by Judith Yates
“Well, our farm is just this side of Tremont,” Janie Lee said, “and I am gettin’ tired. You sure it’d be no trouble?”
Amy shook her head. “I’d love the company of someone who knows the roads around here, especially now that it’s getting dark. Perhaps you can give me exact directions to the inn when I drop you off.”
“The Blue Sky? You mean a pretty young thing like you is taking a vacation there all by yourself?”
‘Actually, I’m going there on business.”
“Business?” Janie Lee looked over at Hanley. “Did you hear that? She’s got business over at the Blue Sky.”
Hanley shrugged as if he couldn’t care less. Then he motioned to Jake. “Let’s get going with that tire.”
While Jake and Janie Lee exchanged some parting words, Hanley turned on his heel without so much as a nod in Amy’s direction. Which was fine by her. She’d had quite enough of him—even if he was the best-looking man she’d seen in years.
Paul Hanley left Jake to say his goodbyes and went to fetch the spare and a jack from Jake’s trunk. Then he positioned the jack beneath the car and began pumping up the rear, glancing up only when the luxury car pulled out onto the road. He’d behaved badly, he knew. But damn… His head still ached from combing through last month’s disappointing profit-and-loss figures back at the paper…and he was worried about his aunt’s anxious phone call, begging him to come to the Blue Sky tonight. Nevertheless, he shouldn’t have been so terse with the would-be Good Samaritan, especially since he’d be seeing her again soon. Real soon.
Probably should have told her that, he thought, shaking his head.
As soon as she had mentioned the inn, he’d known the woman was Greg’s spoiled, rich daughter, finally deigning to come out to the old man’s inn. She even had Riordan’s black-Irish coloring with, her glossy dark hair and vivid, sapphire blue eyes. But Greg had been a burly son of a gun, rough around the edges, imposing. His daughter was smaller than Paul would have expected, her build delicate. And despite all the makeup, she was damn pretty.
He shouldn’t have been rude to her at all—before or after he’d realized her identity. Trouble was, he’d long ago lost patience with the trendy D.C. Type A’s who seemed to flood the area every decent weekend with their flashy cars and fat wallets. He especially resented the whiny ones who stayed at the inn, bombarding poor
Bernadette with their overparticular you-must-cater-tous” demands.
By all appearances, Ms. Riordan fit the bill, what with the car, the expensive business clothes, the expert makeup job. Still, he shouldn’t have allowed his bias to get the better of him. He sure as hell knew what it was like to have scads of cash and more than one head-turning car of his own. Amy Riordan couldn’t help what she was any more than he could help what he used to be.
“Jake, hand me the socket wrench.” He pointed to his beat-up toolbox.
“Hope Janie Lee gets home all right,” Jake said while rummaging through the box.
“She will.” Paul held his hand out for the wrench. “Don’t let the hot car fool you. That woman is a cautious driver. I should know. I was stuck behind her for eight miles.”
“Good-lookin’ little gal, though, wasn’t she? Wonder what kind of business she has at the inn.”
“Guess that’s her business, Jake.” Grimacing, he wrenched hard at the first lug nut on the wheel.
“Okay, okay. Keep it to yourself, Hanley. But you dang well know the word’s gonna be around town by breakfast tomorrow.”
“No doubt.” But he wasn’t about to be the reliable source of this news. He had a strong aversion to the town’s rumor mill, which he considered to be nothing more than a localized, more efficient version of the gossip columns and TV tabloids that had pestered him during his spell in the public eye.
“I bet Janie Lee gets the whole story before they reach our driveway.”
“Probably,” Paul said, yanking off the tire with a grunt. He thought of his Aunt Bernadette. She was on pins and needles about meeting Riordan’s daughter. One evening of privacy with the young woman was the least she deserved, and probably all she would get. Because once word was out that Greg’s girl had come to town, Bernadette would have no peace.
In the meantime, he hoped Amy Riordan had enough sense to keep her private business private.
