by Melissa Tagg
Right. The guy who’d broken his arm after falling out of a tree and earned a nickname by setting accidental fires. And, oh yeah, who was still the butt of late-night-talk-show jokes. That’s who Hilary wanted fronting the town’s biggest event of the winter season.
What had he been thinking even staying in the room when she pitched the idea to Dad?
Okay, so he knew what he’d been thinking: Pull this off and the good people of Whisper Shore might finally have something nice to say about him. After all, if things were really that bad in town . . .
Focus on the game. He could figure out his future—and that of his hometown—later.
Tim moved in, Blake guarding him, arms outstretched. But in a flash, Tim backed up behind the three-point line and released the ball. It swished through the net to tie the score.
“Nice.”
Gulping in breaths, Tim followed him to the line. “So Hilary and your dad asked the city council to name you the new festival coordinator. Never would’ve imagined my thrill-seeking friend as an event organizer.”
Blake kicked the kinks out of his legs. He might seriously regret this game later. “They all but laughed in Dad’s face.”
Blake had attended the meeting with his father Monday night, dressed in his best, even though he’d never actually agreed to Hilary’s plan. He’d even shaved for the occasion. But he might as well have shown up in jeans and a hoodie for all the serious consideration they gave him.
At first.
But then Hilary had jumped in, cut right to the kicker—a little tidbit she’d failed to spring on him earlier. “He’s a media draw, folks. Practically a celebrity.”
And just like that, while he sputtered on his water, the tables turned. Suddenly they wanted him—lock, stock and tabloid-weathered barrel.
“So you’re doing it?” Tim asked now, knees bent in guard position as he waited for Blake to make his move.
Ball balanced in the crook of his arm, Blake eyed the hoop. “Not sure.” Instead of finishing the explanation, he dribbled and drove into the paint.
Two baskets later he closed the deal. Tim shook his head as they lugged themselves to the side-court bleacher. Blake covered his head with a towel, shaking the perspiration from his hair. Dude, he needed a cut. Definitely a shower. “Good game, man.”
“Yep.” Tim flicked his towel against Blake’s leg. “Okay, finish the story. What happened at the meeting?”
Blake cleared his throat. “Well, by the end of it, they offered me a full-time job—Georgie’s job at the Chamber—if I can pull off the festival.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I know. Seemed crazy to me, too. And I have a high tolerance for crazy.” But that’s exactly what they’d done. Hilary had mentioned his business degree, his work ethic, his availability. But the magazines she plopped on the table—all of which had his name in a headline—were what sealed the deal.
He’d wanted to crawl under the table or pull a “Beam me up, Scotty.”
“Wow, they must really be desperate,” Tim said now.
He smirked. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Timmy.”
“Gonna do it?”
“Dunno.” It would’ve been one thing if they’d asked him to consider the decision based on his experience. After all, he’d led tours through the Amazon, taught ski classes in the Alps. He knew a thing or two about recreation, working with people, even tourism. He’d handled budgets in past jobs, too. And the year he’d spent working for that mega lodge in the Rockies had included obtaining corporate sponsorships for some of their bigger hikes and events. He actually was qualified for the job.
But no, the city wanted him for his face. His recent history.
And yet, his misgivings couldn’t entirely wipe out the thoughts urging him to at least consider it. Because what if he could finally do something right? Earn back the respect of a town he’d never stopped thinking of as home?
“Truth is, I actually feel like I could do a good job at this festival thing if I had a few months to pull it off. But how am I supposed to organize it in three and a half weeks?” Blake lifted his water bottle.
Tim rapped his knuckles on the metal bench. “I’ve got it. Get Autumn Kingsley to help you.”
He sputtered. “Good one.” He’d told Tim earlier about running into Autumn over the weekend. How he and Kevin had practically run her down. He’d left out the part about the tension razoring through their brief encounter.
“I’m serious. She’s been Georgie’s volunteer right-hand person at the past few festivals.”
