He nodded as they crossed the street. “Nice. Scenic. Plenty to do.”
“Where’d you say you were from?” she asked even though he’d never actually said.
“Charlotte.”
“Born and bred?”
“Originally from Raleigh. Were you born here?”
“A Bluebell girl through and through.”
“You like to travel?”
“Sure, I’ve been here and there. But mostly I like it here.” She flashed a saucy smile at him.
“Fair enough.”
“What about you . . . world traveler?”
He slid her a sideways look, the corner of his lips tipping up. “Here and there.”
“Are you trying to be an enigma, or does it just come naturally?”
“Comes pretty natural.”
She laughed.
“You seem awfully young to own a business—two businesses.”
Grace cocked a look at him. “Is that your way of asking my age?”
“I’m usually more subtle.”
“I have no doubt.” Grace took a step up the curb and turned right, leading them down Church Street. They had to walk fairly close to fit on the sidewalk, and she caught the scent of his woodsy cologne.
“You’re not going to tell me?” he said finally.
“You haven’t asked.”
“How old are you, Grace?”
“I’m twenty-one, Wyatt. How old are you?”
“Ancient.”
“You’re aging well. Not a gray hair in sight. Come on, now, I told you.”
“Twenty-six.”
Grace widened her eyes dramatically. “You’re right. Positively ancient.”
He skirted a root that had grown through the sidewalk. “What made you want to open an outfitters business?”
She hitched her shoulder. “I’ve always been active and outdoorsy, and I saw a need in town for such a place.”
“Sounds like a big challenge.”
“I like a challenge.” She gave him a look from the corner of her eye. Had that come off flirty? She hadn’t meant it to. She didn’t think. “But to be honest, I mostly do the fun stuff, and my brother handles the financial side. He’s teaching me, but I’m not a natural with numbers and spreadsheets. How about you? How’d you become an EMT?”
He paused long enough she wondered if he was going to answer at all.
“I’m actually in security. The EMT training was part of that.”
Security? She had about a dozen questions. For starters, what kind of security? Did he work in a prison? At a bank? Was he a policeman? A sheriff? But she wasn’t Molly. She wouldn’t push for answers. He obviously liked his privacy, and she could respect that.
“What’s your next hike?” she asked instead. “You should definitely head up to Stone Gap Bridge before you leave. It’s a swinging bridge stretched across a deep canyon, a popular tourist destination.”
“Sounds treacherous.”
“You strike me as the type of guy who might like an adrenaline rush.”
His lips twitched. “Just might.”
They crossed another street and passed the coffee shop. She waved at a couple of women drinking on the patio. “Church friends.”
“Where do you attend?”
Gracie pointed up the street at the white structure with the traditional steeple. “Right there. First Community Church.”
“Ah. The famous church of Church Street.”
“The very one. Do you attend anywhere?”
“Not for a while.” His tone said subject closed.
She sensed his silence held a story, and she’d love to know it. But he was a stranger, only passing through, and she was just the innkeeper.
The library was just ahead, and Grace found herself reluctant to part ways.
“You’ll have to stop in at the coffee shop sometime. It’s really good. Their frappés are amazing. I know, I hate to be a cliché—that’s such a basic girl drink. But my opinion stands.”
“You’re not a basic anything, Grace.”
Oh really? She arched a brow his direction.
His lips curled in an almost smile, and she wondered what he looked like when he really went all out and showed his teeth and everything. She hoped to put a real smile on his face before he left town. She had a feeling he could use a little levity in his life.
Her footsteps slowed as they reached the Bluebell Public Library.
He glanced up at the old brick building, at the American flag fluttering in the breeze.
“Well, here we are. Thanks for the escort. And good luck on the retail space.”
“Thanks.”
He treated her to one of those intense looks before he headed up the sidewalk with that purposeful stride that was already becoming familiar.
* * *
Wyatt settled at the microfilm machine, armed with the appropriate slides. The librarian had helped him find what he was searching for and instructed him on the machine. He found himself reluctant to dive into the old newspaper articles.
He’d rather think about Grace. He’d enjoyed talking with her; the walk went too quickly. She’d been open enough, a little feisty even, but she didn’t push him when they’d touched on topics he preferred to avoid. He didn’t expect good intuition and restraint in a woman so young, so innocent. A small-town girl.
Twenty-one. He shook his head. He’d been a numbskull at twenty-one and wasn’t sure he’d advanced much beyond that. But twenty-one seemed like a long time ago. He felt older than his age—always had—and given his job, he’d lived a comparatively worldly life. He’d parted with his innocence a long time ago.
Someone across the room sneezed, drawing his attention back to the machine. Enough stalling. He needed direction, or he’d spend the next few weeks trudging aimlessly around the mountains. He wasn’t sure why he needed to go there for closure. Instinct just told him he did, and he’d learned long ago to trust that inner voice.
He placed the slide, adjusted the view, and scanned the local newspaper. It didn’t take long to find the right issue—it was the day after it had happened.
