Show Me the Way

by Ashley Farley

  The waitress delivers their lunch, plain white plates of blah-looking food. Lucy’s crab cake is more ball than cake and is a third the size of her bun. And her side order of pasta salad is more mayo than pasta. Presley’s grilled chicken breast is served over a bed of romaine lettuce, which would not have been her choice for a dish with an oriental flair.

  Presley snaps several pics for Cecily. Lucy gives Presley half her sandwich, and Presley forks a portion of her salad onto Lucy’s plate.

  Lucy, with an expression of skepticism, watches Presley take a tentative bite of salad. “How is it?”

  Presley gives her a so-so hand motion. “I don’t understand the hype. What do you think of the sandwich?”

  Lucy takes a bite. Her chewing slows down as a disgusted look crosses her face. “Agreed,” she says, and sets it down on her plate.

  “Back to your story,” Presley says.

  “Right. So, I had this huge crush on a guy at Chapel Hill. He was stud man on campus. Good-looking. Wealthy family. President of his fraternity.”

  Presley nods. “I know the type well.”

  “But he didn’t know I was alive. At least that’s what I thought. He shocked me by inviting me to his fraternity’s formal in November of my sophomore year.” Lucy toys with her pasta salad. “I’ve never been one to drink for the purpose of getting drunk. Even in college. But I remembered nothing that happened after dinner. It wasn’t until March, when my pants started getting tight and I found out I was pregnant, that I realized he’d date-raped me.”

  Presley’s mouth falls open, and she drops her fork to the plate with a loud clatter. Several customers glance in her direction, but she ignores them. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I’m so sorry, Lucy.”

  She stares down at her plate. “He stole my virginity. I never considered I might be pregnant. I had no morning sickness, and my period had always been irregular. In hindsight, my boobs were sore. By the time I took the test, it was too late to do anything about it. Not that I would have.”

  “Did you report the boy to the police?”

  “What was the point? I had no proof. His word against mine. My parents were amazing about the situation. They made certain I received the care I needed both physically and mentally. The baby was born a week before classes started in August. I refused to even hold it. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. I gave it up for adoption. I just wanted to get on with my life.”

  Presley pushes her salad away. “I don’t blame you.” Lucy’s story hits close to home. Did something similar happen to Rita? Is Presley the result of a rape? She gestures at Lucy’s barely touched sandwich. “Are you gonna finish that?”

  “No! Let’s get out of here,” Lucy says and signals the waitress for the check.

  The day is warm for this time of year with temperatures in the low seventies. As they start out on foot toward the inn, Presley asks, “When did you and Grant get back together?”

  “Ten years later. I’d finished sommelier school and was working in California. I ran into Grant at a party one Christmas when I was home for the holidays. He’d finished medical school and had begun his residency at the local hospital here. We stepped back into our relationship as though we’d never been apart. Within six months, he asked me to marry him and I moved back to Hope Springs.”

  “What kind of doctor is he?”

  “An OB/GYN.”

  “Oh. Wow. How’d he react when he found out you put your baby up for adoption?”

  Behind tortoiseshell sunglasses, Presley can see the lines around Lucy’s eyes deepen. “I’ll get to that part of the story in a minute.”

  Lucy pauses to look at an old-fashioned baby stroller in the window of an antique boutique. “Grant and I were eager to have children, but it took two years for us to get pregnant with Chris. Because it had taken so long the first time, we immediately started trying for another child. But I was never able to get pregnant again. Chris was eight years old when I was diagnosed with cervical cancer.”

  Presley squeezes her arm. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Lucy digs in her bag for a tissue to wipe her nose. “The truth is, I was fortunate. The doctor caught the cancer early. But, while I was spared from having to have chemo, the doctor recommended a full hysterectomy. Which meant no more children for me.”

  “You’d come full circle,” Presley says. “You were on the opposite side of adoption.”

  “And I would have adopted a baby in a heartbeat, but Grant wouldn’t consider it. He has nothing against adoption. He was simply content with our one child.”

