by Anna Gerard
“A rather harsh way to put things, don’t you think?” he asked as he took a cautious step inside. “I prefer the phrase facilitated their inevitable relocation. Um, are you certain this dog won’t bite?”
That last was asked with more than a bit of understandable trepidation, since the dog in question had her piercing blue-and-brown gaze fixed on the man’s face. The fact that she’d begun a low growl deep in her throat probably wasn’t helping matters.
“Back off, girl,” I told her. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”
Mattie’s ears drooped in disappointment, but she obediently shut off the rumbling and trotted to the corner of the foyer. She flopped onto the cool wood floor and kept both eyes fixed on Bainbridge while I closed the door behind him. Since this wasn’t a social call, I didn’t direct the man toward the parlor. Instead, hand on knob, I told him, “Like I said, I can give you five minutes. So what’s this story you have to tell me?”
“Actually, it’s more of a request for a sympathetic hearing. I’m hoping to reboot my image, so to speak, but it will take some outside help.”
He tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket, expression bland now. “I’m certain that, as a newcomer to Cymbeline, you have a clear view of us. You come from a big city, so you’re not shackled by a small-town mentality, unlike some of our fellow citizens who have lived here all their lives.”
The obvious implication being that small town equaled not smart. But Bainbridge had read me wrong if he thought I’d be seduced by being told I was better than my new neighbors. Still, I said, “Go on.”
“I would guess you have a fair idea of how small towns work. Everyone knows everyone else’s business, and everyone has a long memory. Those people who opposed my beautiful Southbridge development are a prime example.”
His voice rose, and he began wringing his hands in melodramatic fashion, so I was hard-pressed to keep a straight face.
“They failed in their efforts to stop me then, and their revenge now is that they find fault with everything I do. They’re up in arms over the fact I intend to build a fabulous new golf community on property I’ve owned for years. The only thing they talk about is goats and nuns. What they forget is that I have every legal right to develop the land,” he finished.
I considered this a moment. What he was saying about small-town memories didn’t differ much from Gemma’s discussion of Sister Mary George that morning. But what was legal and what was right weren’t always the same thing. Unfortunately, guys like Bainbridge tended not to get that.
“So you’re not Cymbeline’s Man of the Year,” I agreed. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“That’s simple. You see, I have a lovely office on the main square over a charming antique shop. Once, it was a pleasure to do business in that location, but now, not so much. I can’t even walk outside for lunch without feeling like I am traversing hostile territory.”
He paused and gave an elaborate shudder.
“I’ve had to resort to wearing hats and overcoats to disguise myself just to walk from my office to the parking lot. That’s why I wanted to give you my side of the story before the good sisters move in and turn you against me, too. Quite frankly, I’m in need of a friendly face in town, Ms. Fleet, and I have hopes that this face might be yours.”
He sighed a little, expression pained, and despite the smarmy vibe the guy gave off, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. It had to suck being everyone’s favorite villain, even if you deserved the rep. I wasn’t buying everything he was selling, but I’d give him a full hearing.
“You’re not making it easy for yourself,” I reminded him. “As far as most people are concerned, evicting a bunch of elderly ladies from a place they’ve lived for decades kind of puts you into the category of supervillain.”
Bainbridge’s pained expression hardened, contrasting sharply with his soft Georgia drawl.
“But that’s the problem. I didn’t capriciously evict them. I’ve been in negotiations with the archdiocese for years trying to avoid this very situation. The archbishop knew the lease was going to end, but his people refused to respond to my offers to buy me out. Heck, I even gave the sisters a six-month extension before I finally filed the papers for eviction. If you think about it, I’m the good guy here.”
I suppressed a grimace. Much as I hated to admit it, if what he said was true, Bainbridge had a point … not that I’d go as far as calling him a good guy. But Melissa Jane had talked about optics. No matter how you spun it, the developer was going to come out of this situation looking bad. And while I might have been an open-minded outsider, I darned sure wasn’t a stupid one. No way was I going to take Bainbridge’s side, not if I wanted to be able to run over to Peaches and Java for coffee anytime I wanted to. But to be just as fair, I wasn’t going to go around trash-talking the guy, either.
