Crazy Little Thing Called Love

by Molly Cannon

  Her grandmother had made designs and written notes, but Etta had no idea how much of the work was actually completed. The stairs opened onto a wide landing and narrow hallways led off in either direction toward the four bedrooms, two on each side. Two bathrooms were situated at either end of the hallways. Having more than one bathroom upstairs was a luxury for most of the old Bed and Breakfasts she was familiar with, so that would be a good selling point. The less a guest had to share the better.

  As she approached the first bedroom, she noticed a handwritten note taped to the closed door. Scrawled in her grandmother’s spidery handwriting were the words Cherry Cobbler. Well, her grandmother had written in her journal that each room would carry the name of a down-home dessert. She opened the door, flipping the light switch on as she peeked inside, and instantly understood the sign on the door. Vanilla walls wrapped around a mahogany four-poster bed dressed in a bright, cherry red comforter and a mixture of throw pillows dotted with embroidered cherries. The hardwood floors gleamed, and a red and white side chair and a reading lamp nestled in the corner anchored by a red throw rug. It was charming in its own way. A little too rustic as far as she was concerned. She liked clean lines and fewer frills. But she supposed it was just the thing for a Bed and Breakfast.

  She closed the door and walked across the hall. A note was taped to the next door as well. It said Blueberry Buckle. She turned the knob, and when she turned on the light she saw that this room wasn’t quite finished yet. But the walls had been painted the palest lavender blue and deep blue linens were draped over a love seat. The window needed drapes, but an area rug of purples and blues covered the wooden floor on one side of the old wooden sleigh bed. She could easily imagine the final result once everything was in place. More fluffy, frilly, frou-frou.

  Across the landing and down the other hall Etta found a note on the next bedroom door. It was labeled Plum Crumble. She peeked inside and found rich plum bedding and walls the color of toasted biscuits. Pulling the door closed, she walked across the hall. Banana Pudding. She smiled at the name and then opened the pudding door. Everything in it was done in pale yellows, creams, beiges, whites. Every surface was the color of creamy custards and meringue. It was also full of ruffles and fluffy, frilly pillows and soft throws. Etta sighed, before walking inside, and sinking into a side chair. Her grandmother’s personality was splashed all over the place, and it wrapped around her like a hug from Grammy, easing all the pain and frustration that had been building inside her heart the last few days.

  Guests could nestle into these rooms and escape from their everyday lives. A soothing retreat. Hadn’t this house been exactly that for her while she was growing up? A welcome respite from her family and their ongoing drama. If her parents weren’t fighting they were making up and ignoring their children. Etta thought by being the good child she could fix everything. She cooked, and cleaned, and did her homework faithfully. And mostly she covered for Belle. If Belle screwed up, Etta was there to clean up the mess. And since Belle did whatever she damn well pleased it was an exhausting job. Whether she was sneaking out to meet a boy or skipping school with her girl friends, Etta always tried to minimize the damage. But here at Grammy Hazel’s house she didn’t have to take care of everyone else. For a little while she could just think about what made her happy.

  With the right kind of effort and the right person to run it, the inn might be a real success. She got a sense of that now. But that person wasn’t her. So much about this operation was still up in the air. So much still had to be decided, and so many of those decisions were tied to Donny Joe. To be honest she still suspected he wanted to get his money out of the project so he could wash his hands of the whole thing. And she couldn’t blame him. Like her, he had another business to run. Cousin Beulah seemed so eager to see the plans go forward, and while Donny Joe might be sympathetic, in the end Beulah wasn’t his responsibility.

  Standing up, she kicked off her shoes, and crawled under the pale yellow duvet on the bed. The tears she’d been fighting for days welled up and slid down her checks, wetting the pillow. She didn’t care. She finally let herself cry, sobbing her heart out for the grandmother she’d loved so much. Crying until she couldn’t cry anymore. Afterward, she was worn out, just plain tired, and the sleep that had seemed so elusive earlier called to her like a lover. She needed help, that was certain, but she didn’t know who to turn to anymore. Maybe if she closed her eyes for just a few minutes the perfect answer would appear. One that would fix everything.

