Innkeeper's Daughter

by Marie Ferrarella

  “I am truly sorry about that,” Alex replied, carefully sitting next to the suitcase. “It should be over soon. You’re more than welcome to attend.” Although she was certain nothing escaped Ms. Carlyle’s attention, she pretended the former teacher hadn’t heard about the reason for the gathering by the ocean. “It’s a funeral reception for one of our longtime recurring guests. Daniel Taylor.”

  The woman made no comment. Maybe she hadn’t attended either the service or the reception because she might have felt she didn’t know Wyatt’s father. “He’d been coming here every summer for the past thirty years. For the past twenty-one, he always brought his son, Wyatt, with him. I’m sure you must have met him at one time or—”

  Ms. Carlyle waved away the rest of her words. “Yes, yes, I met him.”

  “You didn’t like him?” Alex asked, coming to the only conclusion she could think of.

  This time the narrow shoulders rose and fell in a vague shrug as Ms. Carlyle leaned heavily on her cane, using both hands. The next moment, she’d made a U-turn and was making her way back to the open suitcase spread out on her bed. “I liked him well enough.”

  “All right, then,” Alex said slowly, feeling her way around the words she was about to say very carefully. The old woman, in her own way, was as much of a fixture at the inn as the wraparound veranda. “Then you’ll let me bring you to the reception?”

  “No, I most certainly will not,” Ms. Carlyle declared firmly.

  The most direct path between two points had always been, and would continue to be, a straight line. Alex didn’t bother meandering. “Mind if I ask why?”

  Blessed, even at her age, with flawless skin, the former teacher raised her chin and announced, “I don’t do funerals.”

  The sentence hung in the air for several moments and then the woman relented and explained her abrupt statement. “Too many of my friends have passed these last few years. Funerals just serve to remind me all over again that they’re gone. I don’t like being reminded how alone I am these days.”

  Alex put her hand over the woman’s, squeezing ever so lightly. “You’re not alone, Ms. Carlyle. We’re all here for you at the inn.”

  Ms. Carlyle sniffed, but Alex had a feeling she was waiting to be convinced. Wanted to be convinced. “You’re just saying that because I’m a paying guest here.”

  Alex inclined her head until she made eye contact. “You know better than that.”

  The older woman sniffed again. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” she conceded loftily.

  “C’mon,” Alex coaxed, getting off the bed. “Let me take you. Cris spent all morning getting the buffet ready. You like her cooking—you told me so.”

  “I know what I like and what I don’t like, Alexandra,” Ms. Carlyle snapped. “I’m not senile.”

  Alex had never seen the woman so defensive before.

  “No ma’am,” Alex said, deliberately sounding contrite.

  The thinly penciled-in brows rose. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, trying to appeal to me by acting meek and chastised.” She gave Alex a stern look. “I know you, girl, you’ve got far too much spirit to be meek—but I do appreciate the gesture.” She sighed, lowering her defensive wall a bit. “I’d feel like an old fossil out there.”

  “Not possible,” Alex assured her. “You are just about the youngest woman I know.”

  The woman laughed dismissively. “Well, now you’re serving up a tray full of baloney.”

  “No baloney,” Alex replied. “Just the truth.” She glanced through the window that was facing the ocean—and the guests at the reception. Was it her imagination or was the crowd thinning out? “The reception should be over soon,” she promised. “Try to hang on until then, can you do that?”

  Ms. Carlyle did her best to grumble and look put out. “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Great,” Alex declared warmly. “Because we’d all miss you something awful if you moved out.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Ms. Carlyle said, abruptly doing an about-face. “You clearly need someone around who can teach you grammar.”

  “Whatever it takes to make you stay.” Alex hoped she wouldn’t end up with English lessons after this. “You’re more a part of this inn than we are.” The moment Alex said it, an idea occurred to her.

  Ms. Carlyle looked at her, concerned. “What’s wrong, Alexandra?”

  “Nothing,” she replied slowly as she reviewed her idea. “It’s just that I’ve suddenly realized you’ve been here a long time.”