At least, not until I knew him better.
“Mr. Bainbridge—Gregory—I’m sorry you and the nuns both ended up in this situation, but I’m not going to take sides here. Consider me Switzerland. I’m going to let the sisters stay here as long as it takes to settle things, but I promise I won’t yell nasty things at you if I see you in the town square.”
“Well, that’s something.”
He gave me the first genuine smile I’d seen out of him. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Fleet … Nina. If you ever decide to unload this place and want a nice new modern home in a gated community, we’re breaking ground on Westbridge this fall.”
Then his smile turned sly. “And I work out special deals for, ahem, good friends.”
And, there was the opening hit. If I’d had more time, Evil Me would have been tempted to lead him on a bit. But since I had my nuns to think about, I decided to take him literally.
“Well, if we ever become friends, I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied, and opened the door again to usher him out. “Now, you’d better get going before any of the neighbors see you talking to me.”
Bainbridge drew himself up with a dignified smirk. “I assume you’re having a little jest at my expense. But, yes, I’ll be on my way.”
I closed the door after him and heaved an exaggerated breath, earning a woof of agreement from Mattie.
“Well, that was special,” I muttered as I peered through the sidelight to make sure the man truly was leaving.
Fortunately, I could see him getting into a dark luxury sedan that had probably cost more than half the houses in Cymbeline. I could only hope that he’d keep his distance once the nuns arrived. Who knew, Sister Mary George might flash back to her youth and decide to go all Benihana on the man if he gave her any lip. And that was one fight I wanted to stay clear of.
Putting the developer firmly out of mind, I headed for the kitchen. More important things were at stake than Bainbridge’s sneaky plans to win friends and influence people. Namely, I’d bought a tub of refrigerated cookie dough while I was at the store, and I had cookies to bake.
* * *
On Monday morning, I’d barely finished dressing in a pink tailored shirt and cropped black jeans when the doorbell chimed.
“They’re here,” I told Mattie, who was lounging in the hall outside my open bedroom door. With the Aussie on my heels, I trotted to the front door and flung it open.
Gathered in a neat semicircle on the porch were my first guests, all wearing black calf-length habits with black stockings and brogues, their hair covered by white linen caps draped by matching elbow-length black veils. Gleaming against their chests were large gold crucifixes on chains.
Melissa Jane, wearing a sleeveless mint-green linen shift, stood behind them, beaming proudly. “We’re here!” she said unnecessarily. “And I’m sure you’re all ready for us. Right, Nina?”
“You bet. Welcome, Sisters. Please, come in,” I said, and held open the screen.
They filed inside, each nun pulling a single wheeled black overnight bag behind her, so that they looked like funeral-bound flight attendants. Trying to be the h
elpful hostess, I asked, “Do you need me to grab the rest of your stuff out of the SUV?”
I heard a few stifled snickers as Mother Superior slanted me a look through those big glasses.
“My child,” she intoned, “we’re the Sisters of Perpetual Poverty. We don’t have more ‘stuff.’ ”
“Reverend Mother is right. That’s kind of in our rule book.” This from one of the younger nuns—meaning in her sixties—with cherubic cheeks and wide blue eyes. Sister Mary Christopher, if I remembered correctly.
“Everything else belongs to the archdiocese,” added the freckle-faced Sister Mary Thomas with a smile as she let a curious Mattie snuffle her extended hand. “It’s all packed up and going into storage until we figure out where we’re headed.”
“Oh, uh, sure,” I agreed, giving myself a mental kick. This wasn’t the Kardashian clan on vacay, after all.
But even though this was their chosen life, I couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for them. All those years living at the convent, and their entire worldly goods fit into a suitcase that could be stowed beneath an airline seat. Heck, I needed more luggage than that for a three-day weekend.
On the other hand, I couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous of them, too. It would be kind of nice to be able to pack all of one’s worldly goods in a carry-on bag.
