The Innkeeper's House

by Elizabeth Bromke

  Brightness washed over Gretchen’s face, and she flopped back on the bed. “Okay, fine. So, anyways, tell me more about the interview. Was old Ms. O'Neal there?”

  Smugly, Greta lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, so my impression wasn’t totally off.”

  “Ugh, she was awful. It’s like she saw the worst in you and dragged it out for a fight or something. She’s probably the reason I didn’t get a scholarship.”

  Rolling her eyes at Gretchen’s dramatics, Greta replied, “I couldn’t get a read on Crabapple. Did you have her too? She was friendly looking but quiet.”

  “Hmm, I think she was at the high school when I was in middle school. Then she switched when I promoted. I never really knew her.”

  Greta plucked a few kernels from the bowl and jiggled them in her hand like loose change. Should she dare to ask about the coach? No. It would undermine everything. It would look like the only reason Greta was staying in town was because of some hot teacher. And that just wasn’t true. She didn’t even know the guy. All she knew was that Mrs. Cook said everything she needed to hear. Classroom autonomy. Administrative support. Fair compensation. And, as the woman added, they were actively seeking local housing arrangements. A stipend might be available. Greta was set. The handsome jock was just icing on the cake. Anyway, he could have a girlfriend! He could be one of those guys who was married but couldn’t wear a ring. Maybe he was allergic to precious metals. Anyway, he was just a guy. Greta was there for the job. The kids.

  “Did you have a teacher named Coach Hart? For P.E.?” It fell out of her mouth before she could swallow the words back down.

  Gretchen’s head snapped left, and she scrambled back to a sitting position. Her eyes grew wide. “Coach Hart? Was in the interview?”

  Splotches of red instantly bloomed across Greta’s chest, climbing like footprints up her neck and settling on her cheeks. She could feel them. “Yes?” again, her voice rose up, turning one syllable into two, two trembled beats. Like a poet who took a simple declarative sentence and morphed into a new word. Ye-es. He was there, wasn’t he? His last name was Hart, wasn’t it? Gretchen’s question emitted like a bullet from a gun. “Should he not have been?” Greta added, eyeing the girl, who pressed her hands to her knees and leaned into Greta.

  “I have no idea. I guess P.E. teachers can be on interview committees, but...”

  “But what?” Greta frowned at Gretchen, but a small smile formed on her lips.

  “He’s, like, he’s really attractive. And he’s probably your age.”

  My age, Greta thought. What was that supposed to mean? The point was a harsh reminder that Gretchen really was much younger. “Did you have a crush on him?”

  “Ew,” Gretchen replied instantly. “Not then. Not when I was in middle school.”

  Greta simply lifted her eyebrows and waited.

  Sure enough, Gretchen shook her head and rolled her eyes. “He’s also the high school football coach. And he comes into Mally’s all the time.”

  A picture was forming in Greta’s mind. Coach Hart wasn’t just a handsome man. He was that teacher. The one the girls giggled about. The one who probably bore a little local fame. And the football coach, too? The whole fantasy began to morph into little more than a high school daydream. Not her style. Greta Houston was a student of literature. An educator of children. She cleaned her house (or wherever she was living) and read books in her spare time. Waving pom poms from a sideline every Friday night as rowdy teens splashed soda in the stadium wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time.

  The whole conversation with Gretchen was actually freeing. It freed Greta to focus on the one thing she wanted to focus on so long as she was in town. Her career. She could get back in touch with Bridget, maybe. They could meet for weekend girls’ nights in downtown Louisville. Maybe Maggie would go sometimes. Maybe, if Greta was still single by then, she’d take Gretchen to a classy wine bar for her twenty-first birthday and casually bump into some banking executive.

  Dating a football coach in her hometown was the exact opposite of what Greta hoped to accomplish in life. Case closed.

  Gretchen, after trying unsuccessfully to rile Greta up about the coach, finally rose to leave, the half-empty popcorn bowl clutched in front of her. “Tomorrow afternoon is the Fish Fry at Little Flock. I’m going to bring Theo. Do you think you can come?”

  Chapter 10—Luke

  He’d politely informed Liesel that, no, he did not have an innkeeper in mind.

