by Carol Miller
“She certainly is,” May agreed.
Edna shook her head. “I had no idea that you sold it.”
“It was so exciting when Henry wanted it!” May told her. “We’ve had it in the back room forever—twenty years at least, maybe more. I don’t even remember how it ended up there. Why didn’t we ever move it out to the front for more people to see?”
Edna went on shaking her head.
“Tippy,” Lillian said abruptly.
“Tippy?” Aunt Emily asked.
Lillian pointed.
Daisy followed her outstretched finger to the nook. As handsome as the secretary was, it was also very large. Seven feet high, nearly four feet wide, and two feet deep. It fit in the nook, but just barely.
“She’s right,” Sarah Lunt commented softly. “It’s tippy.”
Drew frowned. “A bit too tippy.”
Releasing Daisy’s hand, he walked over to the secretary for a closer look. Kenneth, Parker, and Henry Brent all joined him. They crowded around the piece like a group of mechanics examining an engine for an oil leak.
“Maybe it’s too close to the molding,” Parker said.
“That doesn’t make it tippy,” Kenneth informed him. “That just keeps it from sitting flush against the wall.”
“But maybe if it were flush against the wall…,” Parker returned.
Moving to one side, Drew studied the secretary’s profile. “It can’t sit flush against the wall, molding or no molding,” he determined. “The back of the bookcase extends beyond the back of the desk.”
“It does?” Parker and Kenneth said in unison.
Henry Brent nodded. “There was a time when a good many secretaries—and a lot of other cabinets, too—were built that way. It’s designed to accommodate a chair rail, back in the days when most of the nicer houses still had chair rails.”
“The staircase here has a chair rail,” Aunt Emily reminded him. “And so do all of the bedrooms.”
“You could always move it to one of them,” Lillian suggested.
“Should we try to catch the delivery boys—” May began anxiously.
“—before they drive off?” Edna finished.
“Those two are long gone,” Drew replied. “They skedaddled the instant they got paid. And, no,” he added hastily, “I can’t move the monster all by myself.”
“No one would ever ask you to,” Daisy said, just to staunch the possibility of anybody even considering it.
“Frankly,” Drew continued, “I don’t think an army of professional movers could get that secretary up the stairs. Ignoring the weight, it’s too big to maneuver around the turns and through those narrow doorways.”
“I was about to say the same thing myself,” Kenneth agreed.
“Well, I don’t want to move it,” Aunt Emily said. “Not unless we really have to.” She turned questioningly to Henry Brent.
He appeared entirely unconcerned. “She looks fine to me.”
“It never fell over—” May said.
“—at the shop.”
“We never worried about it—”
“—or even paid any attention,” Edna concluded.
Henry Brent clacked in accord with the sisters. “She’s been standing that way for a couple hundred years, and I’d wager she’ll keep standing that way for another couple hundred more.”
That was apparently enough to reassure Aunt Emily, because after one last happy glance at the secretary, she turned from it and began herding her guests back toward the parlor. Thirsty and tired of being on their feet, the group complied without dispute. There was a general mumbling about who had been seated where and which half-empty glass belonged to whom.
“I still think it’s tippy,” Drew said, partially to himself and partially to Daisy as the others moved out of the dining room.
“They won’t listen,” Georgia responded tersely.
Daisy glanced at her in surprise. She hadn’t heard Georgia take a sharp tone before, even slightly.
“They never listen,” she added with emphasis.
Georgia’s gray eyes were once again focused on someone in the group, except this time her gaze was narrow and almost as sharp as her tongue. Daisy still couldn’t tell who the person was, and that piqued her interest. It also made her realize just how little she actually knew about Georgia.
She was eighteen years old. Her last name was Ross. And with her pixie cut and carpet of freckles, she was almost adorably cute. Georgia was also far from lazy, regrettably clumsy, and she always tried hard to please Aunt Emily. But that was it. Aside from those few passing observations, Daisy knew nothing else. Not a lick about Georgia’s family, her friends, where she had been raised or why she wasn’t there any longer, barely even anything about her most basic likes and dislikes, such as her favorite color or her least favorite flavor of ice cream. Granted, Georgia had only been at the inn for a couple of weeks, and Daisy worked long hours at the bakery, so they hadn’t spent very much time together. Except that made Daisy all the more curious now.
