“Would you like milk, juice, or both? I’ve got orange, apple, grape, or white cranberry peach.”
“Um . . . juice would be great. I’ll take that . . . white kind; whatever you said.”
She came back while he was buttering the warm muffin and poured juice into the goblet from a pretty carafe. Everything in this place had class, especially Chas Florence Henrie. Then he recalled that she’d said that she loathed being called Mrs. Henrie. He scolded himself for jumping to conclusions, but then . . . she was alone here with her grandmother and she wasn’t wearing a ring. Did that necessarily mean what he thought it meant? And what was he thinking, anyway? It would be nothing but foolish—for both their sakes—to even consider making something romantic out of his intrigue with this woman who represented nothing more to him than a temporary refuge from another kind of storm that raged many miles away. Still, he couldn’t help being intrigued. He’d never met anyone like her. She wasn’t tough and hard like the women he worked with, and yet she had backbone. She wasn’t simpering or tawdry like the women he encountered in everyday life. She was refreshingly tasteful, and she glowed with a depth of genuine kindness that he’d never encountered.
“Now,” she said, “what else would you like to eat? We have—”
“This will suffice,” he said, motioning toward the fruit and muffin.
“Oh, that’s just to get you started. We take the word breakfast in our title very seriously. So, there’s bacon, sausage, hash browns, eggs any way you want them, pancakes, and waffles.”
“And who’s cooking? You?”
“Yes! I’m a great cook.”
“I’m not disputing that. I was just wondering if there’s anybody else who works around here, or if you’re a one-woman show?”
“You’re getting awfully personal, Agent Leeds,” she said facetiously. “I have maids that come in to clean as needed, and Polly, who is basically the office manager and covers for me here and there so I don’t have to be on duty all the time. But I am the cook. Now, what will it be?”
She looked as if she would be personally insulted if he didn’t eat a hearty breakfast, so he chuckled and said, “Okay, I’ll take bacon and scrambled eggs. That should be more than enough. Thank you.”
“It’ll be about five minutes.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good thing,” she called from the kitchen. “Even the snow plows are having trouble getting through this morning. It’s good you got here when you did.”
“Sure is,” he said more to himself and took a long sip of coffee.
Chas came back with his bacon and eggs and set the plate in front of him. On the plate was also an artistically cut strawberry and a mint leaf. “Thank you,” he said. She smiled and went back toward the kitchen, but he stopped her. “Aren’t you going to eat breakfast?”
“I already did,” she said, looking surprised by the question.
“Then why don’t you sit down and have a cup of coffee with me . . . unless you have something else you have to be doing.” She said nothing. “What?” he asked when she just stood there, looking confused.
“I’ve just . . . never had a guest ask me to eat with them before. It’s a little weird.”
“I figured since you were such a great detective and figured out that I’m apparently starved for company and conversation, you could indulge me a little.”
“Okay,” she drawled, “but first I need your credit card.”
He lifted his brows. “You charge extra for conversation?”
“No,” she laughed, “but I do need to swipe it for the room you’ve rented.”
“Of course,” he said and took his wallet out of his jeans pocket.
“Everything is included in the price I told you over the phone. There’re some snacks and sandwiches in the little fridge right there.” She pointed to it. “You’re welcome to anything there, anytime. If you want dinner, that’s extra.”
“I thought this was a bed-and-breakfast.”
“And I thought you were here for peace and quiet. Were you planning to go exploring the town with that much snow on the ground? I fix supper every night for me and Granny. Fixing for one more is not a big deal, as long as I know ahead. And then I’ll add it to your bill.” She smiled. “But I’m a great cook and reasonably priced.”
“How far ahead do you need to know?”
“Breakfast time for that particular evening. That would be now.”
“I’ll be here for supper.”
“Very good,” she said and left the room. By the time she came back with the credit card and a paper for him to sign, he had finished eating. He put the card back in his wallet and wondered if she would accept his invitation to join him for a cup of coffee. She did sit down across the little table from him, but it was cocoa in her cup.
“So . . . what can I do for you, Jackson?” she asked, entirely business. “What do you need?”
“What makes you think I need something?”
“You asked me to join you. I run this place. You’re a guest. My first assumption is that you need something.”
“And I already told you I would like some company and conversation.”
“And why is that?”
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
“I’m making conversation. But I’m still wondering why a man who comes here with the firm declaration that he wants peace and quiet, wants to talk.”
“Maybe I just want to listen,” he said. “I like listening to you talk. If you were annoying or got on my nerves then I’d be hiding in my room reading the books I brought with me.”
“So, what would you like me to talk about, Jackson? Although we should probably avoid anything too personal, since . . . this is purely professional. Right?”
“Sounds fair. Tell me more about this place.” He looked around. “I love it. I’ve stayed in a lot of B&B’s, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in one that . . . affected me like this one does.”
“Ooh, that’s very good. Maybe you could let me put that quote on my website. Great endorsement.”
“Fine, as long as it’s anonymous.”