  They begin walking again. “Depression set in, and when I started obsessing about finding the baby I’d given away, I told Grant about the rape and subsequent unwanted pregnancy. He was adamantly opposed to me trying to find my child. He was worried I’d disrupt his or her life.”

  Chill bumps break out on Presley’s skin. With roles reversed, Lucy’s story is so eerily familiar to her own. “How old would your child have been by then?”

  “In college. An adult. Even so, Grant was right. I gave up my parental rights when I signed the adoption papers. I couldn’t barge into this kid’s life. And I eventually accepted that. But my depression worsened anyway. Some days I couldn’t get out of bed. As Chris grew older, he developed his own interests and made his own friends. He needed me less and less, and I had nothing to occupy my time.”

  The sign for Hope Springs Farms comes into view ahead of us. “Did you consider going back to work?”

  “There was no job to go back to. Things had begun to deteriorate at the inn by then, and none of the other restaurants in town were the caliber that employs a sommelier.” With head lowered and shoulders stooped, Lucy stares at the pavement in front of her. “Everyone tried to help me. Grant and my family and friends. But the efforts were futile, because I wasn’t willing to help myself. The six months after Grant left me were the darkest. I finally reached rock bottom when Chris, who was fourteen at the time, asked to go live with his father. I dragged myself to a therapist, and it’s been uphill ever since.”

  Lucy removes her sunglasses and cleans them with the bottom of her beige cable-knit sweater. “Grant’s generous alimony has allowed me to renew my certification and study to become a master sommelier. I’d planned to wait for Chris to graduate from high school before applying for jobs in other places. But then Stella came along and reopened the inn. Which has been a godsend, because I really don’t want to move. My life is in Hope Springs.”

  They walk up the long driveway in silence. When they reach the portico, Lucy turns to Presley. “So, now you know the story of my pitiful life.”

  “Thank you for confiding in me.” Presley gives her a quick hug. “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through. I wish you much happiness in the years ahead, because you deserve it.”

  Lucy’s smile lights up her face. “I’m well on my way. I feel stronger every day. Working here and making new friends like you has given my life purpose.”

  Presley draws in a deep breath. “This homecoming party will either make or break both our careers.”

  21

  Presley

  The team works long hours over the next few days preparing for the homecoming party. At three thirty on Sunday, Presley makes the final walk-through with Stella before the guests arrive at four.

  Katherine has outdone herself with the flowers. Elaborate arrangements of elegant stems—hydrangeas, roses, lilies, peonies, ranunculus—in oranges and yellows and purples bedeck tabletops throughout the entryway and lounge.

  Servers wearing black pants and white starched shirts position themselves near the front door to greet guests with drinks that Everett dubbed the Janis Jameson after Billy’s mother, a woman known for her talents in the garden. The mixture of gin, elderflower cordial, and chilled Prosecco is served in coupe glasses and garnished with a tiny purple-and-white viola.

  When a server offers Stella a drink, she takes two glasses, handin
g one to Presley. Clinking their glasses together, Stella says, “To a job well done, Presley.”

  Presley beams. She’s proud of her accomplishment. “Let’s hope the party has the desired outcome.” She sips the tasty concoction. Regardless of what Everett is hiding about his past, he’s a genius mixologist.

  Glasses in hand, the two women walk down the hall to the solarium where a hyped-up Jazz is pirouetting around a colorful stage. Presley has hired a magician to perform hourly shows, and his assistant to tie balloons into animal figures for the children. The assistant, dressed as a clown, wears a pink wig and has hearts painted on her cheeks.

  When Jazz sees them in the doorway, she toe-dances across the room and hugs Stella’s waist.

  Stella pats her half sister’s head. “Are you excited for the party, Jazzy?”

  Pushing away from Stella, Jazz bobs her head. “A lot of my friends are coming.”

  Presley bends over eye level with the child. “Do they know to meet you here for the magic show?”

  Another head bob. “And later, after dinner, they’re having s’mores and hot chocolate in the library.”