  Chapter Seven

  Wake up, sunshine.”

  A cheerful male voice nudged her from the edge of a dream. It was a nice dream, too. One about preparing the perfect béarnaise sauce in front of an admiring panel of distinguished chefs. She always had a time making the damned stuff. It was embarrassing, her own personal albatross, a dead weight hanging around her neck, taunting her. It should have been so simple. Chef 101, but the perfect sauce eluded her time after time. But not now. Not in this dream. The panel of judges all looked terribly impressed by her skill and her cool demeanor under pressure.

  Etta stretched her arms and opened one eye to see who was annoying her. “Donny Joe?” She sat straight up in bed. “What are you doing here?” She instinctively pulled the covers up to cover herself, but when she glanced down, she realized she was fully dressed. Crapola. She’d fallen asleep last night and never made it downstairs to her own bed. “Oh damn. What time is it? And again, what are you doing here?”

  He just stood there with a tickled smile on his face, watching her scramble her way out from under the pile of covers. “Well, I’m not sleeping the day away like some people. I’m busy being helpful. Miz Beulah asked me to bring those upstairs.” He nodded toward a stack of boxes on the dresser. “It’s some gee-gaws and what-nots Miz Hazel ordered for the rooms. I saw this door open and heard you snoring, so I came in to investigate.”

  “I don’t snore.” She ran a hand over her tousled hair.

  His grin grew wider. “My mistake. I guess old man Porter must have been running his wood chipper again. Anyway, since it is after ten o’clock—didn’t you ask about the time? I figured you’d want to wake up and greet the day. Beulah and Daphne have already taken their bags over to my house, but they figured you were all worn out from the work in the kitchen yesterday. They thought they’d let you sleep in this morning.”

  “Ten o’clock? Oh my gosh. Are you kidding me? And they’re already at your house? They went without me?” She tried to get her feet untangled, but lost her balance.

  Donny Joe caught her by the elbow and steadied her on her feet. “Careful there. When I left a while ago they were eating oatmeal. But they left a note on the table downstairs in the kitchen so you’d know where to find them.”

  She sat back down on the side of the bed, feeling fuzzy-headed and out of sorts. “I came up here last night to see how much work Grammy had done. I fell asleep contemplating how much is still left to do, and wondering who the hell is going to do it.”

  “I thought we settled all that. You were going home to Chicago, and you were going to leave it all to me.”

  “Well, but while I’m still here, that hardly seems fair.”

  “Anything in particular that you’re worried about?”

  “For a start I’m wondering how much money a place like this can expect to make. Even if the rooms are rented out every weekend, which is unlikely, is that enough to turn a profit? I don’t see how you’ll ever get your money back without selling the place somewhere down the line.”

  “Let me worry about that. And have a little faith, okay? That’s what your grandmother used to say.” Glancing around, he sat down on the cream and vanilla striped loveseat. “So, this is the Banana Pudding room. I haven’t been up here since she finished decorating.”

  “Who came up with these names anyway? I mean really, Blueberry Buckle? Doesn’t that seem a little silly to you?”

  “Nah. Miz Hazel thought just hearing these homey-comfort food-d
essert names would evoke pleasant memories for folks. I tend to agree.”

  “If you say so.” Etta wasn’t convinced.

  “I do.” He stretched his long legs out, making himself comfortable.

  She didn’t want to admit how good Donny Joe looked nestled on the loveseat cushions with the morning light streaming in all around him. A studly, handsome man among all the silk and fluff made an appealing picture. Unsettled, she pressed her case. “Okay, but what do you think about the decorating, Donny Joe? Isn’t this room a little too fussy for a man? I mean it’s a little too fussy for me if I’m honest about it.”

  With two fingers he traced the pale ivory stripe on the arm of the loveseat. Leaning back he fixed her with an assessing look and a knowing smile. “Sunshine, a man doesn’t care what a room looks like if the woman he’s with is pretty enough.”