The headline read “Governor’s Wife Murdered on Camping Trip.”
Wyatt swallowed hard and forced himself to review the article as if he were a subjective reader. He scanned the bits he knew all too well, searching for the exact location of the crime. But the journalist only named the Blue Ridge Mountains as the police hadn’t released many details at that point. He moved on to the article in the next day’s paper.
A fist tightened around his chest at the sight of his mother’s beautiful picture.
It was a full five seconds before he could tear his gaze away long enough to read the article. It contained a few more details. The suspect was still at large. More background about his mother. Wyatt was also mentioned, but not by name, as he’d been a minor at the time.
Finally, in an edition a couple weeks out from the crime, an article declared that the culprit had been apprehended in Florida. A regurgitation of the crime turned up a few new details, but nothing regarding its location.
He kept going, searching for other articles, but the subsequent ones focused on the trial and prosecution of Gordon Kimball.
Wyatt turned off the machine. He’d learned nothing helpful, and the search had come at a cost. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his palms were cold and clammy. But the worst of it was the memories that had been stirred up. A necessary evil, he knew. He would have to dig it all up—feel it all—if he wanted to reach the other side of this and finally reclaim his life.
Chapter Seven
Molly smiled as she pulled the door shut, feeling rather smug about the way she’d set up her sister on a walk to town with the hunky guest. She stowed the dirty towels in the cart, pushed it into the laundry room, then started a load of sheets and towels. That done, she grabbed the bag of garbage and hauled it downstairs.
At the front desk Levi looked up from the computer. “Hey, you got a minute?”
&
nbsp; “Sure, what’s up?”
“Robin sent the pictures this morning. Did you see them?”
“Yeah, they turned out great.”
“Did you get the listing written up yet?”
“It’s only been a day, Levi.”
“I know, but the sooner we get it online, the sooner we’ll have a buyer.”
“Somebody’s eager to get out to LA.”
“I have a prospective job—a commercial construction company. They want to interview me about a position that’ll be opening up soon.”
“Hey, that’s great.” The thought of Levi leaving for good weighted her chest. This was happening so fast. But it was the plan. She was leaving too. They’d all be going their separate ways. “I’ll get the listing written up today.”
“Thanks.”
Molly picked up the bag of trash and headed toward the back door.
“Hey, one more thing,” Levi said. “What’s up with that Wyatt guy?”
“What do you mean?”
“It seemed like there was something strange going on between him and Grace earlier.”
Molly lifted a brow. “That was just tension, Levi. Good ol’ sexual tension.”
He flinched, the thought of his baby sister experiencing attraction no doubt making his stomach heave.
“I was glad to see it going both directions,” she said. “I haven’t seen anyone turn her head like that before. That’s some stare he has, huh?”
“What stare?”
“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. I’m taking this out, then heading home.” She started down the hall.
“Wait. What do we know about him?”
Molly paused again. “We know he’s a guest. And his name is Wyatt.”
“That’s it? And you just sent Grace out the door with him?”
“In Bluebell? In broad daylight? She’ll be fine, Levi. She’s not a child anymore.”
“How long’s he staying?”
She shrugged. “It’s open-ended—and you’re overreacting again. You said we should let you know when you’re doing it, and I’m letting you know—you’re doing it.”
Levi shifted. “He seemed kind of secretive, that’s all.”
“During your extensive onetime conversation? People usually don’t spill their life story upon first sight.”
He pinned her with a look.
Well, fine. “Most people don’t. I’m leaving now. Can you throw the load in the dryer in twenty minutes?”
“Sure.” She could tell he wanted to say more, but he wisely held back. “See you tomorrow.”
Two hours later, Molly sat at her kitchen table, frowning at the document on her laptop. She glanced out on the deck where her husband’s fingers were practically dancing across his keyboard, feeling a moment’s jealousy.
Sure, sure, he wrangled words for a living, but this was her beloved childhood home. She knew everything there was to know about it. Loved everything about it. Why couldn’t she find the words to make others see how special it was?
She stared at the cursor blinking where she’d left off. She placed her fingers on the keyboard and wrote out the spiel they gave every new guest upon arrival. A nice long paragraph.
She reread it, finding it didn’t feel right in print, not for a listing.
She placed her finger on the delete key and watched all the words disappear. Outside, the sunny deck and cushy lawn chairs beckoned. But Adam was working, very productively apparently, and she wasn’t about to interrupt his flow.
Her gaze drifted around their lake house. He’d bought it when he moved here from New York. She’d thought he’d choose something new and modern like he’d had in the city, but this home was fifty years old and loaded with charm. They’d done some updating, but the two-story home retained its lovely character.
Settling in here after the wedding had been easy. She felt at home on the lake where she’d grown up. At home with Adam. She hated the weeks when he went on tour, but that was only when a new book released. The rest of the time was easy breezy. They’d settled into a nice routine. Most nights she cooked or he grilled out, and once a week they ate with Levi and Grace. Molly did the grocery shopping, and Adam took care of the lawn. They had a couple favorite shows they watched together.
