Could the same be true of a person?
Phoebe’s pulse gave a little hiccup as she examined Barnabas in his stiff collar, well-pressed suit, and clean-shaven face. Her father’s associate was the epitome of rationality and common sense. Yet he’d created a piece of art that had moved her nearly to tears. What might he reveal himself to be if she applied a little creativity while interpreting his actions?
Barnabas glanced over at her, and their gazes locked. He crossed the room. The strains of a waltz began playing in her mind. She imagined him stopping before her, extending his arm, and saying . . .
“It’ll be over soon.”
Not that.
Phoebe blinked, and her brow scrunched.
“The waiting,” he explained, as if a normal person wouldn’t have understood his meaning at once.
Of course, a normal person would not have been dreaming up imaginary balls and invitations to dance.
Barnabas slid into the chair beside her and took her hand in his. His fingers gently clasped hers, and she immediately forgave him for not asking her to dance to music only she could hear. He offered camaraderie. Reassurance. Friendship. Tangible treasures that would go much further in the real world than mere wisps of whimsy.
Finally, their visitors began to stir in the other room. Barnabas gave her hand a squeeze, then released it. Strange how she felt the loss of his touch so keenly when it had lasted such a short time. He stood, then offered her his assistance in rising. Fitting her hand into his, she absorbed the sensation of his fingers wrapping around hers once again before slipping free of his grasp as propriety demanded.
“Before I hand these over,” Bella Fisher said as she entered the parlor, holding the stack of folded papers in front of her, “I have something to say to Mr. Ackerly.”
Barnabas nodded politely. “Of course, Mrs. Fisher. I’m at your service.”
“Collecting data is all well and good, but there are intangible influences that should not be overlooked in this process.”
“Such as?”
Phoebe met her friend’s gaze. What was she up to?
Bella’s small smile failed to reassure as she turned on Barnabas like a mother hen preparing to peck an encroaching rooster. “I have read every one of Phoebe’s tales, and there is a reason Lippincott’s keeps asking for more. Her stories touch the heart. Not only mine, but hundreds of others. She’s too modest to tell you this, but I know for a fact that she has an entire hatbox filled with letters from readers who have been captivated not only by her stories, but also by her depictions of our Kissing Tree.”
“Bella!” Phoebe croaked, heat rushing to her face.
“She’s already cultivated the market for this inn all on her own, Mr. Ackerly. And while I concede that there is wisdom to be gained from seeking multiple opinions on décor and other superficialities, I would caution against using the results of this feedback to stifle the spirit that brought this inn to life in the first place.”
Bella’s passionate defense left Phoebe torn between the desire to hug her friend and strangle her. Before she could decide which would prove most satisfying, however, Barnabas stepped forward and gave a small bow.
“Well said, madam. I couldn’t agree more.” He turned to look at Phoebe, his expression softening, effectively dissolving all lingering strangulation urges. “Without Miss Woodward’s imagination and romantic sensibilities, the Kissing Tree Inn would be just another lodging. It is her spirit and heart that make it unique. Those must be preserved at all cost.”
It must have been a trick of the light, the sun glinting off one of Barnabas’s buttons, but for just a moment, Phoebe could have sworn his fine wool suit had transformed into one made of shining armor.
“Excellent!” Bella’s voice restored reality, as well as a healthy dose of embarrassment. “Then I gladly hand these results over for your consideration.” She extended the papers toward Phoebe, the smile on her face a little brighter than the occasion warranted. Bella glanced to Barnabas and then back to Phoebe, her eyes dancing. “I shuffled the ballots so you won’t know whose are whose.”
Phoebe accepted the forms from her friend, barely resisting the impulse to swat her with them. “Thanks.”
As Barnabas moved forward to shake Adam Fisher’s hand and mingle with the other men, Phoebe found herself herded out into the hall and surrounded by five women.
“That Mr. Ackerly seems taken with you.” Mabel Cassidy, who was pushing sixty-five, winked at Phoebe as if she were a girl in short skirts. “Better not let him get away.”