Drew was evidently curious, too. “Who doesn’t listen?” he asked Georgia.
“Everybody,” she answered flatly.
There was an almost childish sullenness to her voice, but the intensity with which she continued to gaze at the unidentified person in the parlor wasn’t childish in the least. Georgia wasn’t just idly looking at them. She was watching them, studying them, it seemed.
“Anyone in particular?” Drew pressed her.
The gray eyes clouded. Georgia hesitated just as she had earlier when Aunt Emily had asked her to get the broom and dustpan from the closet. She seemed to be debating how—or even if—she should respond.
Daisy thought she understood. Georgia must not have expected to see the person standing in the dining room of the inn, and she had dropped the tray with the glasses in surprise. But now that she had recovered from her initial shock, she either realized that the person wasn’t in fact who she had originally taken them to be, or she seriously didn’t like the person—both of which would explain her hard and studious gaze.
“Well, Daisy is an excellent listener,” Drew said after a moment, trying to make Georgia feel more at ease. “She lets me whine about all my problems at work. So I’m sure she’d be great at listening to whatever you—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Georgia shot him a deeply troubled look, hurriedly scooped up the broom and dustpan filled with broken glass, and lurched once more through the kitchen doorway.
“That girl,” Drew murmured after her, echoing Daisy’s own thoughts, “has got some secrets.”
CHAPTER
6
Secrets or no, Georgia didn’t return to the dining room. Daisy wondered if her and Drew’s instincts were right, or if they were overthinking it all, and Georgia was just being shy. The group could certainly be overwhelming, especially for a young woman who might not be used to such an eclectic, opinionated, and voluble collection of folks. Their lively conversation in the parlor could be heard throughout the inn.
Henry Brent and Parker were drinking and woofing merrily. Lillian was complaining about the woofing and about the potential dust from the new furniture. Kenneth Lunt and Edna Fowler were vigorously debating the fluctuating prices in the antiques market. May Fowler had somehow succeeded in getting Sarah Lunt to talk about gardening. And Aunt Emily was dashing among them all like a circus ringmaster simultaneously directing flying trapeze, clown car, and fire juggling performances.
Daisy watched them from the edge of the dining room and sighed. Drew put a comforting hand on her back.
“Tired?” he asked. “How was business at the bakery today?”
“A little chaotic this morning,” she said. “It was weather paranoia, I think. Everybody seemed to be worried about the rain coming and wanted to stock up for the weekend. The bread and rolls flew out the door.”
“When we brought in the secretary, it was starting to mist, but with the temperature falling like it is, there’s probab
ly a good chance for sleet.”
Aunt Emily temporarily stopped dashing and turned toward Drew. “Did I hear you say sleet?”
He nodded. “If it keeps up, there could be some snow later on.”
She nodded back at him, then at Daisy. “I do hope that Brenda gets here soon, Ducky. You know how nervous she is about driving in bad weather. And she’s even worse when it’s dark out.”
Brenda was a longtime friend of Aunt Emily’s, a fellow former waitress from Daisy’s days at the diner, and now her trusty business partner at Sweetie Pies.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Daisy said. “Brenda isn’t coming this evening. She volunteered to handle the bakery alone tomorrow, so I could stay here and sleep in.” She smiled at Drew. “But since she has to be up so early, Brenda figured that she’d be better off at home in her own bed tonight. She’ll head over as soon as she closes up, which will probably be around noon, or maybe earlier if the weather really does get bad and the place is empty.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Aunt Emily nodded again. “You did tell me. I remember now. Too many lists bumping around in my head, I guess.” And she promptly dashed off once more, this time to the far end of the parlor where Lillian, Parker, and Henry Brent were engaged in a spirited dialogue regarding the merits of placing a candle stand next to a dwarf Meyer lemon tree.