  She squirmed, watching his strong hand glide over the smooth material. Oh, he was a clever one. Sitting there acting like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth while he stroked the arm of the loveseat like it belonged to the arm of his lover. If he thought she was the least bit susceptible to his not-so-subtle manipulations he had another think coming. She went on the attack. “Oh, well, of course it’s all about how a woman looks, isn’t it? That is so typically male.”

  “Hell, yeah. I’m a man. I like pretty women.” He shrugged and his grin was unrepentant. “But what really matters is how a man feels when he’s with a woman.”

  She shook her head, knowing she’d tried to start a fight for no good reason. “Okay, Dr. Phil.” He did that to her. She’d begun to realize he could put her on the defensive with the most innocent remark. But then again she doubted any of his remarks were truly innocent.

  He stood up and put his hands on his hips. “And whenever a man agrees to come to a Bed and Breakfast you can bet it’s to make some woman happy. That’s the bottom line.”

  “Okay, okay. You’re probably right.” She didn’t want to picture him in this room making some woman happy. She stood up, straightening her clothes. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around how we find strangers willing to pay good money to stay here. Everson isn’t a big tourist town, so what’s the appeal?”

  Donny Joe started toward the door. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  She stuffed her feet into her shoes and started after him. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” Bounding down the back stairs that led to the kitchen, he went out the back door and headed to one of the old renovated golf carts parked beside the garage. “Hop in, Etta, and let me take you for a ride.” He winked, looking like a teenaged boy offering to show her a good time.

  She stood there staring at him, feeling disheveled and grumpy. Her clothes were wrinkled, her hair was uncombed, and she suspected she had morning breath that could stop a Clydesdale in its tracks. With an unladylike grunt, she climbed in beside him. “Oh, sure. Why not?”

  “That’s the spirit,” he said with a hint of triumph. He started the cart and steered it onto a path leading out into the pasture beyond the yard.

  Etta watched the breeze ruffle his blond hair, and avoided making contact with his devilish green eyes. If a woman wasn’t smart she could easily get lost in the mischief they promised. But she was smart and didn’t have the time or the inclination to be interested in a man like Donny Joe.

  He stopped at a spot not too far from the house, just past the grass and flowerbeds that made up the more civilized part of the backyard. Here, except for a dozen old oak trees that offered scattered shade, sat a wide open meadow covered in low grass. Etta remembered a blanket of wildflowers covered it every spring.

  Donny Joe swept his arm across the field. “This is where we’re building the wedding pavilion. Nothing fancy. Just a simple wooden structure for holding ceremonies. Add some of those twinkly lights and anything looks like it’s straight from a fairy tale. It’s also large enough for a tent if a bride wants to be out of the elements. And there’s room for dancing under the moonlight once the reception’s underway.”

  Etta got out of the cart and turned in a slow circle. “Good Gravy, I forgot about the weddings. And this spot is perfect. Plenty of space, and nice views. We could make a killing if we provide the food, too, couldn’t we?” She felt a jolt of excitement. She didn’t know squat about wedding planning, but all sorts of possibilities started filling her head.

  Donny Joe leaned on the steering wheel. “And I happen to know a few prospective couples who are planning to get hitched this year. We just have to convince them we can give them the wedding of their dreams.”

  “I like this idea. I like it a lot.” Etta smiled and wandered off toward the trees, taking it all in. After a few minutes she came back and climbed into the cart. “Let me ask you something. Do you really care about all this, or is it just because it’s what Grammy wanted?”

  He didn’t answer right away. When he spoke he seemed to be fighting to control his feelings. “When Miz Hazel died so suddenly, it was a shock to everyone, not just me. I know she was your grandmother, but everyone loved her.”

  “I know.” Etta sometimes needed to remember that. She wasn’t the only one grieving.

  “And for a while, without her spirit and enthusiasm ramrodding this whole rigmarole, I just couldn’t see a way forward. I used to get in trouble a lot when I was a kid, but your grandmother always gave me another chance. She saw something good in me even when I couldn’t see it myself. I’ll always be grateful for her faith in me, and I don’t want to let her down now.”