Melissa Jane, meanwhile, was saying, “I’m sure everyone will settle in just fine. Nina, can you take it from here? I have a meeting with one of our local contractors in about fifteen minutes, so I really must be off.”
“Sure, I’ve got it. I’ll call you if there are any problems.”
“Problems?” The mayor gave a hearty chuckle. “What sort of problems could you have with guests like these?”
“I’m sure Ms. Fleet will be a credible hostess,” Reverend Mother clipped out. “Thank you for all your efforts on our behalf, Madame Mayor. We appreciate your rushing through the permit.”
“Not at all.” Teeth bared in a campaign trail–worthy grin, Melissa Jane made her way out the door again.
I stretched my lips in an equally wide smile.
“I guess we’re on our own now. Not that I expected the mayor to hang out with us. Though I’m sure she would have been glad to, if she’d had the time. Oh, and I had a couple of extra keys made. Maybe I should give them to you, Reverend Mother?”
I was perilously close to babbling. What was it about a roomful of nuns that made me nervous? Or was it simply first-time-innkeeper nerves?
“Nina,” Sister Mary George spoke up as I helplessly trailed off, “perhaps you’d like to show us to our rooms?”
I shot her a grateful look. “Of course. Though I’m afraid some of you will have to share. Not you, Reverend Mother. But we’ll have to do two to a room for some of the rest of you, if that’s all right.”
“The sisters don’t mind doubling up,” Mother Superior informed me with a cool nod. “And if necessary, I certainly can share my space with Sister Mary Paul.”
The tiniest of the six nuns gave her veiled head a vigorous nod. Her small face was wrinkled like the proverbial raisin, and her eyes gleamed like dark little currants. “Yes, yes,” she croaked out in some vague Eastern European accent. “I am fine with roommate.”
We made the short walk down the gallery of Ye Olde Ancestors to the main staircase. A second, more modest flight of stairs lay behind a discreet door near the kitchen. Back in the day, that stairway would have been used by the help. In these servantless times, it was handy for popping downstairs for a midnight refrigerator raid. But given that we were going for first impressions, I wanted the good sisters to see the real deal with its carved newel post and built-in under-stairs bench.
I couldn’t help feeling a warm glow when they made all the appropriate noises of approval when they saw it and the parlor beyond. Not that I could take credit for the majority of the decor; still, I had added my own touches and made what I considered a few aesthetic improvements. The major change had come when I pulled up some unfortunate wall-to-wall carpeting that had been installed circa the 1960s, returning the wood floors beneath to their original polished bare state. On the other hand, I had kept most of the period wallpaper, which ran riot with flowers, curlicues, and stripes, often all in a single pattern. Overall, I’d pretty well kept the place as Harry Wescott’s great-aunt had left it.
Harry Westcott.
With all the craziness of getting ready for my unplanned business opening, I’d pretty well forgotten the man in the penguin suit. I only hoped he hadn’t gotten word about the B&B. Last thing I needed was another visit from his fleece-clad self riling up my guests.
“My apologies, Sisters,” I said as the women hefted their bags and we started up the steps, Mattie following behind. “Unfortunately, all our bedrooms are on the second floor. Melissa Jane said that wouldn’t be a problem?”
It had occurred to me two days before while I was hauling linen that upstairs bedrooms might not prove ideal for a bunch of elderly ladies. Heck, all that climbing had made my knees ache. And so I’d made a hasty call to our fair mayor expressing my concerns.
Melissa Jane had laughed.
Honey, those sisters are in better shape than you and me both. Remember, they spend hours each day herding up goats and milking them and carrying feed. And that cheese doesn’t make itself, either. Don’t worry, a little staircase won’t stop any of them.
“Oh, don’t worry about that, child,” Sister Mary Thomas now echoed. “The convent building is three stories, not including the basement. We’re up and down steps all the time. That’s how we get our cardio in.”
