to witness that.”
“It’s none of my business, but why do you put up with her behavior?”
Stella shakes her head. “I ask myself that question nearly every single day.”
From where they stand, they watch Naomi snatch the drink out of her daughter’s hands and slam it down on the bar. “Come on. Time to go.” She lifts Jazz off the barstool into her arms.
Jazz squirms. “Stop, Mommy! I want to finish my Dizzy Fizzy Ballerina.”
Naomi tightens her grip. “It’s time to go, Jasmine.”
“Put me down. I want Stella.” Jazz kicks and claws her way out of Naomi’s arms. She runs out of the bar to Stella, hugging her waist. “I want to spend the night with you, Stella.”
Stella smooths the child’s unruly hair. “It’s fine with me.”
“Well, it’s not fine with me,” Naomi snaps.
“Naomi,” Stella says in a warning tone.
Shooting Stella a death glare, Naomi bends over, with hands on knees, to speak to her child. “I was going to take you to Lucky’s for dinner.”
“I thought you said we couldn’t go to Lucky’s,” Jazz says, her face planted in Stella’s abdomen.
“Well, I changed my mind.” Naomi tugs on Jazz’s shirtsleeve. “If we go now, we might beat the dinner crowd.”
Jazz tilts her head back and looks up at Stella. “Do I have to?”
Stella pries Jazz’s arms free from her waist. “Of course, you do, sweetheart. You always have to listen to what your mommy says. Besides, Lucky’s is your favorite. Will you eat some french fries for me?”
“No! Get your own french fries.” Jazz stomps off with Naomi on her heels.
Stella’s shoulders cave as she exhales a breath of air. “I need a drink after that.”
“Me too,” Everett says. “And I don’t even drink.”
Stella manages a weak smile. “I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of that.”
Everett shrugs as if to say no big deal. “I have an open bottle of that Oregon pinot noir you like. Can I pour you a glass?”
“Please!” she says, and they enter the bar together.
Everett aims the remote at the television, which is still tuned to Nickelodeon. “Do you want to watch the game? The Giants are playing.”
“I’m not a football fan. But thank you.”
He clicks off the television and turns on Pandora, tuning into the Wild Holler’s station. The sound of her father’s voice brings a smile to Stella’s face.
Everett pours a healthy serving of red wine and hands the glass to her.
“I shouldn’t let Naomi get under my skin. She infuriates me. I seriously want to strangle her.” Stella holds her hands out, fingers forming a circle as though wrapped around Naomi’s neck.
He busies himself with tidying up the mess he made in fixing Jazz’s drink. In his experience as a bartender, Everett has discovered that people are more willing to open up if they think he’s preoccupied with other tasks. Sure enough, a faraway expression settles on Stella’s face, and she talks out loud, more to herself than to him.
“I’m to blame for giving Naomi additional responsibilities when I know she won’t deliver.” Stella sips her wine. “If not for Jazz, I’d fire her in a heartbeat.”
Everett wipes an imaginary spot off the marble. “Jazz seems afraid of her mother.”
“There’s no doubt about it,” Stella says. “You saw the way Naomi jerks the poor kid around. Truth be told, I’m a little afraid of Naomi myself.”
“Me too,” Everett says with a chuckle. “I feel sorry for Jazz the way Naomi keeps her here so late at night.”
Stella frowns. “What’re you talking about? Naomi works nine to five.”
Oops. Everett didn’t mean to get Naomi in trouble. Or did he? “Several times in the past few weeks, when I’m leaving to go home around nine or ten o’clock at night, Naomi’s been at the reservation desk and Jazz asleep in the office.”
“Naomi has some serious emotional problems. And she’s a recovering alcoholic.” Stella blushes, as though she’d like to eat her words. “That isn’t public knowledge, Everett. I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Bartenders are required to take oaths to keep their customers’ secrets. Or in your case, their boss lady’s secrets.” He drags his fingers across his lips. “What’s said in Billy’s Bar stays in Billy’s Bar. Is Naomi still drinking?”
“She’d better not be. She’s supposed to be attending weekly AA meetings. It’s one of my conditions for employment.” Stella plants her elbows on the bar and stares down at her wine. “Jazz’s life has not been easy. She was a sad little kid when she came to stay with me last summer. Telling no one where she was going, Naomi flew off to rehab in Arizona and left Jazz in my care for six weeks. I’d only been in Hope Springs a month, and I had no clue about Jazz being my half sister. During Naomi’s absence, Jazz contracted bacterial meningitis and was hospitalized for a week. Poor kid had a tough go of it. We both did. But we grew close because of it. I’m
more like Jazz’s parent than her sister, and that confuses her sometimes.”
