That Chesapeake Summer (Chesapeake Diaries Book 9)

by Mariah Stewart

  “J. L. Valentine?” the woman said as she drew up to the table.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Grace Sinclair. Would you mind if I joined you for a moment?”

  Ah, the owner of the inn. Jamie recalled having seen her name on the inn’s website.

  And, more important, the owner of the St. Dennis Gazette.

  “Please.” Jamie rose and moved a chair to make room for the wheelchair at the table. “I’d love to have you join me.”

  “Thank you,” Grace said. “I can’t wait to get rid of this damned thing.”

  “How did you . . .”

  “Fell down the steps out there in the lobby. All the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never so much as tripped. And yet there I was, tumbling from the top to the bottom. Fortunately, I don’t recall any of it, though I understand I gave my kids heart attacks.”

  “How long . . .”

  “Another month or so in the cast. We thought it was healing well, but it was a little crooked. So they rebroke it, put some pins in, and recasted. I should be set now.” Grace smiled as she positioned herself at the table. “I better be. They’re not breaking it again.”

  “I’m so sorry. I hope it heals well and quickly.”

  Grace waved a hand as if to dismiss the thought. “I’d rather hear about you. When I saw your name on the list of upcoming guests, I was so tickled. We get our fair share of celebrities here at the inn, but not so many famous authors. And just between us, while we have movie people from time to time—a goodly number reserved for next week, I understand—I prefer a good book to most films.” Grace leaned closer and lowered her voice, her brown eyes twinkling. “Delia Enright always makes it a point to stay here when she’s in town.”

  “Delia Enright the mystery writer?”

  Grace nodded. “The same.”

  “I’m such a huge fan of hers,” Jamie said. Could the writer be related to Curtis Enright? She mentally added that thought to her list of things to find out.

  “Who isn’t?” Grace beamed and signaled for a waiter, who appeared instantly. “We’d like menus and a glass of that red wine I’m so partial to. I can’t remember what it’s called, but Hugo will know it.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair.” The waiter turned to go, but Grace grabbed his arm and turned to Jamie. “Would you like a glass of wine, J.L.?”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Make that two of the red,” Grace told the waiter.

  “And it’s Jamie, Mrs. Sinclair,” Jamie told her. “I only use J.L. for the books.”

  “Then I am ‘Grace.’ J.L. does sound very professional and no-nonsense,” Grace noted. “Much like the author of serious nonfiction should sound. Tell me, dear, were you a psychology major?”

  “Actually, yes, I was. How did you know?”

  “Just a good guess. Have you practiced?”

  “Law, for all of about three months. My dad was a lawyer.”

  “You followed in his footsteps?”

  “Tried to. I hated it.”

  “Well, good for you that you found something you really enjoyed doing, something you’re very good at.” Grace tapped the menu with her index finger. “Now, take a look at tonight’s specials, and let’s get our order in.”

  “What do you recommend?” Jamie asked.

  “Everything. We have a wonderful chef, Gavin Kennedy. We stole him from a very famous restaurant in D.C.”

  “What are you having?”

  “I’m going with the sea scallops tonight. He serves them with an orange sauce that is simply delicious.”

  “Great.” Jamie put aside her menu. “I’m in.”

  Grace gestured for their waiter. “Two of the scallops, please, Andrew.” She turned back to Jamie. “Now, tell me. What brings you to St. Dennis?”

  “Vacation, mostly.” The wine was served, and Grace tilted her glass to touch the rim of Jamie’s before taking a sip. “My mother passed away in April, and I needed to go someplace.”

  Jamie realized it was true as soon as the words left her mouth, though she hadn’t thought of it before. She did need a change of scenery while she healed from her loss. She took a sip of her wine. “It’s delicious. Thanks for the suggestion.”

  “Of course.” Grace placed a hand on Jamie’s arm, and Jamie felt a zing race up to her shoulder. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your mother. Were you very close?”

  Static electricity? Jamie wondered. Grace seemed not to have noticed.

  “Thank you,” Jamie said. “Yes, very close.”

  “I hope that you find some peace here in our little town for as long as you stay.” Grace took another sip of wine.

  “Thank you, Grace. I appreciate that.”

  “How long were you planning on staying with us?”

  “I’m not quite sure.” Jamie averted her eyes and added the excuse she’d decided on for coming to St. Dennis, should anyone ask. “I’m hoping to get a head start on my next book, so we’ll have to wait and see how that goes.”

  “I hope you’ll find your suite conducive to working. I believe there’s an adequate desk in there, and there’s Wi-Fi throughout the inn, but if there’s anything we can do to make things easier for you, please let us know.”

  “Thank you, I think I have everything I need for now. I am looking forward to taking some time off and just enjoying St. Dennis before I get back to the business of writing.”

  “This is truly a wonderful place to visit. An even nicer place to live. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”

  “Some of the historical buildings, for a start. I’m intrigued by the history of the town. I stopped at the library and the historical society yesterday, just to get a bit of local history. One interesting thing I learned is that many of the current residents are descendants of early settlers.”