  “Yes, I know,” Ms. Carlyle acknowledged guardedly, never taking her eyes off Alex. “Does that mean you want to raise my monthly rate?”

  Alex bit her lip to stop from smiling. “No, definitely not. Your rates are still exactly the same. But it occurs to me that you could be of great service to someone I know.”

  Looking a little bewildered, Ms. Carlyle said, “My dear, I haven’t socialized with members of the opposite gender for a very long time. I take it you’re trying to set me up with someone, correct? I have no idea how you came under this false impression that I’d be interested.”

  Alex pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to offend the woman by laughing at the very idea that she could possibly be setting her up.

  “No, this isn’t any kind of a social setup. Let me start over, please,” she requested, afraid the laugh bubbling up in her throat was going to escape. “At the time of his death, Daniel Taylor was working on a book about the history of the inn. When he realized he only had a little time left, he asked his son to finish writing the book for him.” And Anne Carlyle was a treasure trove of stories about the inn’s past. The best part was that if Wyatt was busy getting his information from the older woman, he wouldn’t have to get in her way. She would be free to run the inn.

  Ms. Carlyle would feel useful, sharing her past in a manner of speaking, and Alex wouldn’t have to spend hours talking to Wyatt.

  It was a win-win situation.

  “You would be doing everyone a huge service if you allowed him to interview you,” she told the reluctant woman. “I’m sure you have some very colorful stories to share.”

  Ms. Carlyle looked at her thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose it can’t do any harm to talk to him. Daniel Taylor,” she repeated. “He was that reporter, wasn’t he?” she asked. “The one who came here every first of July. He had that gangly boy with him most of the time, didn’t he?”

  “All of the time in the summers,” Alex corrected her. “And as for Wyatt, he was gangly at one point. He’s filled out some since then. So, what do you say, Ms. Carlyle? Will you do it?”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm,” she repeated, less reluctantly than before.

  “Wyatt will work around you,” Alex promised. “He can interview you whenever you feel is convenient. And, if during the session you get too tired, he’ll—”

  “Why should I be too tired?” Ms. Carlyle intoned. “I’m not that old.”

  “No, ma’am, you’re not,” Alex readily agreed. She took a breath, then asked the next logical question. “So then you’ll stay on at the inn?”

  The former teacher liked, on occasion, engaging in drama. “Well, if I must, I must. It is, after all, for the good of the inn—might help your father get a little more business in the off-season.

  “It might, at that,” Alex agreed. “Thank you.” She leaned over and brushed her lips against the other woman’s paper-thin cheek.

  Ms. Carlyle moved her head back, waving her away. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, girl,” she ordered.

  But Alex could tell by the sparkle in her eyes that Anne Carlyle really did like the display of affection.

  “Let me bring him to you,” Alex said, prepared to drag Wyatt back here if necessary. “Then you two can work out the details.”

  “A lady does not entertain men in her room, my dear. I will meet Mr. Taylor’s son in the parlor, by the reception desk.”

  “As you wish, Ms. Carlyle,”
Alex said. Standing beside her, she presented the crook of her elbow to the woman.

  Ms. Carlyle slipped her hand through the offered arm. “If you would be kind enough to ask Dorothea to unpack for me and put my clothes away into the closet and chest of drawers, I would be grateful.”

  “Consider it done,” Alex promised.

  “I will consider it done when it is actually done, not before.” The older woman had always insisted that words were tools and their meaning should be taken quite literally.

  Alex knew a losing argument when she saw one. “Of course,” she said, conceding the battle to Ms. Carlyle. For now.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EVER SINCE SHE could remember, even when she was exhausted, Alex found she always had hidden reserves of energy she could tap into. If she dug deep enough.

  She had no desire to leave Anne Carlyle far behind her in her dust, or to make the woman feel her age, but there was no way Ms. Carlyle could possibly keep up to her normal pace.