“Our families are like Whisper Shore’s own Hatfields and McCoys. My dad was just spouting off about her mom the other day—something about a state tourism grant request she tabled. Name one good reason I should ask Autumn.” Well, besides the fact that he’d forgotten how pretty the younger Kingsley girl was. Even in the dark, he hadn’t missed that. A sideways grin slipped out at the memory of her feisty blue eyes lit up by the light of the streetlamp.
“She knows how to coordinate events, for one. This town loves her, for two.”
But she’d croak before agreeing to work with a Hunziker, wouldn’t she?
“Just ask her. You never know.” Tim said.
Except that he kinda sorta did. Especially considering the way she’d looked at him Saturday, like it was just yesterday she’d come to him and told him about Ryan’s prescription-drug addiction.
“Ava doesn’t think you’ll listen to her. She asked me to tell you. You’re his brother. Do something.”
Eventually, finally, he had. The wrong something.
“You know, one of these days, you’ve got to let it go, Hunziker.”
He blinked, Tim’s voice yanking him back to the present, to the gym where Ryan had once been crowned homecoming king. Was he so see-through?
“Not that easy.” So far from easy, it made planning the Christmas festival look like a cinch. “Tim, do you, uh . . . you keep in touch with Shawn at all?”
Shawn Baylor had been Ryan’s best friend. And the only other person in the plane the day Ryan died.
Tim loosened the laces of his Nikes and straightened. “Not much. He . . . keeps to himself. And I hear he and Hilary are going through a rough patch.”
Blake sucked in a breath. Shawn was the AWOL husband Hilary had been talking about? His two friends had married—and separated—in his time away . . . and he hadn’t even known it. He closed his eyes, feeling the guilt as keenly as if he’d been the one to pull them apart. And maybe he was. Maybe that’s why Hilary had bristled when she first saw him.
Maybe Shawn had never gotten over what he’d seen that day.
Just like Blake.
“Do something.”
The memory of Autumn’s plea all those years ago mixed with the image of Hilary’s just the other day.
He stood, chucking off the weight of memories like a practiced shot putter. “You really think Kingsley would help?”
Tim glanced up and shrugged. “Maybe if you ask nice. And call her by her first name.”
Why could she never manage a staff meeting as well as Mom used to?
“People, please!” Autumn waved her clipboard to quell the excitement spreading through the inn’s dining room like lava, burning up what was supposed to have been a productive after-dinner meeting. So maybe making the bold pronouncement that they were going to be hosting the most important guest the inn had ever had wasn’t her most brilliant idea ever. Should’ve eased into the news.
“Do something,” Harry hissed from the chair next to her. “It’s like someone spiked our coffee with catnip.”
This must be what preschool teachers felt like.
They were a small but unruly crew—some of the ten staff sitting at the largest dining room table, others perched higher on the stools around a couple tall cocktail tables. The faint tones of Michael Bublé filtered in from the kitchen. Oh, for the calm in his smooth-as-glass voice to infect her staff.
Autumn nudged up the
sleeves of her unbuttoned green sweater and forced her voice a notch higher. “Our guest is not a movie star. He’s not on television. And, for goodness sake, he’s not Pat Sajak.” She cast a faux stern glance at Uri, their part-time swing-shift deskman.
“Hey, it was a valid guess.” He shrugged from where he leaned against the cherry-hued wall. The man’s creased face gave away his distance past retirement age. Autumn had a feeling that since his wife’s death last year Uri continued working more out of loneliness than anything else.
One more reason her plan to woo Dominic Laurent had to work. She loved Uri, this whole crew, and each one needed the job. The pressure of the responsibility heated through her, and she tugged off her sweater, wrinkled white shirt underneath, with its wrap belt tied at the side.
“Autumn?” Harry snapped again.
“Okay, I know we’re all antsy to call it a day, but we’ve got more to talk about.” She spent the next twenty minutes explaining who Dominic Laurent was, why his visit was so important, what they needed to accomplish in the next two and a half weeks in order to impress the man. Amazingly, something resembling calm and attention settled over the staff as she spoke.