  “Oh my, yes.” Grace nodded. “My husband’s family was one of them. And while not a First Family—we celebrate the early settlers with an entire weekend in the fall—my mother’s people arrived shortly after the War of 1812.”

  “So you grew up here?” Jamie asked, a thought beginning to float in her mind.

  “Lived here my entire life,” Grace told her.

  “You must know everyone in town.”

  “And the closets where their skeletons are hidden.” Grace’s eyes danced merrily, and while Jamie could tell the woman was kidding, she suspected there was more than an ounce of truth to her words.

  Their dinners arrived, effectively ending that conversation, but Jamie could hardly believe her luck. Grace admittedly knew everyone in town, and she owned the town’s only newspaper. Jamie recognized a gold mine when she saw one.

  They chatted over dinner, and Jamie found she really enjoyed the older woman’s company. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask about the newspaper’s archives, but something told her to hold back on that score.

  “How was your dinner, dear?” Grace asked when they’d finished.

  “Terrible. Horrible. You can see how much I hated it by looking at my plate.”

  Grace laughed. Neither she nor Jamie had left so much as a scrap on their plates. “Now, tell me what it’s like to be a famous author.”

  Jamie shrugged. “It’s a job, mostly. People think it’s somehow glamorous, but the truth is, it’s hard. Every writer I know works every day, or close to it. You’re alone most of the time, in your own little world, just plugging away.”

  “When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound glamorous at all.”

  “So, tell me what it’s like to run an inn,” Jamie said.

  “Oh, I don’t run the inn. My oldest, Dan, runs the inn. It’s really his baby. He’s totally devoted to it, maybe a little too much. Never takes time off, never does much for himself.” Grace looked out the window. “He’s raising two kids on hi
s own—both teenagers now. His wife died about eight years ago. I kept hoping he’d . . . Well, that’s neither here nor there. Suffice it to say he spends far too much time here. Works from sunup to sundown, and when you live where you work . . .”

  “You live here, at the inn?” Jamie asked.

  “We do. At one time, this was a private home. When it was converted to an inn some years ago, family living quarters took over most of the east wing. My husband grew up here, as did his father. I raised my three children here, and my son is raising his here as well.”

  “It’s a beautiful place to live,” Jamie said. She lived where she worked, too, but wasn’t sure she’d like living in such a huge place, separate quarters or not.

  “Enough about us. Is there anything you’re looking forward to doing while you’re here?” Grace asked.

  “I really wanted to meet the bookseller in town,” Jamie said, “but both times I stopped in, she was out. I was hoping to do a book signing while I’m here.”

  “Oh, what a great idea. Of course you should do a book signing.” Grace’s eyes lit up, and Jamie assumed it was because she was so enthusiastic about the idea of a book signing. “I know the owner, and I’m sure she’d love to have you at her store. As a matter of fact, I’m going to have—Over here, son.” Grace waved to someone behind Jamie. “Jamie, I want you to meet my son.” Grace beckoned him closer. “Dan, this is Jamie, my new friend. She’s a guest here at the inn . . .”

  Jamie and Grace’s son stared at each other for a long moment.

  “We’ve met,” Dan Sinclair said flatly.

  “. . . and she was just telling me that she wants to meet Barbara down at the bookstore but hasn’t been able to catch up with her. So I want you to take her down to the store right now—you know Barb is always there in the evening—and I want you to introduce them. Jamie would like to do a book signing at the store, and that should be arranged as soon as possible.” Grace paused. “Daniel, have you heard anything I said?”

  “I did, Mom, and I’m sorry, but I have a staff meeting in . . .” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Ten minutes.”

  “Nonsense. That meeting is for the housekeeping staff, and Mrs. Bennett is more than capable of handling it.”

  “Really, Grace, it’s nice of you to offer to have your son make the introduction, but if the owner is there now, I’m sure I can—”

  “Don’t be silly.” Grace looked up into her son’s face. “It won’t take you more than a half hour. Surely you can spare so little time.”

  He sighed heavily and glared at Jamie. “All right. Let’s go.”

  “Oh dear, one would think I was sending you to the guillotine,” Grace said.

  “I hate to leave you here by yourself, after you’ve been such good company,” Jamie said. The last thing she wanted to do was go somewhere—anywhere—with the grumpy guy.

  “Not to worry, dear. The second shift has just arrived.” Grace waved toward the door, and Jamie looked over her shoulder as a dark-haired man and a lovely blond woman approached the table. “My son Ford and his girlfriend, Carly.”

  The couple arrived at the table, and Grace’s son leaned down to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Glad to see you made it downstairs, Mom.” He turned to Jamie and introduced himself. “Ford Sinclair.” He put a hand on the shoulder of his companion. “Carly Summit.”

  “Jamie Valentine. I’m happy to meet you both.” Jamie turned in her chair to face them and repeated thoughtfully, “Carly Summit. There’s an art gallery in New York . . .”

  “Yes, that would be me.” The woman extended a hand and Jamie took it. “Have you been?”

  “On several occasions. I saw an exhibit you had last year. Elvira Chesko was the artist. Glorious watercolors.”