“Oh, that’s right. FBI. Can’t be too careful.” She looked suddenly alarmed. “Hey, you’re not hiding from the mob or something, are you? Because if you’re in danger and you’re here to—”
Jackson stopped her with an abrupt chuckle. “No worries, Chas. I’m not hiding from the mob. There are no bad guys after me.”
“Then what are you running from?” she asked with a lift of her eyebrows as she took a sip of cocoa.
“Nothing personal, remember. You were going to tell me more about this place.”
Chas felt puzzled by this man as she took another sip of cocoa and pondered the course their conversations had taken. He wasn’t really her type, but she couldn’t deny enjoying his company and conversation. Perhaps even more so, she was fascinated by his mysteriousness. She wondered why he was really here, and what kind of life he lived when he wasn’t searching for peace and quiet. She was glad for a slow morning with no other guests, which allowed her the time to indulge in spending some time with him.
She reminded herself that like every other friendly guest who had come here through the years, they always moved on. Sometimes they came back; some were practically regulars to some degree. But they always moved on. They all had their lives beyond the Dickensian Inn. This was just a way station, a temporary reprieve from life. Of course, most of the people who stayed here were couples looking for romantic getaways. A small percentage were business people needing to be in the area for a few days. Guests had only used the weekly rate on a few occasions, and they usually spent long hours away from the inn doing business. On rare occasions, someone came alone just to get away, perhaps following a divorce or a death in the family. But they had never stayed more than a few days, and those people had never been prone to wanting anything but to be left alone.
That’s what Chas had expected from
Mr. Leeds when he’d made his reservation. But she’d never had a guest behave like this before, and she wasn’t sure what to do with him. While she couldn’t deny enjoying his company, she had to stand firm in the understanding that it was temporary. For her to become dependent on his company—even a little bit—would set her up for a letdown when he inevitably moved on. And she just wasn’t up to any more letdowns in life.
Jackson cleared his throat unnaturally in order to bring her out of her thoughts. She offered an apologetic smile for allowing her mind to wander, then took another sip of cocoa.
“You said that your grandmother inherited the house. When was that?”
“Oh, she’s always lived here. Her grandparents built it in 1870—which is the year that Charles Dickens died. That tidbit of information will help you impress Granny when you meet her.”
“Okay,” he said, showing the barest hint of a smile. She realized then that he never really smiled. He just hinted at one, as if humor threatened to crack the stone of his visage. Even when he chuckled, it kind of seemed to slip through without his expression changing much.
“Granny’s grandparents came to America from England with a fair amount of money. Apparently they both came from well-to-do families, but wanted to make a fresh start. So they built this house with the plan to raise a large family here. The Dickens tradition apparently began with them, since they had both lived in London while Dickens was still alive. They had both read his works, had grown to care for each other while discussing their common love of his stories, and there’s a rumor that they actually met the great writer after attending one of his public readings.”
“Amazing,” Jackson said.
“Yes, it is.”
“So, they got married and came to America and built this house.”
“That’s right. Due to medical problems, they were only able to have one daughter who lived. That daughter grew up and married a local banker, and they all lived here together in the house, since it was obviously more than ample. Their daughter also hoped for a large family. But she and her husband also only had one daughter who lived. There were five births of babies that didn’t survive.”
“That’s dreadful. Do you think it was something genetic?”
“Most likely,” Chas said, and Jackson noted for the first time since he’d met her that he’d made her uncomfortable. Her confidence had discreetly crumbled.
He wondered whether to ask about that or change the subject, but the “nothing personal” rule convinced him otherwise. “And the daughter who lived is your grandmother.”
“That’s right,” Chas said with a brightness that completely erased her previous glimpse into something painful. “Granny married young, a fine man named Walter. They started dating because she totally hooked him with the fact that Walter was a great character in a Dickens novel.”
“Of course,” Jackson said, that minuscule smile appearing again.
“Fanny and Walter had much the same experience. They had one daughter who lived, and three babies who did not.”
“So, it is something genetic?” Jackson asked, wanting to go back to the subject without getting personal.
He expected her to answer the question cryptically and once again show vague discomfort. Instead she looked at him with a hardness in her eyes that he never would have expected from the woman he’d gotten to know so far. “You’re very sharp, Mr. Leeds,” she said. Her terse formality apparently came with her mood. “That is what the doctor told me when my baby died. She lived less than forty-eight hours. Heart defect. The pattern in the family was apparently fascinating to one of our local doctors who had a friend who worked in the field of genetics in some big city. He came and talked with me and Granny. Apparently, with what she could remember about her own babies and her siblings, and the autopsy they did on my baby, that’s the conclusion they came to.”
Jackson allowed silence to settle the words around them. He heard her blow out a long, slow breath just before he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up something difficult—and personal.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know. Now you do.”
“But obviously you are very healthy. And so is your grandmother.”