“Such a gentleman. So polite and well-mannered. Comes to church every Sunday. A girl could do much worse.” Hester Washington, the preacher’s wife, actually waggled her eyebrows.
Good heavens. Phoebe needed to nip this matchmaking in the bud before things got out of hand. “Mr. Ackerly is here in a professional capacity, ladies. Nothing more. Once the inn is finished, he’ll be returning to Huntsville.”
A rather depressing thought, now that she considered it. She’d grown accustomed to having him around the last couple of weeks. Their rousing debates and this room-decorating competition had fired her blood and drawn her out of her quiet, internalized existence. Would she revert to her introspective, spinsterish self when he left? Was that who she still wanted to be?
“I saw him holding your hand.” Freda Bresden grinned. “A man doesn’t do that in a professional capacity. That’s a personal gesture.”
Phoebe’s heart thudded against her ribs. Could it be true? Could Barnabas truly be interested in her, not just her inn? She shoved the question aside, too afraid of what the answer might mean to ponder it more deeply. Besides, this wasn’t the time for a discussion of this nature. Nor the place. Heavens, Barnabas could walk through the parlor door at any moment and overhear.
“All right. Enough teasing, ladies.” Bella Fisher wrapped an arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “Our Phoebe has a business to run and an inn to finish.” She caught Phoebe’s gaze. “An inn that is shaping up into an incredibly charming retreat. One I’m looking forward to trying out myself after it’s up and running.”
“Me too!” Freda said. “When I heard you were giving away a free stay in exchange for opinions, I insisted Max join me. He grumbled the whole way here about not caring two figs about feminine doodads and fancy furnishings until Mr. Ackerly explained that you wanted the male perspective as well as the female. Max got into the spirit after that. He said if he had to stay here at some future date, he might as well do what he could to protect himself from overzealous flowers and excessive figurines.”
“Men.” Mabel Cassidy shook her head. “If it were up to them, we’d be living in plain wooden boxes void of anything sentimental or interesting. Rather like a coffin.”
A startled laugh burst from Phoebe to join the titters of the other ladies.
“Mabel?” A scratchy male voice fell into the laughter like a scoop of gravel and dispersed the merriment into small ripples. “Time to go.”
Mrs. Cassidy smiled toward the parlor doorway, where her husband of forty-seven years leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, waiting for her. “Yes, dear.” She turned back to the group and lowered her voice. “Cater to them a little, Phoebe. Be thoughtful about their preferences. Adjust your designs to accommodate their comfort. But stay true to who you are too.” She patted Phoebe’s hand as she edged away from the gathering. “That’s how you’ll find harmony. In your rooms and your relationships.”
Mabel smiled at her husband, fit her fingers to his arm, then let him lead her toward the front door. Alvin Cassidy seemed to stand taller with Mabel on his arm, his bent frame straightening, his eyes coming to life as if he were not only happier but stronger with her by his side.
The other men filtered out of the parlor to claim their wives, as well, and Phoebe couldn’t stop her gaze from seeking Barnabas. When he came to stand beside her as they wished their guest judges good-bye, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to b
e there. She nearly reached for his arm in mindless mimic of the others.
After the last couple exited the inn’s foyer, Barnabas closed the door behind them. When he turned, he looked to the folded papers in her left hand, then clapped his palms together. “Ready to read the results?”
Phoebe’s brows arched. “Awfully eager, aren’t you? That confident your room will win?”
He grinned. “I’m confident the inn will win.”
She rolled her eyes. “Always so diplomatic. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever know what you really think about anything.”
His smile flattened, and something fierce ignited in his blue-gray eyes. “You want to know what I think?”
Her breath caught in her throat. Somehow she managed to give a tiny nod even though she was pretty sure his question had been rhetorical. He didn’t seem to need a response, as he was already striding forward, his gaze locked on hers.
“I think you are an amazing woman who knows exactly what she wishes to create yet has the humility to seek advice and use it to inform her choices. Do you know how rare that is?”