Everett has stopped the busywork and is now listening intently. “That explains the exchange I just witnessed.”
“Jazz runs to me every time she disagrees with her mother. Because she’s Jazz’s mother, I have to support Naomi’s decisions as much as it kills me. But I pick my battles. I don’t always let Naomi have her way.”
He pours a little more wine in Stella’s glass. “Were Naomi and Billy married?”
“Nope. My father’s relationship with Naomi was complicated.”
He stuffs the cork back in the bottle. “How so?”
She pauses, as though considering how to answer. “Naomi cared more for Billy than he cared for her. She got pregnant to trap him into marriage, and when he refused, she married the first guy who came along.”
Sweat trickles down his back at the familiarity of the situation. “Is she still married to him?”
“No. She’s separated from Derrick. Good thing, too. I don’t think Derrick was much of a stepfather. But Billy adored Jazz. He provided well for her in his will. Part of the reason Billy gave me the farm is so I’ll be close to Jazz in the event Naomi goes off the deep end. That kid means everything to me. I’ll protect her at all costs, even if it means petitioning the court for custody.”
“I don’t understand how things like that work. Is it a possibility?”
“It would be a last resort. Jazz deserves happiness. Her father is dead, her mother is unstable, and her stepfather wants nothing to do with her. I may be the only one who can give her that happiness. If I petition for custody, I want the situation to be permanent for Jazz’s sake.”
“How does Jack feel about all this?”
Stella takes a gulp of wine. “Jack adores Jazz. He would have no reservations about raising her as his own child.”
Everett leans across the bar. “When are the two of you getting married?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. Jack promised not to pressure me, but his patience is waning.” Stella drains the rest of her wine. “The last thing I need is to complicate our lives with planning a fancy wedding.”
He holds up the bottle. “More?”
Stella waves off the offer. “I’ve had enough. I can sleep now.” She pushes her stool back. “You’re an excellent listener, Everett. I rarely open up about my problems so easily. What’s said in Billy’s Bar—”
“Stays in Billy’s Bar,” he finishes. “You have my word.”
As he watches Stella disappear into the lounge, his hand that’s holding the bottle of wine shakes. He could so easily pour himself a glass. He quickly stores the bottle out of sight. Will the temptation ever fully go away?
10
Presley
A wave of profound sadness washes over Presley as she backs out of her mother’s driveway. She’s closing a chapter on the life she’s known for thirty years. This house, her home, holds good and bad memories of holidays and birthdays, sleepovers with friends, the succession of springer spaniels who once ruled their yard. She has no remorse. But, while she’s excited for her new apartment and career awaiting her in the mountains of Virginia, the fear of an uncertain future is unsettling.
Before rounding the corner at the end of their block, she takes one look back at the house. Patricia, her listing agent, is at the front door greeting their first potential buyers. Patricia is confident they’ll have multiple offers, perhaps even a contract, by this evening.
She squeezes her eyes tight, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her mother’s voice rings in her head. “You’ve got this, Presley. You can accomplish anything you set your mind to.” Renee wasn’t such a bad mom, for a high-strung control freak whose only form of recreation was partying. She gave sound advice, was an excellent provider, and supported Presley in her many ventures. So what if Renee never exhibited her love. Maybe Presley’s expectations were too high.
Rummaging in her bag for a tissue, she wipes her eyes and leaves the neighborhood one last time. Through the rearview mirror, she can barely see over the clothes and kitchenware, lamps and bedding packed in the back of her SUV as she makes her way through town. Once she’s on the interstate, she adjusts her seat and settles in for the seven-hour drive to Virginia.
She places a hands-free call to her mother’s primary antiques dealer. When she explains the situation to Hubert Brock, he expresses interest in buying back many of Renee’s pieces. Presley promises to get in touch when she’s ready to clear out the house. After hanging up with Hubert, she makes a mental list of her friends who work for small to midsize companies that might be interested in hosting conferences at Hope Springs Farm. Her mind drifts to the party. She has several ideas for themes, but one keeps coming back to her. She calls Stella to run the idea past her.
“What do you think of Homecoming as a theme for the town party? After all, the inn is like home for many of the townsfolk, those who have lived in Hope Springs all their lives and have fond memories of time spent on the farm growing up.”