“Obviously. It’s just hit-and-miss, apparently. My mother lived to adulthood, but she never had a strong heart. She died giving birth to me. That’s why Granny raised me. It’s just been the two of us for a very long time. Walter died before I came along. Granny worked at a bakery nearby for many years. Since the house was free and clear, it was plenty for us to manage on, and we’ve had a good life.” She chuckled tensely. “Which brings us back to the history of the house, and—”
“The history of the house and the history of the family are closely intertwined, are they not?”
“Yes, but . . . I’ve given many guests the history of the house without ever bringing that into the conversation.” She pointed a finger at him. “It’s because you’re an FBI agent, isn’t it. You’re trained at getting information out of people.”
“I can’t deny the training—or the practice. But my intentions were entirely sincere, I can assure you.”
“Sincere, how?” she countered.
Jackson leaned his forearms on the little table. “I’m genuinely interested, Chas. I’m not trying to prove that you’re guilty of a crime. There is a difference.”
Chas smiled and tipped her head. “Fair enough.”
“You aren’t guilty of a crime, are you?” he asked facetiously to lighten the mood.
Completely straight-faced, she answered, “Nothing for you to be concerned about; it wouldn’t fall under federal jurisdiction.” For a long moment he really thought she was serious. Then he had to laugh—at himself—to see how thoroughly and naturally she could beat him at his own game. She smiled. “Crime is against my religion, Jackson Tobias Leeds. And if nothing else, I am a woman who lives my religion.”
He noted that she used his full name in a tender voice when she was sincere; moods of sincerity could be variable. “And what religion is that?” he asked.
“I thought we were talking about the house.”
“The house,” he said and leaned back, motioning with his hand.
“I was raised in this house, and loved every nook and cranny.”
“Have you ever lived anywhere else?”
“You keep asking personal questions, Agent Leeds,” she said. Apparently her use of his professional title was meant to put him in his place.
“Sorry,” he said. But he wasn’t. Especially when she answered it.
“I lived away from here for a little over a year after I was married. I left at eighteen and was back before I turned twenty.” He hoped for more explanation, but she avoided anything more that was personal and gracefully went back to the house. “At that point Granny was still working at the bakery and doing okay, but she was starting to show some signs of health problems due to aging, and I knew she couldn’t do it forever. I also had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.”
Jackson suspected that the death of her baby had probably occurred in there somewhere, and he would guess that her leaving here had had something to do with becoming Mrs. Henrie, and since she now loathed being called Mrs. Henrie, he guessed there had been a divorce.
“The obvious answer was in the house. It was free and clear. Neither Granny nor I had any debt. So, we mortgaged the house to provide the funds for renovation. The project took a couple of years, and here we are. For a while Granny helped with the cooking, but gradually she just couldn’t do it. My friend Charlotte used to work at the same bakery as Granny; that’s how we became friends. She now bakes at home in order to be with her kids; she’s a single mom. And she provides all the baked goods we use here.”
“You like it here, then,” he said. “You like your work.”
“I love it!” she said with even more enthusiasm than he’d expected. “I am grounded to this house. I can get away when I need to, but this is my home port. It’s a part of me; I’m
a part of it. This house is generations of my family. I can’t even imagine living anywhere else. And I do love the work. It’s perfect for me. I like taking care of people, helping them get some good R & R. I can afford to hire enough help that it makes my workload pretty light. I have a good life.”
Jackson glanced around, as if his surroundings represented the life she spoke of. “I can see that,” he said, then looked at her again. “But it’s just you and Granny?”
A flash of anger came into her eyes so quickly that he was afraid she’d get up and leave, but she only said, “Now you’re getting way too personal, Agent Leeds.”
Neatly put in his place, he nodded and said, “Forgive me. I’ll try to be less personal . . . Mrs. Henrie.” He wanted to add a snide “touché,” but he could tell by her eyes that she’d already gotten it. Then they were saved by the bell.
The ringing of a phone startled Chas, then she realized it was on Jackson’s belt.
“Sorry,” he said and stood up as he pulled off the phone, glanced at it, and answered, “Agent Leeds here.” He moved into the hallway, but certainly not far enough away to be out of earshot. Apparently he didn’t care if she overheard. Discreetly listening was a great distraction from the gamut of emotions she’d just gone through during their little chat.
“What do you need?” Jackson said into the phone in a voice that made it evident he likely held some position of significance; he was accustomed to giving orders. “Or did you just call to shoot the breeze?” Long pause to listen. “No, I do know you better than that.” Another pause. “No, I’m not all right. Did you expect me to be?” Short pause. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.” Very long pause, then his voice became gentler, more concerned. “How are Mary and the kids?” Long pause with occasional grunting noises to indicate that he was listening. “I’d ask you to give them my love, but I don’t think it would go over very well.” More silence. “No, I’m not going to tell you where I am, and if you trace my credit card or the GPS on my phone, I’ll have you fired.” Forced chuckle. “I still have enough clout to get you fired, so mind your manners. Thanks for calling.” Silence. “No, I don’t know when I’ll be back. Maybe I won’t come back.” He hung up the phone without saying good-bye.
The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel Page 3