“So the more we can all pitch in, the better. If you’ve got downtime, find me or Harry and we’ll give you a project.”
Despite her earlier warmth, a twinge of cold tingled over Autumn’s bare feet. She curled her purple-painted toes inside her flats. It might still look like fall outside, but with December moving in by week’s end, it was time to tweak the thermostat. And probably reacquaint herself with her sock drawer.
Behind her staff, the dining room’s bay windows ushered in the grays and blues of the evening’s moody weather. “Does anybody have any questions?”
The sole member of the inn’s housekeeping staff raised her hand.
“Yes, Charlotte?”
“If we need Mr. Laurent’s investment this badly, I can’t help wondering . . .” Charlotte pushed her silver braid over her shoulder. “What happens if he doesn’t invest? We’ve all noticed business hasn’t exactly been booming.”
Definitely not booming. Autumn could picture the rows of rooms fingering each direction from stairs opening into the second floor. Empty, empty, occupied, empty, empty, empty, occupied, empty . . .
Too many rooms in the inn. Mary and Joseph should have been so lucky.
“Truth is, Char, things are tight. But I have a meeting with our accountant tomorrow. We’re going to go over our financials.”
She watched the concern ebb and flow over the faces of everyone in the room. It showed itself in twitches and pressed lips, fidgets and clenched fists.
“But I’m sure . . . at least I’m hopeful, things will turn out fine.” Her words did little to restore the earlier jovial mood. Or to persuade even her. With every visit to her financial advisor’s office, she left less and less convinced she ever should have been handed the reins to the inn. “Well, that’s it for the meeting.”
Chairs bumped against the hardwood underfoot as the staff rose, quiet in place of the ruckus from before. Autumn dropped into a chair and turned to Harry. “I finally tamed the squirrely masses. Are you proud of me?”
He folded his arms. “Not sure it was you as much as reality dawning on everyone.”
She tapped his arm with her clipboard, injecting all semblance of nonchalance she could muster into her voice. “Don’t talk like that, Harry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Whatever you say, Pollyanna.”
“I’m serious. Think about it: Dominic. Laurent. He fell into our lap right when we most needed a miracle. If that’s not divine intervention, I don’t know what is.”
His eyebrow quirked. “You think God is sending Laurent to us?”
“I sure don’t know who else would.” Anyway, it’s what she wanted to believe. Especially after too many months of wondering if He still remembered her—the girl with the travel itch she couldn’t scratch. Autumn stood and tugged Harry up. “Buck up. Good things are on the horizon for the Kingsley Inn.” Maybe if she said it enough, she’d believe it.
“And . . . for you.”
At that cryptic comment, she met Harry’s eyes. He knew. “How . . . ?”
“The man from the Paris Hotel Grand accidentally called the inn rather than your cell phone on the day of your interview.”
And he hadn’t asked her about it in all this time. Was that hurt in his eyes? She lowered her voice. “I’m sorry, Harrison. I was going to tell you. I was just . . . waiting for the right time.”
“What’s the position?”
“Assistant to the head of guest services.” A step down from manager, to be sure. But she’d have volunteered to wash dishes if it meant the opportunity to live in France. To reside in a little flat on a quaint street. To walk to the hotel along the Seine and work every day in a building with a view of the Eiffel Tower.
And on the weekends she’d take the train to surrounding countries. Maybe Sabine would come along and they’d explore historical landmarks and picturesque scenery. And she’d keep her promise to Dad.
“Make sure to see the world, Autumn. You’ve got the same traveler’s blood I do. Promise me you won’t make the world wait too long for you.”
She couldn’t have been more than ten at the time. Dad’s stories of his own travels—when he’d worked as a photographer for several years before returning to his hometown, meeting Mom, and taking over the inn after his own father retired—had always seemed so magical.