  For the first time she truly understood that Donny Joe had lost a close friend when her grandmother died. It was easy to forget when he was being overbearing and obnoxious. “So you really think we can pull this off?”

  He shrugged. “I do, if we find someone as committed as your grandmother to run the place. She told me over and over from the very beginning not to sell Everson short. She reminded me of everything this town has to offer. Like the Community theatre productions, the second Monday trade days, the peach festival, and don’t forget the Chili cook-off. If we offered special packages coordinated with town events—”

  “Now you sound like a sales brochure. But I can see you’ve put a lot of thought into this, too.”

  “I have.” He looked out over the pasture. “I’ll admit at first I was just humoring Miz Hazel and all her grandiose plans and idea. But you know as well as anyone your grandmother was a force to be reckoned with, and it didn’t take long to come around to her way of thinking.”

  Etta sighed. “And she would have been so good at this, too. Everything about running a place like this would have made her happy. She probably should have done this years ago. It’s such a shame she won’t be around to see it.”

  “Amen to that. And you’re positive I can’t convince you to take on the challenge full time?”

  “We’ve been through this, Donny Joe. I’m positive. I still have a restaurant to run in Chicago. But what about you? Now that I hear how many ideas you have bouncing around in your head. And you’re known for your people skills. Meeting and greeting guests would be right up your alley.”

  He snorted. “A few days ago you didn’t want me anywhere near the place and now you think I should run it.”

  “I’m beginning to rethink some of my original impressions. But really. It’s a great idea. You and Cousin Beulah play host and hostess, and I’ll be happy to interview someone to do the cooking. Then you’ll be all set.”

  “It’s a terrible idea. I have a business to run, too, missy.”

  “Well then, I guess we’re at an impasse. Right back where we started.”

  He nodded. “Seems that way. What if your sister has a change of heart and decides to come back and run things? She’s part owner, too.”

  “Belle? Fat chance, as in, don’t hold your breath.” Etta figured Hell would sell snow cones before that happened. “We’ve been all over this. Counting on Belle is something I learned not to do a long time ago. But I t
hink I should get back to the house. Beulah and Daphne will think I’ve deserted them.”

  He turned the cart in a big circle and headed back toward the house, parking it alongside the garage again. As they got out a tall, blonde woman wearing a pale pink sundress came around the corner of the house. Etta looked down at the state of her disheveled attire, feeling like an orphan in a Dickens novel compared to this fresh beauty.

  The woman smiled and waved, hurrying toward them with a lively bounce in her step. “Well, there you are, Donny Joe. I’ve been looking high and low trying to find you.” Without saying another word she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth.

  After he untangled himself, he asked, “Hey, Randi Kay. What brings you by this morning?”

  She patted him on the arm. “I brought you some fish, silly. Beulah answered the bell when I rang it over at your house, and she said you were probably over here next door. I left the fish with her and came to find you so I could thank you in person.”

  He turned on the Donny Joe charm. “That’s real sweet, sugar, but you didn’t have to do that.”

  She giggled and stroked his arm. “Well, of course I did. After the other night you deserve a whole lot more than that.”

  “Nonsense, girl. I just helped you let go and do what you wanted to do anyway.”

  Please, Etta thought. She wasn’t a prude, but listening to their post-coital chitchat was more than she could take. Since they seemed so wrapped up in each other Etta decided it was a good time to make herself scarce. After a final glance at the mewling couple she headed toward the house as fast as her feet would take her. But in that glance she’d noted plenty. His hand rested at the small of the woman’s back. A big and wide hand with fingers splayed, marking territory. And she couldn’t help it. She imagined Donny Joe’s hand against her own back. Against bare skin. Slowly stroking the line of her spine the way he’d stroked the arm of the loveseat earlier. To her dismay, she felt her cheeks flame at the very idea. She wasn’t a woman who blushed easily, if ever. And she certainly wasn’t going to start indulging in untoward thoughts about Donny Joe Ledbetter.