Janie Lee peered through the open car window. “Sure you won’t change your mind about that cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m late as it is.” It was nice of Janie Lee to offer, but Amy half suspected the older woman wanted another crack at finding out why she’d come to Tremont.
“I understand. But if you get any grief from Bernadette Ryan about checkin’ in after dark, you tell her to call Janie Lee Pratt. I’ll set her straight.”
“Thanks, I will.” Amy started the engine, but Janie Lee leaned against the car door.
“Now remember, take a left on 612 about a mile after the Winchester turnoff,” she said. “That’ll land you right in the middle of town.”
“And the inn’s at the top of the hill?”
“Right there. Can’t miss it.”
After thanking Amy again, Janie Lee finally stepped away from the car and waved goodbye.
Amy eased down the Pratt’s long, unpaved driveway, glad to escape with her privacy intact. Although Janie Lee was a likable, harmless woman, she was on the nosy side. And persistent! Amy now knew that a third degree could be camouflaged in sweetness and light. She breathed a wary sigh. For all her efforts, poor Janie Lee had gotten no satisfaction from her. Amy was having a hard enough time dealing with the whys and wherefores of this visit. She wasn’t about to tell all to a complete stranger.
As she navigated the unlit country road, the dashboard digital clock clicked off the passing minutes, each one bringing her closer to Tremont and Touch the Blue Sky Inn. When she passed by the Welcome To Tremont sign, barely readable in the dark, the knots in her stomach tightened. The late-autumn moon afforded a misty light and she took in what she could of the village. Brick and clapboard houses and low one- and two-story commercial buildings were clustered on either side of the road. The general store and gas station were closed tight, as was Tremont Elementary School, of course, and the Baptist church just beyond it. Then she spotted a large white sign with elaborate black script announcing the inn. Amy turned right as directed and drove carefully up the steep road.
It seemed to take forever.
Finally, at the crest of the hill, the inn came into view, and Amy blinked in surprise. Shimmering between beams of ground lighting, the building was graceful and grand, and far lovelier than she had expected. The two-story structure was expansive, with the aura of an English country house, but the wide veranda framing the front bespoke old Virginia, gracious ladies, mint juleps and fluttering fans.
Unsure where to park, Amy pulled up to the front entrance and got out of the car. Melodic refrains from what she thought might be a mandolin floated softly through the open screen door and into the night air. Yet the music couldn’t soothe the emotions roiling inside her. She leaned against the car, drinking in the sight of her father’s dream come true. As her gaze roamed from the roof peak, down the white brick facade, to the holly and azalea bushes embedded at its foundation, her mind and heart contemplated the man she barely knew. Right now, Greg Riordan felt so near, his presence enmeshed in each coal black shutter, in each gleaming white picket of the veranda’s railing, in each light glowing through the windows and in each muffled laugh and murmuring voice emanating from inside the inn.
Amy squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard. She was unprepared for these feelings… this sadness. Nervousness about meeting Bernadette Ryan had preoccupied her for days. She hadn’t considered—or allowed herself to consider—how it would feel to come face-toface with her father’s domain, with his life.
If she had, she might not have come at all. The loneliness in her heart made her realize that.
The sharp sound of a creaking floorboard sta
rtled her and her gaze flew to the darkened porch. At first it appeared empty. But then the floor creaked again, followed by movement, enabling her to focus on the figure in the shadows. It was a woman rising from a wicker rocking chair.
“Good evening,” Amy called.
The only response was footsteps as the woman walked across the veranda. Even in the dim light, Amy could see she was a handsome woman, tall and solidly built. Her hair fell loose past her shoulder blades and Amy guessed it must have once been a vibrant red. In any case, it was unusual to see a woman well past middle age wearing her “ hair that way or dressed in an oversize tunic sweater over a flowing pleated skirt.
The woman came down the front steps. “Amy Riordan?”
Amy’s throat felt tight and dry, and she shivered in the cool night air. “Yes,” she managed to say.
“Welcome to the inn. I’m Bernadette Ryan.”