  Alex had to walk in slow motion. It wasn’t easy for a type-A personality like her, but she focused on the promise that by bringing Wyatt and Ms. Carlyle together this way, she would be killing a number of birds with one large, flat rock. Wyatt would have another rich source of history for the book he was writing, Ms. Carlyle would feel useful and enjoy the respect coming her way and it would certainly take the burden off her, at least for a while.

  And there was always the chance that, after interviewing Ms. Carlyle and talking with her father, plus combining that with his own father’s notes and partial draft, Wyatt wouldn’t need to spend any time with her at all.

  That was a good thing, she told herself. For some reason, she didn’t feel heartened.

  “Alexandra.”

  The sharp, authoritative tone made her turn her head. Ms. Carlyle had fallen a few steps behind and appeared far from happy about it.

  Alex quickly doubled back. “Sorry,” she apologized with feeling. “I got lost in thought.”

  Deep gray eyes narrowed as they took measure of the young woman in front of her.

  “Apparently. Perhaps we should do this some other time,” Ms. Carlyle suggested. Anyone could see that she was more than willing to turn around and return to the inn and her room.

  No, no. She needed to at least set this up now. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you sit here on the veranda and I’ll go find Wyatt and bring him back to you?”

  Ms. Carlyle looked skeptically at the white wicker chair that was placed just so against the inn’s back wall. “I suppose I could wait a little while,” she conceded. “As long as you don’t take too long.”

  “I’ll bring him right back the moment I find him,” Alex promised.

  Leaning heavily on her cane, the angular woman lowered herself into the wicker chair. Once firmly planted, she looked up at Alex. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  “Not a thing,” Alex replied half a second before she took off.

  It took her longer to locate Wyatt than she was happy about. Acutely aware that Anne Carlyle was not the most patient of women, Alex cut through the crowd and grabbed Wyatt by the hand the moment she spotted him.

  He was standing in the middle of a group of people—mostly women—his own age. Admirers of his father? Or were they Wyatt’s friends?

  She told herself it didn’t matter and that there was no reason for her to feel that quickening of her pulse. What Wyatt did and who he did it with was no concern of hers, especially once this day was behind them.

  It still felt good to detach him from the semicircle of mostly women, though.

  “C’mon, Wyatt,” Alex declared, leaving no room for him to protest. “I need you.”

  Wyatt looked at her, somewhat stunned. “Now there’s something I never thought I’d live to hear,” he told her as he allowed himself to be extracted from the group and pulled along the grounds. “Where are you taking me? Not that it really matters,” he tacked on glibly. “Somewhere private to have your way with me?”

  The wisecrack almost caused Alex to stumble. She shot him a look over her shoulder, hoping it came across as sufficiently annoyed. The man was simply impossible.

  “It’s not like that, you idiot,” she retorted. “Ms. Carlyle is waiting to talk with you.”

  “Ms. Carlyle.” He rolled the name over in his head as they headed toward the inn. “You mean, that woman with a cane who keeps to herself?” he asked.

  Before Ms. Carlyle had become a permanent guest at the inn, she would always arrive the last week of summer while Wyatt and his father would spend the first month of the summer there, so their paths hadn’t initially crossed. However, once the inn became the retired teacher’s address, it would have been impossible for Wyatt not to at least be aware of the woman.

  “That’s her. And I think you’re really going to want to talk to her. She’s been keeping a lot more to herself than you think,” Alex said, her excitement mounting despite her attempt to remain neutral, at least around Wyatt.

  “How’s that again?” Wyatt asked. Alex had always had the ability to confound him and leave him puzzled more than anyone else he’d ever known. Now was certainly no exception.

  Alex turned toward Wyatt for a split second, talking fast. She could see that Ms. Carlyle was still seated, but that, she was well aware, was subject to change at any moment.

  “Anne Carlyle has been coming to the inn for over sixty-five years. She’s seen a great many changes here, not to mention a lot of famous people. The woman undoubtedly has hundreds of stories you could coax out of her with that Hollywood-honed charm of yours.”