When silence fills the line, Presley worries that Stella hates the idea. “We can brainstorm something else.”
“Not at all. I absolutely love it, Presley! I’ve spoken with Cecily and Naomi. We agree the weekend following Halloween is best.”
“Perfect! That’ll give me an additional week for planning.” Presley pauses while she passes another car. “By the way, is it okay if I start work tomorrow afternoon? I need to be here in the morning when the truck arrives with my furniture.”
“Presley, please! Take a couple of days to unpack and rest up after your drive. I’m afraid you won’t have much free time going forward.”
“But I’m eager to get started. I’ll come in on Wednesday morning. What time should I be there?”
“On Wednesday? Let me see.” Presley hears Stella clicking on her calendar. “I have an early meeting with my architect at the spa building at seven. Why don’t you come in around nine? We have limited office space in the main building. For now, you’ll have to share with Karen, the concierge. Did you meet Karen during your stay?”
“Yes! She booked my bike tour.”
“Since this job will demand a lot of your weekend time, I’m fine with you setting your own hours. Because the office space is tight, feel free to work remotely from your apartment if you need to spread out.”
Presley eyes Renee’s large screen iMac strapped into the passenger seat beside her. “I may do that. Thanks for allowing me the flexibility.”
Presley and Stella talk for a few more minutes about ways to raise awareness of the resort. She admires Stella’s keen business sense and the way she stays on top of every department without being overbearing.
After stopping for lunch and gas in Knoxville, she gets on Highway 81 and cranks the volume on her road-trip playlist, a mixture of her favorite classic rock artists. Heavy tractor-trailer traffic adds ninety minutes to her trip, but excitement overpowers her exhaustion when she finally arrives at almost six o’clock. She’s making her first trip up the stairs to her apartment, her arms loaded with hanging clothes, when Everett appears from work.
“Presley! You’re back. Let me run this stuff up to my apartment“—he holds up his backpack in one hand and a take-out food container in the other—“and I’ll help you unload your car.”
“I’ve got it, Everett. Don’t let your dinner get cold.”
“I’m not really that hungry. Besides, it’ll take you until midnight if you do it alone.”
She flashes him a grateful smile. “In that case, I accept your offer.”
An hour later, they carry the last load up the stairs, adding it to the pile of cardboard boxes and plastic bins in the center of the living room. Everett collapses onto a mountain of bedding and throw pillows. “You were gone for thirty-six hours, and a portion of that was spent traveling. How did you pack all this stuff up in such a short amount of time?”
She drops to the floor beside him. “I stayed up most of the
night.”
Staring up at the ceiling, he says, “Where’re you planning to sleep tonight?”
“I’ll make a bed out of the pillows and comforter you’re lying on. Truthfully, I’m so tired, I could sleep standing up.”
He rolls over on his side to face her. “I’ll bet you are. I’m sure you’re hungry too. I’ve got a hankering for a pie from Ruby’s pizzeria. They’re located just up the street. Should I run get us one while you locate your toothbrush?”
“Pizza sounds awesome. But only if you let me treat you for helping me unload.” Crawling around on her knees, she locates her purse and removes thirty dollars from her wallet. When she tries to give it to him, he stares at it.
“Are you sure? I’m fine with going dutch.”
She folds the money in his hand. “I’m positive. I’d still be unloading my car if not for you.” With one hand on his back, she walks him to the door. “Now go. I’m starving.”
He starts down the hall toward the stairs and turns back around. “By the way, what do you want on your pizza?”
“Anything but anchovies.” She closes the door behind him and returns to the mess in the living room. Her toothbrush can wait. Right now, she’s craving a cup of tea. She attacks the kitchen boxes until she locates her Keurig machine, two coffee mugs, and a box of chai tea. She fills the Keurig with water, steeps the tea, and takes her mug over to the window. The sun is a glowing ball of orange as it dips below a mountain ablaze with red and yellow tree foliage. The setting moves her to tears. Her first night in her new home.
Her phone vibrates in her back pocket with a call from her listing agent. “We’ve got ourselves a bidding war,” Patricia blurts when Presley answers. “I’ve received three contracts, all for full asking price.”
Presley continues to stare out at the mountains. Is she doing the right thing in selling the house? Even if she ends up back in Nashville, she has no use for a five-thousand-square-foot house. She can hear her mother now, dry martini in hand. “Dump the house, Presley. Invest the money. When the time is right, buy something more suitable for you.”
Show Me the Way Page 7