“I know.” Though her voice had all but deserted her, Amy couldn’t take her eyes off the woman. Greg Riordan was part of her, too. Amy half expected him to fall in step behind her, to hold his hand out to her just as this woman was doing now.
She searched the older woman’s pale face, hoping to find some sign of acceptance. But Bernadette’s gaze was as distant as her handshake was brief.
“Glad that you got here safely,” Bernadette remarked, her voice honeyed by a light Virginia lilt. “This day has been a long time coming.” She turned and started back to the inn.
Amy followed her up the steps. By now, however, the inn had lost its comforting glow and the encompassing sense of her father had evaporated. Why on earth had she come?
Bernadette held open the door for her. Amy hesitated a moment as the indoor heat rushed over her and out into the crisp night. The heat, the sounds, the aromas and the voices clamoring inside the inn reminded her she was nothing but a stranger here, a stranger from Greg Riordan’s past.
Amy had never felt so alone in her life.
She stepped into the spacious front hall, where an older couple stopped Bernadette to tell her how much they had enjoyed their dinner tonight. Amy looked over her shoulder into the dining room entrance. There she spotted the mandolin player, sitting by the fireplace as he serenaded the few remaining diners relaxing at candlelit tables. Suddenly a young woman, carrying an empty serving tray, hurried out the dining room door.
“Bridget!” Bernadette stopped the waitress. “Amy’s here.”
Although Bridget’s strawberry-blond hair was pulled back into a fluffy, girlish ponytail, she looked to be around Amy’s age. She clutched the tray against her chest and held out her free hand. “Hello, Amy, I’m Bridget Johnson. I’ve been wanting to know you for a long time.”
“She’s my oldest girl,” Bernadette said as the two young women shook hands. “Bridget, has your sister come in yet?”
”Fraid not. But you know her. Some customer in the shop probably got her going on the powers of aromatherapy. Or she offered to read their tarot cards.”
Bernadette rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid.”
“Paul just got here, though,” Bridget added. “He’s washing up down the hall.”
“Washing up?”
“I didn’t have time to ask why, Mom. And I can’t chat any more now. I’ve got to get table four’s drink order.” She smiled at Amy. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Without suggesting who this Paul happened to be, Bridget rushed off through another door. Amy was puzzled. The only people she had expected to meet were Bernadette and her two daughters.
“We’re shorthanded tonight,” Bernadette said, shaking her head. “One of our young waitresses got engaged last night and quit this morning. Didn’t care if we were fully booked the entire holiday weekend.”
“That puts you in a tight spot.”
Bernadette shrugged. “These things happen all the time in this business. Luckily my girls can help in a pinch if they’re—”
The sound of a door closing, followed by sharp footsteps on the polished oak floor, echoed through the hall, distracting the older woman. “Paul,” she called, “Amy Riordan has arrived.”
“So I see.”
The rich voice snagged Amy’s attention immediately. Peering down the lengthy passageway, she recognized the tall, blond man approaching. She recognized him, all right, yet she couldn’t believe her eyes. “You!” she gasped.
But clearly he wasn’t surprised to see her.
“I see I beat you here.” He was drying his hands with a fluffy white towel. “ Janie Lee must have taken you by the scenic route.”
He didn’t appear surprised by that, either.
Annoyed anew, she tried to compose herself before opening her mouth. But the sly smile teasing in his eyes was more provoking than her own good sense. Besides, she hated being in the dark about anything.
Straightening her shoulders, she gave him her most direct stare. “This time, why don’t you just tell me who the heck you. are.”
Bernadette stepped between them. “Amy, this is Paul Hanley,” she said, obviously baffled by the sudden tension crackling in the air. “He’s family.”
Chapter Two
“Family? Him?”
Amy glared over Bernadette’s head at Mr. Paul Hanley. “You could have at least said something out on that road. You knew I was coming here.”
“Out on the road?” Startled, Bernadette looked from Amy to Paul and back. “My dear, you didn’t have any trouble, did you?”