  “That’s right, kiddo,” Stella says.

  Presley holds her hand out to Jazz for a high five. “And don’t forget about the hayrides.”

  Her golden eyes grow wide. “Cool! I didn’t know we’re having hayrides.”

  Stella wags her finger at Jazz. “But you need to be careful. There will be a lot of people here tonight. Don’t you dare go outside alone and be sure to check in with your mom and me periodically. Understand, Jasmine?”

  “Understand, Stella,” Jazz says, sassy-like, and leaps off.

  Presley and Stella proceed to the library where a roaring fire in the stone fireplace warms the room. A server waits behind a wood-paneled bar to present guests with hot gin toddies—a mixture of gin, cinnamon-infused simple syrup, and lemon juice. The Panthers are playing the Falcons on the big screen television in the adjacent game room. With Mexican as the theme, harvest spiced margaritas are the specialty drink while the cocktail food includes mini tacos, shrimp tostado bites, and guacamole prepared on-site by one of Cecily’s waiters.

  Presley and Stella continue to the lounge where enlarged black-and-white photos depicting the inn’s history throughout the decades are displayed on easels. In the center of the lounge, an enormous round table is set for a proper English tea featuring the inn’s homemade blends accompanied by bite-size sweet and savory morsels.

  They stop in at Billy’s Bar to speak to Kristi, who is busy pouring a blue concoction of Sapphire gin, vermouth, and blue Curaçao into martini glasses and garnishing them with twists of lemon. A self-serve slider bar—offering burgers, barbecue, and pulled smoked chicken with all the fixings—stretches the wall beneath Billy Jameson’s impressive display of memorabilia.

  As they exit Billy’s Bar, Presley smiles when she sees Cecily dressed in official chef’s attire and standing in the doorway of her domain.

  “Welcome to Jameson’s,” Cecily says, motioning them into the dining room.

  Samples of Jameson’s most popular menu items are presented on platters and in chafing dishes arranged on buffet tables. Open seating is available at long rows of tables draped in white linens. Adult diners will have their choice of red or white wines donated by a local winery.

  On our way out, Stella gives Cecily a hug. “Everything is perfect.”

  Cecily holds up both hands, revealing crossed fingers. “Here’s hoping the entire town shows up.”

  “The power of positive thinking.” Stella glances at her watch. “Five minutes until showtime. We should get back to the front entrance.” Downing the rest of her drink, she hands the empty coupe glass to a passing waiter. Presley follows suit with her nearly full one.

  After many sleepless nights spent worrying no one will show up, Presley is relieved to see a long line of cars and hordes of people on foot making their way up the drive and sidewalks. Stella’s grandmother and uncle are among the first group to enter the building. While Presley has heard much about Opal and Brian, she has yet to meet them.

  Stella introduces Presley to her grandmother first. She takes the older woman’s soft hand in hers. “I admire your work, particularly your mural in Jameson’s,” Presley says. Opal is a tiny woman with penetrating blue eyes and super short gray hair, growing back curly after chemotherapy. “I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been fighting leukemia.”

  “Past tense, my dear.” Opal raises a balled fist. “I fought it and won. I kicked that leukemia into remission.”

  Presley laughs. “Good for you! You look wonderful. When you’re feeling up to it, I’d love to talk to you more about your art. If you’re interested, I have some ideas of ways we can utilize your talent.”

  Rosy spots appear on Opal’s cheeks. “I’m definitely interested. You can get my number from Stella. Call me anytime.”

  “In that case, expect to hear from me this week.” Presley turns to Brian, a refined man—upper fifties, maybe sixty—wearing gray flannel pants and a navy sport coat. “I’m Presley Ingram.”

  He smiles at her. “Brian Powers. I’ve heard a lot about you from my niece. She says you can work miracles.”

  “No pressure there,” Presley says, rolling her eyes at Stella.

  Stella smiles at her. “You’ve already performed one miracle in pulling this party together on such short notice.”