  “Oh, you liked her work?” Carly’s eyes sparkled.

  Jamie nodded. “Very much so.”

  “Jamie is our newest celebrity guest.” Grace gestured in Jamie’s direction. “J. L. Valentine.”

  “Oh, I’m reading your new book now,” Carly told her. “I was going to recommend it to my mother.”

  “Thanks. I hope she enjoys it.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “Well, the two of you had best get going.” Grace looked from Dan to Jamie and back to her son. “Give Barb my regards.”

  “Where are you off to?” Ford asked Dan.

  “Mom wants me to take Jamie down to Book ’Em so she can meet Barbara,” Dan said between clenched teeth.

  “It’s poker night,” Ford said. “What was with all the big talk about winning back that twenty you lost last time?”

  “I will be back in time for the game, and I will win back that twenty,” Dan told him.

  “Really, Grace, it’s not necessary for Dan to take me,” Jamie protested. “I can—”

  “It’s the least he can do for one of our guests and one of my favorite authors.” Grace patted Jamie’s arm again, and again, that zing.

  “Oh. Then thank you for joining me. I hope I see you again soon.”

  “Absolutely you will. And I’m hoping you’ll let Ford interview you for the St. Dennis Gazette.” Grace tapped her younger son on the arm.

  “I was just about to suggest that,” Ford said. “Could I talk you into sitting down with me for an hour or so?”

  “Of course. Just let me know when,” Jamie replied.

  “How about Monday morning around ten?” Ford suggested. “I can meet you in the lobby.”

  “Perfect.” Jamie stepped away from her chair and bumped into Dan, who’d been standing closer to her than she’d realized. “Sorry,” she muttered as she felt a flush rise to her cheeks.

  He took a step to the left, then pushed in the chair she’d vacated. “See you guys later.”

  Jamie had to practically run to keep up with Dan, who couldn’t seem to get out of the inn fast enough.

  “Look,” she said as they went through the double doors in the lobby, “you don’t have to go with me. Your mother will never know.”

  “Of course she’ll know. She knows everything. For some reason, she thinks you need an escort to the bookstore. So I’ll escort you because it seems to be important to her, though God knows why it should be.” They were halfway across the parking lot and headed around the back of the building. “I will drive you down there, and I will take you inside. I will introduce you to Barbara, and I will give you five minutes to do whatever it is you want to do. Then I’m leaving, got it? You want more than five minutes, you walk back to the inn.” He pointed to the car in front of him. “This is my Jeep. Get in.”

  Jamie got into the passenger seat and strapped herself in.

  “So what do you do besides write books and interfere with the way people raise their kids?”

  “I wasn’t trying to interfere, I just—”

  “Put your two cents in where they weren’t wanted.”

  “Your daughter asked me for my opinion, and I gave it to her.”

  “That age-appropriate crap. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. The dress is appropriate for a girl her age.”

  “How many girls her age have you raised?”

  “None, but—”

  “So you admit you have no experience.”

  “I may not have raised any fifteen-year-old girls, but I have been one. I know what it’s like to have parents who don’t want you to grow up.”

  “You know nothing about the situation.”

  “No, I don’t, but . . .” Jamie paused. “Did you give Vanessa this much of a hard time because she thought the dress looked great on your daughter?”

  “I’ve known Vanessa as long as she’s been in St. Dennis. Her brother is one of my oldest friends. She knows exactly how I feel. And being a friend of the family gives her privileges that don’t extend to strangers.”

  “I se
e.”

  “Good. I hope you do.” He pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car. “We’re here. Remember, I introduce you to Barb, you have five minutes. I’m not missing my poker game.”

  “All right, all right. I got it.” Jamie got out of the car in a far fouler mood than when she’d gotten into it. She stood on the sidewalk and took several long, deep breaths to calm herself. “All right,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

  “Hey, Dan.” Barbara glanced up from a customer to greet him. “Don’t tell me your mother has finished reading that pile of books I dropped off for her on Sunday.”

  “I don’t know how many she’s read,” he told her.

  “Oh? Could it be that you’re here to pick up something for yourself?” The shopkeeper looked up again. “You might actually sit still long enough to read an entire book?”

  “It could happen,” he said. “But what I really wanted to do was—”

  “Hold that thought,” Barbara said as she stepped away to assist a woman who was looking for a book with a blue cover. “Fiction or nonfiction?”

  “I’m not sure. I only know it’s blue and that everyone’s reading it,” the customer replied. “Oh, and the writing on the cover was white. Does that help?”

  Barbara finished up with the customer and walked over to Dan, who was standing next to the new-release table, flipping through first one book, then another. “You know, I’ve known you all your life, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a book in your hands after the age of, oh, I don’t know, ten, maybe? I don’t even know what you like to read or who your favorite authors are.”

  “You know how it is when tourist season hits, Barb.”

  She nodded. “I sure do.” Lowering her voice, she leaned over and added, “I still find time to read just about every title I bring into the shop, though.”

  “Listen, the reason I stopped down tonight—my mother wanted you to meet one of the guests staying at the inn.”