  Then, later, he got the text from Mrs. Cook. She’d sent it to all of the members of the interview committee. Greta Houston is signing on. Thanks for helping make H.G.M.S. great!

  When Luke opened the message, he was standing outside of the parish hall with an apron tied across his torso. It read Don’t Hassle the Cook, and Luke pointed to the grease-stained letters any time someone so much as approached him, then cracked up and asked how he could help.

  As the words of the text glared up from his phone screen, he stopped clacking the slippery tongs, nearly dropping them into the deep fryer.

  Little Flock hosted an outdoor fish fry every other Friday from Memorial Day way up until Labor Day. Then again come Lent, but those were indoors.

  Some weeks were busier and more celebratory than others, and this one was sure to be a blow out. It was the last Little Flock Fry-day, as locals called it, before teachers reported back to school to set up their classrooms and sit in professional development training sessions. The last one before students would finally clean out their backpacks from the end of the past school year. They’d head into Louisville and shop for a week’s worth of new clothes, returning home to hang them up with the tags still on.

  It was Luke’s favorite time of summer because football was now also in full swing. Busy was good. Busy was welcome. It would distract him from the strange stress of the bed-and-breakfast, anyway.

  Fry-days were keeping him sane, though. He liked juggling evening practice with the obligation to cook for upwards of one hundred folks, forty of them being his own famished football players who usually turned up for the cook-out.

  That evening, Luke oversaw the fish. Liesel tended to white rice, beverages, and desserts. Meanwhile, Father Van stood in his street clothes by the grill. Corn on the cob roasted in front of him. Five round folding tables dotted the grass, only two with umbrellas. The other three enjoyed fortunate positions beneath green-leaved oak trees, broad and shady. For a modest, local church event, it was always neatly appointed. With one look at the set-up, you’d know exactly why Liesel Hart didn’t have much time to take on The Hickory Grove Inn. She threw her all into Little Flock.

  A cracking voice dragged Luke’s attention away from his phone screen. “Coach!”

  Snapping back to life, he focused on the boy who appeared, stretching out a paper plate, ready to get his grub on.

  “Ky Engel! How are ya, kiddo?” Luke clamped down on a thick patty and plopped it on the boy’s plate. The kid started rambling about how he wanted to be the water boy for the upcoming season. That’s when something dawned on Luke.

  “Ky Engel,” he repeated half under his breath once Ky had finished his case for getting the job.

  “Yessir?” Eager and tubby, Ky wasn’t always Luke’s best student, but he was loyal to Luke, and he loved football.

  “Is your mama here, Ky?”

  It must have given the boy the wrong impression because Ky’s eyes lit up in excitement. He whipped his head around and shielded his eyes from the sinking sunlight. “There, Coach Hart!” Ky jabbed a chunky white finger at a small group walking up the hill from the parking lot. “I ran ahead, but she’s coming. Look!”

  Luke raised his hand and squinted into the sun. He could make out the redhead in front. Maggie. Ky’s mom. To her side and holding her hand was the man Luke had taken for Greta’s boyfriend at Mally’s.

  He wasn’t, though. He was with Maggie Engel. Clear as day.

  Luke’s chest tightened and he looked past Maggie and the familiar man to
Ky’s older sister and her boyfriend. Gretchen and Theo. Luke had taught Gretchen in school, but he came to know Theo from his hanging around the diner every time Luke happened to go in for a coffee or a sandwich. He was more of a regular than any local in town, despite the fact that he wasn’t even from Hickory Grove.

  Another figure, smaller and light-footed in a flowery sundress strode behind.

  Mrs. Cook’s newest hire. The woman who would make H.G.M.S. great! Greta.

  And she was alone.

  “Ky,” Luke said. The boy whipped around again, his light hair hanging in his eyes like a mop. Wasn’t his mama a hairdresser? “I’ll make you a deal.” He lowered his voice and gave the kid a conspiratorial look. Ky leaned in. “You can be this season’s water boy...”

  “Uh huh?” Ky whispered back, his face as serious as a Catholic at confession.

  “If,” Luke went on, emphasizing each word with careful diligence, “you can tell me about your new family friend.” He jutted his chin to the group who now lingered at the drink coolers on the far side, by the shaded tables.