  “Hollywood-honed charm,” he echoed, amused. “Is that a compliment or a put-down, Alex?” He addressed the question to the back of her head as she continued to pull him in her wake. Each time he matched her pace, she sped up.

  “You decide,” she said without turning around. She wasn’t about to let him see her smile. “She’s tired now because it’s late in the day, but you and she can made arrangements as to when would be the best time for you to conduct the interviews. I promise you, you won’t be sorry.”

  Wyatt surprised her by suddenly pulling back, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

  “What?” she demanded.

  Ms. Carlyle was an old woman and he could easily track her down if she left the veranda. Right now, he needed to satisfy his curiosity. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  For a moment she just looked at him—and then she pulled her hand away. The fact that her pulse had escalated again both bothered and annoyed her. Why couldn’t he just accepted this as a good deed and be done with it? Why did he feel the need to put everything she did under a microscope?

  “Because Ms. Carlyle needs to feel her days have some sort of purpose to them, and because the sooner you get your information and finish the book, the faster you’ll be out of here—and out of my hair,” she retorted.

  That sounded more like the Alex he knew. “Oh, so this is about you and your hair?” he said, deadpan.

  “Something like that,” she answered curtly.

  With that, she made a beeline for the back stairs. Curbing her desire to take them two at a time, Alex still hurried, going up the steps quickly.

  “I found him, Ms. Carlyle,” she announced.

  “I can see that,” Ms. Carlyle replied crisply. “I’m not blind, girl.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you were,” Alex replied politely. “Wyatt, this is the lady I’ve been telling you about, Ms. Anne Josephine Carlyle. Ms. Carlyle, this is Wyatt Taylor. He’s the one—”

  “I know who he is,” the woman snapped, cutting her off. “He’s been coming to the inn for quite a while now.” Her gray eyes narrowed as she took slow measure of the man beside Alex. “My condolences on the loss of your father. He seemed like a very nice young man.”

  Wyatt suppressed a smile. He supposed to someone Ms. Carlyle’s age, his father would have seemed young.

  “Thank you. He was. May I sit?” He nodded at the chair
beside hers.

  A small smile graced the woman’s thin lips. “I can’t see why not. Go ahead.”

  Wyatt took his seat.

  Alex could see he was already working his charm on the former teacher.

  She supposed that he might have been able to do the same with her if she hadn’t been so vigilantly on her guard since childhood. Since around the time she realized her father and Wyatt were bonding.

  That was when Uncle Dan’s skinny, waiflike, teasing son officially became the enemy in her eyes. Up until that time, she’d had a crush on him. But, from then on, her mission in life became to show him up whenever she could.

  “Tomorrow morning, then, at eight,” Wyatt was saying. Rising, he took Ms. Carlyle’s hand in his and brought it to his lips, lightly kissing it in the time-honored European fashion. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  For just for a moment Alex saw the crusty woman melt and transform into a schoolgirl.

  A delicate laugh escaped the woman’s lips and she replied, “As am I, Mr. Taylor.”

  Bowing ever so slightly, Wyatt said, “Wyatt, please. And thank you.” To Alex he said, “And thank you, Alex, for bringing Ms. Carlyle to my attention.”

  Because they had an audience, Alex couldn’t say what she wanted to say to him. Instead, she was forced to return Wyatt’s smile and murmur, “My pleasure.”

  Wyatt’s smile told her he knew she was lying through her teeth and that pleasure was the farthest emotion from what she was feeling.

  Ms. Carlyle leaned forward, one hand on top of the other on her cane for support as well as leverage.

  Wyatt deliberately extended the crook of his arm before Alex had a chance to move.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  Ms. Carlyle immediately slipped her arm through his.

  Yup, Alex thought, he had definitely charmed the woman—and in less than five minutes, at that. Apparently advanced age was not an automatic Wyatt immunity.

  Moving ahead of the slow procession, Alex held the back door open for them.

  “Thank you, Alex,” he said as he and Ms. Carlyle crossed the threshold and made their way inside.