All that would change when they moved to Tuscany. They’d have to find a new routine. But she was so grateful Adam was willing to move. She’d already started tackling the red tape necessary to own and operate a business in Italy. It was complicated, and she’d likely have to hire an Italian lawyer to help her muddle through it.
In the meantime she scoped out potential inns and homes online, but she didn’t want to get her heart set on anything. It would probably take a while to sell their inn, maybe over a year.
The glass door slid open, and Adam slipped through, looking handsome as ever. His brown hair was windblown, and he had a few days’ stubble on his jaw. He’d gotten new glasses a few weeks ago, and she was crazy about the way he looked in them.
“Ready for lunch?” she asked, eager for a distraction.
“Not just yet. I had a late breakfast. What are you working on in here?”
She heaved a sigh. “The inn’s listing.”
“It’s not going well? What have you written so far?”
Molly peered down at the document. “Historic inn, nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, for sale.” She gave him an exaggerated pouty look.
“All right . . . That’s a nice start. Nestled is a great verb.” He came behind her and rubbed her shoulders.
She moaned as his fingers dug into her tight muscles. She hadn’t realized how tense she was. “How do you do it? How do you turn your thoughts and feelings into just the right words on paper? Everything I write . . . just doesn’t do the inn justice.”
“You’re pretty close to the subject matter. Sometimes that makes it more difficult. Want a little help?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to just do it for you?”
She peeked up at him. “Would you?”
He laughed as he leaned down, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered in her ear, “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Mrs. Bradford.”
Chapter Eight
Later that night Grace took the bike and helmet back from the middle-aged woman. After a bit of small talk she said good-bye, then her eyes caught on the curb where the Lumina had pulled up the night before.
She stared at the empty parking space, a shiver of apprehension skittering down her spine at the memory. She wiped her sweaty palms down her shorts.
Ridiculous. The vehicle was nowhere to be seen at the moment, and she hadn’t seen it since. Besides, it belonged to a harmless elderly woman. A sweet old grandma.
What was wrong with her? Sure, there’d been times when that childhood memory returned. Even freaked her out a little. But yesterday she’d had some kind of panic attack, and she could still feel the panic simmering beneath the surface.
And just below that was the other feeling she’d come to accept as her status quo. That she didn’t quite deserve the good things in her life. That she maybe hadn’t even deserved to live.
She knew she was dealing with survivor’s guilt. But knowing it and making it go away didn’t equate. She may have gotten away with her life that day, but she sure hadn’t gotten off scot-free.
She put the bike away, locked up the equipment shed, and went inside the inn, the depressing thoughts on her heels like a murky shadow.
When she reached the lobby she spotted Levi at the front desk, clacking away on the keyboard.
He looked up at her arrival. “Hey. How was the retail space you looked at earlier?”
She shrugged on her way to the stairs, not in the mood for conversation. “It was fine, I guess.”
“Is it a possibility? Think you could make it work?”
“I don’t know, Levi. It needs a lot of help.”
“Wait. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired. I’m turning
in early.”
“At nine o’clock? What kind of work does it need? We aren’t exactly rookies when it comes to renovation.”
“It’s more the money than the work.”
“You’ll be getting a nice check when we sell the inn.”
“Which I’ll use to expand my business. I don’t have an extra fifty thousand to throw into a building.”
“What about a grant? I was reading a while back about state grants for new business starts. You should apply.”
“I don’t know. I’ll check it out.” She headed for the stairs.
“Sure you’re okay? You seem down or something.” He started to say something else, then closed his mouth.
“I’m fine. Just tired, like I said. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She was grateful that for once he hadn’t pried. Molly was the nosy one, but Levi had his own special way of interfering. When their parents died he’d appointed himself guardian and lord over his sisters. He’d gotten better the past couple of years—after a sisterly intervention—but there was still room for improvement.
Once in her bedroom Grace showered and got into her pajama bottoms and a top that read Due to unfortunate circumstances I am awake. She had the room all to herself now that Molly was married. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, but sometimes she missed her sister’s idle rambling and the bookwormy way she stayed up late reading whatever novel she couldn’t put down. She didn’t miss the messiness or the lamp shining late into the night, however.
If Grace were lonely for noise, her wish was soon granted. The family staying in the room next to hers returned, and their toddler began crying—screeching really.
Grace grabbed her laptop and started some tunes flowing through her earbuds. Now was as good a time as any to figure out how to fix her problem.
She began researching survivor’s guilt. She got caught up in story after story of people who were living with the same problem she was experiencing. Trauma brought on by war events, mass shootings. Stories much worse than hers, which somehow only added to her guilt. At least she wasn’t having nightmares, mood swings, and depression.
Autumn Skies: 3 (A Bluebell Inn Romance) Page 4
