Inn at Last Chance

by Hope Ramsay

  And now the dog was heading her way, because the ghost wanted to give Miz Jenny a dog. If she had a big dog like that, she’d need to stay out here. A big dog like that wouldn’t be happy in some small house in town.

  The ghost made all the decisions when it came to strays. But this wasn’t right. Zeph didn’t want Miz Jenny to be haunted, any more than he wanted Gabe poking around, remembering things that were best forgotten.

  He needed to stop this disaster before it happened.

  But how? He had to do his penance. The ghost reminded him of that every waking day. And how in the heck was he supposed to get Miz Jenny to give up her house, or Mr. Gabe to leave town?

  The dawn was just breaking when Zeph and the dog reached their destination. The dog scooted into a thick clump of rhododendrons planted at the corner of the house and went to ground, like that big black critter knew exactly what was expected of him.

  The ghost was behind Zeph now, even though he couldn’t see it. He wasn’t surprised. He was bound to the ghost by a lie.

  Zeph was supposed to stay here to see that the dog was delivered to Miz Jenny. The dog was exactly what Miz Jenny wanted. Hadn’t she told just about everyone in town that she was going to get herself a big dog just as soon as she moved into the inn. And tonight was the first night she’d spent out at the house.

  And now, if she got a dog, she’d be putting down roots real strong.

  He wanted to run up those porch steps and warn her, pure and simple, but if he did that, they’d be coming to get him and put him in some VA hospital in the crazy ward. People gave lip service to their belief in ghosts. But he knew darn well that folks would be looking at him sideways if he started telling the truth.

  Gabe startled awake with a strangled cry. He opened his eyes onto the dingy yellow wallpaper in his motel room. It took a moment to get his bearings and remember where he was. Sweat trickled down his face. His damp sheets were twisted around his torso.

  He sat up, trying to catch the fading threads of the dream that had so disturbed him. There had been a dog. He’d been walking through the woods feeling happy and complete. And then the dream morphed into the familiar nightmare that always ended with him standing in a clearing with a gun in his hand.

  He pushed away the unpleasant part and focused on the dog. It took a moment before he remembered. The dog was Bear, Luke’s old dog.

  Christ. Gabe hadn’t thought about Bear in decades. The dog had disappeared from his life along with his older brother. What had happened to Bear?

  The question seemed urgent. Had the poor dog died in the accident, too? Or had he merely been abandoned?

  The dog occupied Gabe’s thoughts as he showered, dressed, and took his daily meds. By the time he left his motel room, the sun was coming up, and the temperature was rising enough for him to attempt a slow stroll into town.

  He walked north on Palmetto Avenue, past Christ Episcopal and the First Methodist Church, up to the old Coca-Cola bottling plant. Twenty-five years ago, he’d watched the bottling process from the front windows. But it looked as if the building hadn’t been used for bottling in quite some time. It was under renovation, with a big sign on its front saying that it was the future home of the Last Chance Artists’ League.

  The restoration of the downtown area seemed to be well under way. He passed a number of shops that seemed to be thriving. He crossed Chancellor Street and headed into the Kountry Kitchen.

  Entering the café was like walking into the past. The place was awash in red vinyl and 1950s chrome. He took a seat at the counter.

  “Hey there, stranger.” A busty waitress in a pink uniform strolled down the counter, bearing a Bunn coffeepot in her hand. “Coffee?”

  He nodded and noted the name monogrammed above her pocket. Flo.

  It was such a stereotype he almost laughed. If he’d put a waitress named Flo into one of his books, his editor would have run him out of town. He smiled as she poured her magic elixir into a heavy white crockery mug.

  “So,” she said, leaning her hip into the counter. “You get stranded by the storm last night?”

  “Yes.” Maybe if he gave her monosyllabic responses she would get tired and leave him alone. He wasn’t the kind of guy who chatted up waitresses.

  He was the kind of guy who liked being alone.

  “Staying at the Peach Blossom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brave. But I reckon you didn’t have much choice. So where you from and where’re you going?”

  He looked up. “Flo, honey, I’d like a couple of eggs sunny-side up and some bacon on the side with wheat toast and some grits. And I’d like that served with a little bit of peace and quiet, if you don’t mind.”

  The waitress’s eyes grew round, but she was smart enough to get the message. She turned away with a small “I declare” muttered under her breath.

  For the next five minutes, he was able to sip his excellent coffee in blessed solitude as he stared out the front windows, watching Last Chance, South Carolina, roll out its morning sidewalks.

  His eggs arrived about the same time that a couple of blue-haired ladies showed up and occupied the booth right behind him. He wanted to tune them out, but their conversation about the new Methodist minister in town was so loud it was impossible not to listen.

  When one of them said, “I think he’d be perfect for Jenny,” his ears pricked. He wanted to know if the Jenny in the conversation was the same tiny woman with the hazel eyes and the big glasses who was now the owner of The Jonquil House.

  For some reason, he disliked the idea of the church ladies trying to match the innkeeper up with someone like a preacher. She didn’t exactly strike him as minister’s wife material. He didn’t know why. She certainly dressed like a preacher’s wife.

  He was reaching for his wallet when one of the ladies behind him raised her voice. “Excuse me, young man, but aren’t you Gabriel Raintree?”

  Christ. Was there no place to hide anonymously?

  He swiveled toward the ladies. The woman who had spoken had cottony white hair plaited into a couple of crown braids. Her glasses fit right in with the 1950s motif of the café. They tilted up at the corners and were festooned with rhinestones.