Her heart throbbed. He looked so . . . passionate. She’d never seen him this way. He visibly vibrated with energy. Any minute, his starched collar was sure to pop open from the effort of containing his zeal.
“Most of the clients I work with either cannot see the value in what I propose until I’ve created it for them, or they are so set on their own vision that they refuse to listen to anyone else. Neither circumstance brings about the best results. But you . . .” His words faltered.
Embarrassed by his praise, Phoebe fiddled with her glasses and shrugged, her gaze falling to the tiny bit of floor space that separated the toes of their shoes. “Daddy always says a good businessman has to know who to listen to and who to ignore.” She lifted her eyes to meet his once again. “It didn’t take me long to decide that your advice was worth heeding.”
“Phoebe, I . . .” He reached out, and for a breath-stealing moment, she thought he would take her hand, but his fingers closed into a fist and dropped slowly back down to his side. Then his hand relaxed, and he favored her with a sheepish grin. “I admit that when your father first told me about your inn, I thought it was a terrible idea. But he demanded I look past my first impression, and I’m glad I did. Once I started spending time with you, I came to see the heart of the inn. Your heart. The logistical difficulties ceased to matter.”
He reached for her again, and this time he didn’t stop himself. His warm hand settled over her upper arm, then slid down to cup her elbow. Delightful tingles danced over her skin. “I believe in this place, Phoebe.” He grinned. “In fact, I’d invest in it myself if you were looking for a partner.”
Good heavens. What was she to say to that? Especially since the only partnership that came to mind was of the matrimonial variety, and he surely hadn’t intended such an intimation.
Or had he?
Afraid to probe into meanings that might or might not actually reside in his statement, Phoebe opted for a safer path. She returned Barnabas’s smile and waved the ballots in the air between them. “Well, partner, shall we get down to business and examine these? We still have a winner to crown, you know.”
He followed her lead, releasing her elbow to extend his own. “May I escort you to the dining room, my lady?”
Phoebe bobbed a small curtsy. “’Twould be an honor, kind sir.” She slid her fingers into the crook of his arm, irrationally thankful to have an excuse to continue touching him.
He led her to the chair at the head of the table, then placed himself in the seat to her right.
It didn’t take long for them to discover the truth she’d suspected from the beginning. There was no winner. Five voted for Maiden Faire, the room she’d decorated and dubbed—each room needed its own identity, after all—while the other five had voted for Oakhaven. The divide obviously fell along gender lines. However, what became evident as she and Barnabas combed through the comments was that neither room was perfect. Both could benefit from the strengths of the other. Maiden Faire could use more practicality and a simplification of design in order to appeal to men. Oakhaven could use a few feminine touches to make a woman feel immediately at home.
As Barnabas spread the pages on the table and started organizing them based on similarity of comments, Phoebe watched him from behind lowered lashes. This inn needed his influence. No, she needed his influence. His grounded nature. His pragmatism.
And maybe . . . just maybe . . . he needed her influence as well.
Someone needed to ruffle that perfect hair of his and remind him he was more than just a persona. He was a man. A man who just might benefit from a woman of whimsy messing up his perfection.
eight
Barnabas pulled the pair of draft horses to a halt, set the brake, then did something so ungentlemanly that his mother would have taken a switch to his backside had she borne witness. Thankfully, she was half a state away. The female reaction he most cared about belonged to a woman much closer. One inside the green building in front of him.
As if he were Jesus calling forth the entombed Lazarus, Barnabas cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed with absolutely no chivalry whatsoever. “Phoebe Woodward! Come out!”
He didn’t have long to wait. Less than a minute later, the door flew open, and an adorably bespectacled woman rushed out onto the porch. Her light blue skirt whipped wildly about her ankles until she reached the stairs. She grabbed hold of the railing with one hand and yanked herself to a halt.