“That stand looks ridiculous where it is!” Lillian snapped like an irate alligator. “The tree should be there alone. It’s much too fine a plant—”
“Naturally you would take the lemon’s side,” Henry Brent interjected with a laugh and a clack.
Parker laughed, too. Lillian’s sour lips puckered.
“Of course you’re right, my dear,” Parker said hastily, trying to be conciliatory. “It’s a mighty fine plant. But I don’t see what difference it makes where the candle stand—”
“It makes a difference,” she cut him off indignantly, “because the stand detracts from the tree.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. Of all the silly things to get indignant about. It was a mystery to her how Lillian managed to get out of bed each morning, considering the degree to which she was continually offended by everything and everyone. It was also a mystery why Parker hadn’t packed a bag long ago and moved to the inn permanently.
“The candle stand should be in the other corner,” Lillian went on with her usual high-handedness. “Next to the tea table, where it could—”
“Tea!” Daisy exclaimed to herself. “I forgot all about my mama’s tea.”
With a peck on Drew’s cheek—which unsurprisingly elicited a severe glance from Lillian, although it didn’t stop her from continuing her lemon tree tirade—Daisy hurried out of the dining room. The afternoon was quickly fading to evening. Surely her mama would be up from her nap by now. She was probably waiting for her. She had probably been waiting for quite some time, not that her mama would ever complain about her tardiness.
While Lillian took umbrage at almost everything, Daisy’s mama—Lucy Berger Hale—was the exact opposite and took umbrage at nearly nothing. She had always been a very patient and gentle person, the kind who rescued baby birds after a windstorm when they had fallen out of their nest and who never failed to scrape an extra dollar or two out of her already meager purse for the sad soul with an empty stomach huddled around the side of the supermarket. Then life took a hard turn, and Lucy lost her husband, her home, and her health all in rapid succession. But instead of growing nasty and resentful, she became so accommodating and unfalteringly sweet-tempered that it was actually a cause for concern to her daughter at times. Daisy worried that one day her mama might be taken advantage of, that a not-so-sweet person would come along and exploit her boundless trust and kindness.
As she entered the kitchen to make the overdue tea, Daisy found Georgia sitting on the floor on a throw rug at the edge of the hearth. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and she was leaning against the wrought iron log holder, which was stacked with wood.
“Hey there,” Daisy said, mildly surprised. She had never seen Georgia curled up in the corner before.
Georgia responded with a faint noise that sounded like the mewing of a lost kitten.
For a moment, Daisy considered sitting down next to her and trying to find out what—or who—was troubling her, but then she thought better of it. She didn’t want to overstep. Secrets were secrets for a reason, after all, and Georgia was certainly entitled to keep hers private. Daisy picked up the kettle and filled it with fresh water.
“You okay?” she asked, deliberately keeping her tone casual.
The mewing repeated itself.
While she organized a cup and saucer and waited for the water to heat, Daisy glanced at Georgia as surreptitiously as she could. She wasn’t crying, sulking, or hiding her face as one might have expected from her location and deportment. On the contrary, Georgia’s chin was propped up on her knees, and her eyes were open and clear. But she wasn’t looking back at Daisy. Her face was turned to the side, and she appeared to be looking over her shoulder at something above her head.
Daisy followed her gaze. There was no mistaking what Georgia was looking at. She was sitting alongside the old stone fireplace, and there was only one thing above her head. Aunt Emily’s shotgun.
The Remington was a double-barreled 20-gauge, and it was nearly the same age as Aunt Emily herself. For as long as Daisy could remember, the gun had been kept on two wooden pegs on the kitchen chimney. An out-of-town guest—who apparently wasn’t used to firearms sitting around in the open—had once asked Aunt Emily whether it wouldn’t be better if the shotgun were stored elsewhere, presumably someplace more private and under lock and key. She had replied that if the wooden pegs and kitchen chimney were good enough for her grandpappy, then they were good enough for her.