  Ky scrunched up his face momentarily, then the lightbulb hit. “Miss Greta!” His voice all but echoed around the field, bouncing off Luke and the deep fryer then behind and toward the tables.

  Luke cringed and peeked out of one eye. Sure enough, she heard. Even worse, Ky was running—faster than he’d ever run in P.E. class—directly for the now-petrified-looking blonde.

  Muttering a barnyard swear under his breath, Luke wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and glanced left, toward where Father Van stood, greeting a line of other newcomers.

  Liesel emerged from the parish hall, chatting sweetly with Fern Gale, one of the women from her Ladies Auxiliary. They brushed past him and set out pitchers of freshly squeezed lemonade on each table. Earlier, right when Luke arrived to help set up, Fern and Liesel had scurried off, all hushed voices and girlhood giggles. He was happy Liesel had found a good friend in Fern but uninterested in the older women’s banter. Now, he was desperate for it. If only they’d stop and chat with him. Make him look occupied and innocent and unrelated to Ky’s screech.

  Again, wiping his forehead, Luke forced himself to focus on serving one of his player’s family as they made their way down the line toward him. They exchanged a few comments about the young man’s promise for the season. Luke suggested there might be a starting position if the kid put in a little extra time on the field, and a knowing look passed between the parents. Luke caught the flicker between them. The shared needs and wants. The shared hopes.

  “Here she is!”

  Just as the family shuffled off to gather their plastic utensils on the next table, Ky reappeared a few feet off. He was dragging Greta behind him.

  Backlit by the sun, Greta glowed as she let Ky pull her up to Luke. Everything about her seemed at once new and entirely unfamiliar. She was the same woman who sat near him at Mrs. Cook’s interview table. Now, though, her hair fell a little looser. The light in her eyes took on a twinkle. A sundress swayed just above her knees, and pink toes poked out from strappy sandals. Finally, and most notably, her mouth spread in a wide smile, white teeth flashing behind glossy lips.

  He started to shake his head and glare at Ky, but it was too late now. Ky was going on and on about how Miss Greta—Miss Houston—was going to be a new teacher at their school, and she also happened to live with him, and she was super-duper cool and nice, and Luke would definitely like working with her.

  That’s when Luke, discreetly as possible, swiped his hand like a blade across the side of his neck, willing Ky to get a clue. “Okay, Ky. Thank you for the introduction.” He chuckled half-heartedly and tried to pinch his shoulders up as if to say, Kids these days!

  Greta lifted an eyebrow to match her smile-turned-smirk. “Coach Hart, right?”

  After gulping, all he could do was nod for the moment. Then, humiliatingly, he managed to lift his tongs and a paper plate and say, “Fried catfish?”

  She laughed. A full-bellied laugh that bent her at the waist and turned Ky’s innocent game plan into a coming of age moment. Luke felt like he, too, was coming of age just then. He couldn’t quite recall the last time he’d been so taken by a woman. Years. Truly. If ever.

  “What is it you wanted to talk to me about, Coach?” She clasped her hands behind her back and glanced around now.

  Luke moaned inwardly then raised his eyebrows to Ky, waiting for the boy to fess up.

  Ky opened his mouth to answer on Luke’s behalf, and they both turned to him, equally expectant. “Well,” Ky began, returning to his innocence and launching into the terms of the deal he and Luke had just agreed upon moments before.

  “I didn’t exactly...” Luke set the tongs down and rounded his little table, squeezing the boy’s shoulders with his plastic-glove-wrapped hands. He gave Greta a look, but her expression turned skeptical.

  Luke stood at a crossroads: either tell the truth and declare that he did not want to talk to Greta—that he just asked Ky about her and the kid took it too far. Or Luke could cover for both of them. “I just wanted to say... I was just wondering...” Luke shook his head. He was at a total loss. There was no pretending that he didn’t want to talk to her. He’d better come up with something—anything—fast.

  “Is this her?”

  The question came from behind Greta, its syllables crisp and high pitched and painfully, clearly referring to the beautiful blonde standing squarely in between them.

  Luke stared daggers at his aunt.

  Greta and Ky turned to see her. Greta’s expression became wary, and she looked back at Luke, the beginnings of a frown curling her mouth.