“What on earth?” Her eyes widened. Her gaze drank in the conveyance he sat perched upon—the yellow wheels, dark red body, three black leather seats, surrey top with rolled canvas curtains, and hefty rear luggage rack—then finally meandered up to his face. “Barnabas? Is that a . . . a . . .”
“A Studebaker Mountain Passenger Wagon? Yes, it is.” He grinned. Smugly.
He’d been looking forward to this moment for weeks. He’d stumbled across this beauty in a carriage shop in Huntsville when he’d gone to find pieces for the room-decorating contest. The vehicle had been a mess. A wheel missing. Paint worn clear away. Leather trim disintegrated from weather and heavy use. The owner had parted with it for less than $200. Barnabas had snatched it up without hesitation and delivered it to the carpenter who handled most of his restoration projects. A new wheel, fresh paint, reupholstered seats, a few repairs to the undercarriage, and he had the perfect coach for a budding hostler.
Phoebe crept down the stairs as if she were afraid the carriage would turn into a pumpkin if she approached too quickly. Barnabas disembarked and hurried around the team of draft horses he’d rented, eager to show off his acquisition.
“Father told me he wasn’t ready to invest in a carriage yet,” Phoebe said, her voice soft, her brow furrowed. She tentatively approached the carriage and ran her fingers along the red-painted wood that formed the body.
Barnabas clapped a hand over the edge of the frame, a mere inch from where her fingers traced the wood grain. “I convinced him to reconsider when I found this lady for such a bargain. Barely one-third the cost of a new one, even after all the repairs.”
Man, he wanted to hold her. To sweep her into his arms and celebrate their victory with gusto. To feel her wonder-filled smile against his mouth.
The workmen might be gone after the month they’d spent painting, papering, and installing, but he and Phoebe weren’t alone. Even now, Mrs. Roberts, the widow they’d hired as the inn’s cook—and unofficial chaperone for Phoebe once she decided to take up residence in the innkeeper’s personal chambers downstairs—was walking out onto the front porch.
“Land sakes, Miss Phoebe. What’s all the commotion?” The middle-aged woman wiped her hands on her apron.
Phoebe clapped her hands beneath her chin as she spun around. “Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” The disbelief that had initially kept her in check disappeared completely beneath a burgeoning joy t
hat took Barnabas’s breath away. A smile beamed across her face, and laughter bubbled from inside her. “Our guests will ride in style, thanks to Mr. Ackerly.” She turned to regard him, the admiration in her eyes making his heart squeeze. “You truly are a magician, Barnabas.”
Perhaps, but she was an enchantress. Sometime over the last month, he had fallen completely under her spell. So far, in fact, that she had him thinking all kinds of crazy thoughts. Like giving up his career as a property developer to become an innkeeper’s assistant.
The impoverished kid in hand-me-down clothes—the one who’d driven himself to excel in order to escape the limitations of poverty and establish a name respected by others—that same security-starved kid was actually considering gambling away all he’d achieved to stay with the woman he loved.
“Would you ladies care to go for a drive?” he asked. Having Phoebe all to himself would be preferred, but he couldn’t exclude Mrs. Roberts from the invitation without being rude.
“I’d love to!” Phoebe immediately gathered her skirt and reached for the nearest handhold.
Barnabas took her elbow to support her climb, smiling at her blatant enthusiasm. After she settled on the front bench, he turned back toward the inn. “Mrs. Roberts?”
The cook waved him off. “You two young’uns go ahead. I’ve got cookies in the oven.” The wink she sent him made him doubt the veracity of that statement, but he wasn’t about to question her.
Feeling exceptionally good about the choice they’d made in their cook—staff at the Kissing Tree Inn would need to be skilled in facilitating romantic moments for the clientele, after all—Barnabas tipped his hat to the older woman before taking his place in the driver’s seat.
He collected the reins, released the brake, then turned his full attention to the woman at his side. “Where would you like to go?”
“Wherever you’d like to take me.” Her lashes lowered a little, and a touch of pink kissed her cheeks, sending his pulse into an erratic pattern of elatedness.
The Kissing Tree Page 13