  Presley wonders why Brian never married. He’s a successful attorney, tall and handsome with white hair and his mother’s blue eyes. He would make an ideal beau for Lucy.

  “Be sure to visit the wine cellar,” Presley says to him. “Lucy Jordan, our sommelier, has set up an elaborate tasting. Have you met Lucy?”

  “Not yet,” Brian says. “But I’ve heard wonderful things about her.”

  “Even if you’re not a wine enthusiast, seeing the tasting room is worth the trip to the basement.”

  “Perhaps we should go there first. Mom.” Brian offers Opal an arm and they start off toward the elevators. With a glance back at Stella and Presley, he says, “Good luck tonight, ladies.”

  Stella winks at him. “Thanks, Brian.”

  The entryway is now a logjam of people. Stella goes into action, meeting and greeting while directing them to other parts of the building and grounds.

  Stella has assigned positions for the team members. Naomi, stationed at the reception counter, will answer questions and hand out brochures. Cecily is in charge of Jameson’s, Billy’s Bar, and the lounge. Everett will float between the various bars. Katherine will patrol the inflatables and oversee games on the back lawn. And Presley landed the job of organizing hayrides and overseeing the oyster roast at the barn. What’s not to love about bluegrass music, a bonfire, and roasted oysters? The weather is ideal with brilliant blue skies and crisp, clean autumn air. She’s dressed for the occasion in jeans, cowboy boots, and a cream-colored turtleneck sweater under a long puffy black vest.

  For the next hour, Presley chats with locals as they wait in line for hayrides. She meets bankers and nurses, shop owners and schoolteachers. She quizzes them about their experiences at the inn. For some, this is their first visit. For others, they’ve been coming here since they were children.

  “I didn’t understand the extent of the renovations,” one stay-at-home mom says. “A group of our friends gets together for birthday lunches at least once a month. We’ll be trying out Jameson’s for sure.”

  “Love the blue bar,” says one dental hygienist. “Hope Springs is moving up in the world.”

  With a mischievous grin, an orthopedist specializing in sports medicine tells Presley, “I’m going to leave my kids with my parents and book a suite here next week for my wife’s fortieth birthday.”

  “My in-laws are coming for Thanksgiving,” an information technologist says with a pained expression. “Maybe I’ll put them up here.”

  “You should!” Presley says. “We have plenty planned over the holidays to keep your in-laws busy
and out of your hair while you cook your turkey dinner.” She hands him a business card with all the pertinent contact information for the inn.

  These conversations confirm Presley’s suspicions. The inn’s marketing efforts, or lack thereof, have failed.

  Sometime later, she’s standing beside the bonfire, listening to the band and eavesdropping on the surrounding conversations, when she meets Mark and Marcia Porter, a husband and wife marketing team in their thirties dressed from head to toe in black.

  Marcia’s eyes go wide behind heavy black eyeglass frames when she reads Presley’s name badge. “You’re the event planner? We’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

  “Or whoever’s in charge of your marketing plan,” Mark adds.

  Marcia vigorously nods. “We’ve called and come by numerous times. We’ve left messages with your guest services manager. But no one ever contacted us.”

  Because Naomi never relayed the messages, Presley thinks.

  Mark says, “Your direct dial numbers should be front and center on your website.”

  Aren’t they? Presley doesn’t know. Maintaining the website doesn’t fall under her job description.

  Marcia continues, “I mean . . . I hate to say it, but y’all need to get your act together.”

  “We’re working through some issues,” Presley says.

  “Seriously, your marketing materials are blah.” Marcia sticks out her tongue. “Your agency is better suited for banks and hospitals. And you really should be using a local firm, not one in Roanoke.”

  “Calm down, honey.” Mark casts his wife a warning look before shifting his gaze to Presley. “As you can see, my wife is passionate about her work. We both are. We’d love a chance to sit down with you and . . . Stella, is it?”

  Presley nods. “That’s correct. Stella Boor is the new general manager.”

  “She did a brilliant job with the renovations,” Marcia says. “The place is gorgeous.”