The magic might have worn off as she got older—as Dad’s restlessness started affecting their once-happy family—but not the desire it sparked.
“I received the official job offer last Friday,” she said now, waiting for the reprimand or disappointment she was sure to see on Harry’s face.
Instead, resignation, and maybe a smidgeon of pride, hovered in his smile. “Of course you got the job.”
“Could you not tell anyone? For now?”
He started to nod but was interrupted by a shriek from the other side of the dining room window. They both glanced to where Betsy waved on the opposite side of the glass, urging them outside. “What in the world . . . ?”
Betsy knocked on the window, mouth moving, voice muffled.
Harry chuckled. “Is she saying ‘wolf mess’?”
Betsy spoke again.
Autumn’s mouth dropped. “No, ‘wasp nest.’ She found a wasp nest on the porch.” She hurried out of the dining room, Harry’s footsteps behind her.
The foamy fragrance of Lake Michigan breezed over her as she spilled onto the porch, cold rustling over her bare skin. Should’ve grabbed her sweater. “Where is it?”
Betsy pointed over her head to where a tangle of netted twigs balled against the overhang. “What do we do?”
“Don’t disturb it,” Harry said from behind. “Call animal control.”
Autumn’s laugh was a half snort. “You don’t call animal control for a wasp, Harry.”
“Well, we can’t leave it there. Next thing we know some guest gets stung and has an allergic reaction and we get sued.” Betsy fit her hands into a pair of mittens.
“Guys, this is not that big of a deal.” Autumn pointed to the nest. “It’s cold, which means if there’s any wasps in that thing, they’re probably dormant. Right?”
Neither Betsy nor Harry wore a look of assurance. “It hasn’t been cold for that long,” Harry said.
Autumn slipped back into the entryway, pulled an umbrella from the wicker basket just inside, and returned to the porch.
“You are not going to use that.” Harry shook his head as he spoke.
“I’m just going to give it a little poke to see what we’re dealing with here.”
Betsy backed up. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Autumn climbed onto a rattan chair. “Yeah, well, you used to have a bad feeling about kale, too. Remember that?” She gave the nest a tentative tap.
“I don’t trust greens I can’t easily iden
tify. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, except now you eat kale every day in those healthy smoothies you make.” Another poke. “So just because you have a bad feeling—”
The nest jiggled.
“Did you do that?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry backing up toward Betsy as he asked the question.
“Uh-uh.”
And . . . Uh-oh.
Suddenly it was alive, moving as a buzzing wasp—or five—kamikazed from the nest. Autumn’s scream pierced the air as she jerked, rattan chair wobbling beneath her. The wasps dipped and dived, and she swung the umbrella, losing her balance, Harry and Betsy both yelling behind her.
“Don’t let any inside, guys.”
She heard the pounding of footsteps on the porch stairs along with the slam of the front door. She crashed into the chair and then felt it—a sting. Fast and harsh in her upper arm. She squealed, standing, gaze darting in search of the offender. The umbrella still dangled from one hand.
“Are you all right, Autumn?”
She whirled at the voice, umbrella pointed like a sword.
Blake Hunziker. Looking for all the world as if he’d just witnessed a comedy routine but was under orders not to laugh.
Perfect, just . . . perfect.
“Are you allergic to wasp stings?”
Blake looked from Autumn back to the nest now scattered on the porch floor. A chair lay tipped on its side, and wind chimes dangled from the curved cornice overhead. And are you off your rocker? Poking a wasp nest? Why not just take a stapler to her arm? Same effect.
“What?” Autumn glanced around, probably looking for the other two people he’d seen on the porch when he drove up. But they’d abandoned her the second the nest wobbled.
“I said, are you allergic to wasp stings?”
“I-I don’t think so. Why do you have an ice cream cone?”
Oh yeah. That. He held the cone in one hand, stickiness dripping down the side. Probably totally un-genius, buying the cone in town and expecting it to last on the mile drive out to the inn. But it’d been the only bribe he could think of.