For safety purposes—considering that there were visitors and children regularly roaming about the inn—the Remington was kept unloaded. But the shotgun shells were invariably close at hand. They were stored in Aunt Emily’s needlepoint bag, a fact that she was careful not to publicly announce. Daisy’s gaze went to the wall directly behind the log holder. The needlepoint bag was hanging from its usual hook, raggedy and bulging with shell boxes, although none was visible. Aunt Emily was careful about that, too.
Daisy’s eyes returned to Georgia, and she frowned. There was something about the way Georgia was looking at the shotgun that made her a bit uncomfortable. She wasn’t quite sure why. Georgia had been in the kitchen every day since her arrival at the inn, which meant that she must have seen the gun on its pegs at least a hundred times over the past few weeks. There wasn’t anything new or suddenly startling about it now. Except Daisy had never seen Georgia staring at the Remington before, and she had just seen her staring at somebody in the dining room and the parlor with the same puzzling intensity.
“Georgia…”
Daisy didn’t continue. She felt as though she should ask her something, but she didn’t know what.
“Are you making tea for your mama?” Georgia said, abruptly snapping her head forward like she had just awoken from a trance. “I put those favorite bags of hers in the Rhett Butler cookie jar.”
“Did you? I was wondering where they went.”
“I figured it might be a good idea to separate them from the rest. That way if we run out of the others—some of the guests can get a little piggy—we’ll still have plenty left over for your mama.”
“Thank you, Georgia. That was very thoughtful.”
It was so thoughtful, in fact, and seemingly mature that it made Daisy begin to doubt whether Georgia would have raced out of the dining room due to youthful shyness.
“Your water is boiling,” she said.
“Right.” Daisy removed the kettle from the heat and reached for Clark Gable’s ceramic head.
Over the years, Aunt Emily had amassed an extensive and unusual collection of cookie jars. They varied widely in age and condition, and ranged from animals and cartoon characters to movie stars and hi
storical figures. Somehow word had gotten out that Aunt Emily had an affinity for them, and ever since, they kept appearing with wearisome regularity on all birthdays, holidays, and as hostess gifts. The funny thing was that Aunt Emily didn’t actually like cookie jars. She didn’t think that they kept cookies particularly fresh, and she was annoyed at always having to make space for the new ones, some of which could only be described as bizarre, such as an abominable snowman wearing spurs and a cowboy hat.
The Clark Gable as Rhett Butler cookie jar was considerably more attractive than most of the others, although Clark’s lips were such a neon shade of purple that it looked like he had been frozen in time sucking on a grape lollipop. It sat just about in the middle of the line of cookie jars, with a grinning pink hippopotamus on one side and a slightly lewd dancing girl on the other. The cookie jar shelf was on the wall above the old farm double sink. Without the aid of a stepladder, Daisy could reach it only by standing on her tiptoes. She stretched a hand blindly into Clark’s cutaway and pulled out one of her mama’s tea bags.
“I could barely reach it, too,” Georgia told her. “But I figured the bags would be safer that way. Less chance of pilfering guests poking their sticky fingers where they don’t belong.”
Daisy raised a curious eyebrow. Georgia was apparently not only thoughtful but also somewhat cunning, at least when it came to choosing hiding places.
“I hate sticky fingers.” Her voice cracked, then rose. “You shouldn’t take what isn’t yours! It isn’t right!”
The eyebrow went higher, although Georgia couldn’t see it, because Daisy had her back to her while she steeped the tea. Daisy agreed with her in principle, of course, but the moral outrage seemed a tad excessive.
“Are we still talking about tea bags?” Daisy said, having the distinct impression that they weren’t.
There was a momentary hesitation on Georgia’s part. Daisy turned around to look at her. The gray eyes were locked on the steaming cup and saucer. Daisy couldn’t tell if Georgia was thinking hard or hardly thinking. After a minute, she rubbed her freckled arms and jumped up from the floor.