“None at all,” Amy said quickly, putting a hand on Bernadette’s arm to reassure her.
“Janie Lee and Jake had a flat, Aunt Bernadette. That’s all,” Paul explained to the bewildered woman. “Ms. Riordan and I both stopped to help.”
“Oh, thank goodness. I’d hate to have anything bad happen on your first day here.” Bernadette took a deep breath, her relief obvious. “So, you two have met already.”
“In a manner of speaking. I didn’t realize he was your nephew, though,” Amy commented, trying to keep rein on her annoyance with Hanley. Upsetting the Ryans was not how she wanted to start this visit.
“Paul is more like a son.” Bernadette gazed up at him with affection. “I helped raise him.”
“Mom!” Bridget called from down the hall. “We need you here in the kitchen for a minute.”
“Coming, darlin’.” Bernadette looked to Paul. “You take Amy into the dining room while I take care of this. I’ll send in Bridget with drinks and appetizers.” She turned to Amy. “It’s gotten so late. You must be starving.”
“Maybe a little.” She was more apprehensive than hungry, and very, very tired.
“Well, I thought we’d all sit down to dinner together and get better acquainted. Hopefully Maura will show up soon,” Bernadette added. “I’ll have your bags brought up to your room while we’re eating, if you’d like.”
“That’d be fine. Thanks,” she said, digging in her handbag for her car keys.
She would have preferred going straight up to the room. But Bernadette seemed to have the evening planned, so Amy said nothing. Better to go with the flow tonight, she decided, get a feel for the place—and for these people. Amy handed the older woman the keys.
“I’ll come join you as soon as I can,” Bernadette said. “Paul will take good care of you.”
“I’m sure he will,” Amy replied, although she turned a skeptical glance his way after Bernadette left them.
“After you, Amy.”
With a gracious sweep of his arm, Paul gestured at the wide doorway to the inn’s dining room. The humorous glint in his rather attractive grayish blue eyes made her want to smack him. How nice that he found the situation amusing. But she’d never found rudeness funny and she hated being misled.
Swallowing her irritation, she entered the dining room. To her surprise, Paul’s hand cupped her right elbow as he guided her through the large, dimly lit room. He moved past the array of tables with confidence, his bearing so even, so smooth, Amy felt as if she were gliding along beside him i
nstead of merely walking. Although she wasn’t thrilled with the guy right now, Paul Hartley’s presence—tall, tight and sleek—was compelling.
At a corner table set for five, be held out a chair for her. Settling in, Amy glanced about the elegant room with its low-lit pewter chandeliers and imposing marble fireplace. But the fire was dying out, the mandolin player was packing up his instrument and only a handful of diners remained. A lonely hush seemed to have fallen over the room. Finally, she looked across the table and met Paul’s gaze. The flickering flame from the miniature hurricane lamp between them danced across his thick, blond hair and cast intriguing shadows across his face.
Dragging her eyes away, Amy reached for her water glass. She took a long sip. Yet Paul’s attention remained on her. She could feel it, steady and unwavering, drawing her gaze back to his.
“I apologize,” he said.
Amy put down the water glass. This was the last thing she’d expected.
“I was rude to you out there with Jake and Janie Lee, and there’s no excuse for it. Washington weekenders tend to take over the roads around here, and sometimes my tolerance gets a tad low.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
Okay, so he’d covered the rudeness; she’d give him credit for that. As far as Amy was concerned, however, the greater offense hadn’t yet been addressed. “But you learned soon enough that I wasn’t your run-of-the-mill Washington weekender. At least not to you and the Ryans.”
A grin lit up his face, fine laugh lines crinkled at the corner of his eyes. Amy’s pulse quickened. She wished she didn’t find him so attractive. It left her feeling somehow off kilter, even vulnerable. And considering why she was here, this seemed counterproductive.
“At least you say what’s on your mind.” Paul smiled again. “That’s good. I like to know where I stand.”
“So do I, Mr. Hanley, so do I,” she said. “Which is why I have a bone to pick with you.”