“Yes, and it’s good for the glutes,” Sister Mary Christopher agreed, with an approving glance over her shoulder at her own ample backside.
Since I’d seen a bit of improvement in my own admittedly neglected rear carriage after moving into the place, I had to third the observation.
A few more steps, and we had reached the second-floor landing. The paneled hallway that stretched to either side of the stairs was similar to the main hall downstairs. But here the dark raised paneling went from floor to ceiling, resembling a series of tall narrow picture frames set side to side. Depending on your mood, the effect was either cozy or claustrophobic.
“First things first,” I told them. “We have a full bath here, and a half bath between two of the bedrooms. There’s also a powder room downstairs near the kitchen. I’ll let y’all work out the bathroom schedules among yourselves.”
The nuns nodded in unison. With that established, I reached for the knob of the first guest bedroom. “Here we go. I call this one the Prince Chamber.”
I’d given the room its sly moniker for a good reason. The walls were papered, floor to ceiling, with cascading images of purple flowers, from lilacs to tulips to orchids. Purple rain of the floral variety. Originally, the room’s window had been hung with matching purple-print curtains, while the large rug covering most of the floor had been an unfortunate shade of plum. Those had been the first items to go. I’d tried to tone down the visual volume with crisp white curtains and white linen on the twin beds, but the place still looked like a shrine to the Artist Formerly Known As.
“Ooh, Prince … I get it!” Sister Mary Thomas cried with a clap of her hands, somewhat to my surprise. Though maybe she tuned in to the oldies rock station while doing farm chores and was familiar with the Purple One’s oeuvre. “And I love it! This I my favorite color.”
“Mine, too!” Mary Christopher gave an enthusiastic nod. “Mary Thomas and I call dibs on this room.”
“Very well, it’s yours,” Mother Superior agreed, her lips twitching in what could have been a smile as the two nuns hurriedly dragged their rolling cases inside. “Now, why don’t we see the next offering.”
I walked down to the next door and opened it. “This room is a bit lower key,” I said with a smile. “More of a country French feel to it, don’t you think? Oh, and it has just the one bed.”
Everyone merely peeked past the door frame, except
Mother Superior. Leaving her bag beside the door, the nun walked all the way inside until she was standing a nose-length away from the toile wallpaper. Though I wasn’t much of a toile enthusiast myself, I rather liked the faded robin’s-egg-blue background with its brown pastoral scene.
“Very impressive. Hand blocked … original colors,” Mother Superior murmured approvingly, pulling off her glasses to study the pattern on the wall. “You know, there’s a lucrative market for original wallpaper of this era.”
Since she was a nun, I assumed she wasn’t planning to abscond with a couple of strips to sell on eBay once her stay with me was over. Smiling, I walked in to join her.
“I’ll keep that in mind. I’m afraid the bedspread is a modern reproduction, though the colors and patterns match amazingly well. The furniture is fairly contemporary, too, probably midcentury.”
“Quite homey,” she decreed, putting on her glasses again and surveying the place.
I nodded. “Why don’t you take this room for yourself?”
“But Sister Mary Paul—”
“Can stay with me,” Sister Mary George declared from the doorway, smiling as she put her arm around the much smaller nun’s shoulders. “This is so much fun. I can’t wait to see the next room, Nina.”
“Then let’s go.”
Leaving Mother Superior to unpack, I led the remaining three nuns to the next room and threw open the door. “I call this room Country Living.”
Sister Mary George walked inside, eyes wide as she looked about. The wallpaper in this room was a faded cabbage rose pattern, almost more gray than pink. The coverlets on the twin beds were a darker pink and edged with white Battenburg lace that matched the white Battenburg lace curtains. The armoire, mirrored dresser, and headboards on the twin beds were all plain pine. An old-fashioned pitcher and basin set—antiques, as far as I could tell—sat atop the dresser on a Battenburg lace runner. Definitely a rural Georgia vibe.
Sister Mary George turned back to me with a broad smile. “I love it. This reminds me of visiting my Nan back when I was a little girl. Mary Paul, do you like?”