  It was a long shot, but Luke had a gut feeling about where Liesel might go. He took a stab. “You mean for the Inn; right, Aunt Liesel?” Luke pinned her with a look. Play along, please.

  Greta’s frown deepened, but the flicker in her eye fell away. Her budding discomfort turned to straight confusion, which was far preferable. Luke, too, was growing uncomfortable. But now he and his aunt joined in on a plan. A saving grace. Something to say to take the heat off his apparent and entirely inappropriate crush.

  Liesel’s eyebrows shot up, and she answered, “Right. Our new innkeeper? You, my dear, must be the young lady looking for accommodations in town.” His aunt passed a hand toward Fern Gale, who nodded as though in the loop.

  Now it was Luke’s turn to frown. He shed his gloves and set them on his table, propping his hands on his hips in order to fully address the matter. The awkward, beautiful matter. The perfect scenario. It was working. He was free from humiliation. Maybe.

  Fern pressed her lips into a thin smile and nodded gravely. “Maggie told me all about you, Greta. Welcome back to Hickory Grove, hun.” The woman spread her arms, and Greta stepped into the hug. Bewilderment slipped from her face, in its place a new smile. Easier. Softer.

  “Fern? Fern Monroe?”

  “The one and only, sweet pie.”

  “You look darn near the exact same as you did when I was a little girl.” Greta’s eyes grew wide as she studied the woman. “It’s nice to see you... out. And about!” A smile flashed across Greta’s face.

  Fern had something of a reputation in town. Since she was young, she’d been a shut-in. A recluse. Recently, she reemerged into society, taking baby steps to do more than scurry in and out of mass on Sundays. She’d become more comfortable, it seemed, and showed up at various events around town. In fact, Luke had met her through Little Flock. It was no wonder Greta knew her, too.

  “So, let me get this straight. Rhett and Maggie told you, Fern, about my predicament. You told...?” The question hung in the air, and Luke rushed to answer it.

  “My aunt. This is my Aunt Liesel.”

  Liesel squeezed Greta’s fingertips. “Charmed, darlin’, but we met years back. Here at Little Flock. You and your brother, Rhett, were just babies back then. I was ahead in school by some years.” Liesel pushed the pads of her fingertips beneath her eyes.
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br />   Greta nodded, appearing to take in all the news at once. “Right.” She inhaled sharply and glanced at Ky then Luke. Then back at Liesel. “So, you mentioned an inn? You’re not referring to...”

  “The Hickory Grove Inn, yes.” Liesel took a sip of her lemonade and raised her eyebrows over the rim at Luke.

  “You know it, I’m sure.” Fern added.

  Greta blinked. “Of course. Just up the hill.” She gestured behind her. “You’re... you’re selling it?”

  “Oh no, honey,” Liesel replied. “Wouldn’t dream of that. Luke’s mamaw just passed. My mother. She lived in the cottage next door. Maybe you heard about the services? Anyway, her house was that precious two-story Victorian. You know the one, no doubt.”

  “Victorian? No,” Fern interrupted. “I’d say it’s got that, you know, Cape Cod style? The shutters and the beige clapboard and white trim and whatnot.”

  “I always thought it was more farmhouse, actually,” Luke interjected, then felt silly. He’d been part owner of the bed-and-breakfast for just weeks and now all of a sudden, he was some expert in housing design? Ha. He shook his head and held up a hand. “We’ve been advertising for a manager’s position. A night manager.”

  Fern went on, taking a step forward and nearly cutting Luke off from a view of Greta. “You see, Greta, when Maggie told me that you had your sights set on finding a place, I told her to tell you that you could rent a room from me.” Luke threw a sidelong glance at Fern. It wasn’t so farfetched. She lived in a mansion on Pine Tree Lane and probably had the space. Still...

  “Oh?” Greta’s smile grew thin.

  “Yes, but Maggie insisted you’d either stay in her barn or find your own place. At Ladies Auxiliary this morning, I relayed the matter to Liesel, who shared with me her own problem.”

  “Which is?” Greta flicked a glance to Luke, and he could see plain as day she wasn’t quite keeping up with it. His off-the-cuff plan to just launch into an offer of taking on the overnight duty would have been way clearer.