  She was wearing a purple pantsuit.

  “You are Gabe Raintree, aren’t you?” she said. “I remember you from when you were just a little boy. I remember your granddaddy, too. I heard he passed a few years ago.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said putting on his Charleston good manners. There were folks all over the state who remembered Governor George Raintree. Which should have been enough for the old man. But no, Granddad had wanted to build a political dynasty, first with his son, Colin Raintree, Gabe’s father. And then, when Mom and Dad died in a boating accident, Granddad had put all of his dynastic eggs into Luke’s basket. Death had robbed Granddad of his beloved son and grandson, and he’d taken his bitterness out on Gabe, who had never really measured up.

  The little old lady studied Gabe through her trifocals. “I can’t say as I ever voted for your granddaddy. But you look a lot like him.”

  “I do?” No one had ever said that to him. Not ever. Granddad had been a strikingly handsome man. Everyone said so. Gabe wasn’t handsome to start with, and he’d broken his nose three times during his college wrestling career, which hadn’t helped one bit.

  The old lady snorted a goofy-sounding laugh. “You’re the spitting image of him. So what brings you back?”

  “Excuse me, but do I know you?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m Miriam Randall. I’ve lived in this town my whole life.”

  “Oh. You’re the lady who sometimes takes in boarders, aren’t you?”

  “I used to, but I’m out of the boardinghouse business. My nephew has my house all torn up with renovations. Why do you ask? Are you looking for a place to stay?”

  “I spent last night at the Peach Blossom Motor Court.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I had been hoping to stay at
The Jonquil House.”

  The little old lady flashed her dentures at him. “I’m sure you know the way. When you get out there, you tell Jenny hey for me. Tell her I’ll be out one of these days to see what she’s done with the old place. I’ve heard she’s brought it back from the grave.”

  A cold shiver touched Gabe’s spine. The Raintrees had been responsible for letting the house go to ruin. He didn’t like feeling responsible for that.

  “Miss Carpenter told me yesterday that the inn won’t be open until March,” he said.

  “Oh, I’ll bet you could sweet-talk Jenny into giving you a room. That girl has a big heart inside of her, but she rarely gets to use it.”

  “Actually I was thinking about trying to buy the house back from her.”

  The half smile on the old lady’s face faded. “Son, you take my advice. Don’t you ask Jenny to sell that place. It’s her pride and joy. I reckon it’s kind of sad that a woman like Jenny has to love a house, but then she’s given it a chance, despite its creepy reputation and disreputable condition. And you have to love a woman who sees the worth in something that everyone else says is better off left alone.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  Jenny was up at dawn and drawn to the window in the living room. A pale version of the sun, partially obscured by high cirrus clouds, sparked on ice-caked branches.

  The power was still off, and the house was cold. She needed to build another fire, but first she needed to deal with the window she’d left open. She headed off to the back bedroom, only to discover the window closed and locked—precisely the way it had been last night before she drifted off to sleep.

  Had the open window been part of a dream? It had seemed so real last night, and yet there could be no other logical explanation.

  She had dreamed the whole thing, probably because she’d fallen asleep reading that creepy story written by Shirley Jackson. Jenny crossed the room and picked up the offending book from the bed where she’d left it. Jenny was thinking the unthinkable—she might stop reading The Haunting of Hill House.

  Wouldn’t the book club be surprised? She’d been the only one who’d actually read all thousand pages of Atlas Shrugged. The Haunting of Hill House wasn’t much more than a novella, but she didn’t want to finish it.

  Shivers racked her body, but whether they were from the scary scenes in the book or the bitter cold seeping into her house, she couldn’t say. Thank goodness her new stove ran on gas. She put a kettle on for tea, then bundled into her puffy winter coat and headed out to the woodpile behind the house for some more firewood.

  The backyard was ringed by densely overgrown woods. In the spring, it would come alive with a carpet of daffodils, and then later the wild azaleas and dogwoods would bloom. A small corner of the yard was thick with blackberries, and come autumn she’d pick them and bake them into pies for her guests. She loved this backyard, even now, when all was withered, brown, solitary, and iced over as if God, the ultimate baker, had given the world a sugar glaze.

  She hadn’t taken more than four mincing steps over the frozen ground before a rude noise broke the serenity. A car came up the gravel driveway around in front, its engine growling like some beast in the cold quiet, its tires crunching on the ice.

  She turned and made her way back to the wraparound porch and the front of the house. She hoped the vehicle in her drive was her furniture delivery or the landscapers, but she knew it was neither. No one but a fool or a power company worker would be out on an icy morning like this.

  All at once the cold morning chill invaded, finding its way through her winter coat, wool sweater, and cotton turtleneck right down to her flesh and bones. Her neck hairs prickled in a way that had little to do with the cold.

  A big, black Lexus had just pulled into her parking lot, but before she could ascertain who this unfamiliar car belonged to, the rhododendrons along the front of the house rustled and out glided a great big dog, as black as the car. Jenny had never seen a dog quite like this one, with long hair and a huge head that made it look almost like a miniature lion.

  Its ribs were clearly visible, and she knew right then that this dog was hers to take care of. It was the strongest sensation. A feeling of connection and even love that warmed her from the middle out.

  She had dreamed of this dog last night. And here he was like a gift from the heavens, ready-made to love and to feed. And feeding people was, more or less, her calling in life. Not that a dog was a person, exactly, but this dog needed feeding in the worst way.

  She forgot all about the strange car and hurried to her porch steps. “Here boy,” she called to the dog. “Come on, don’t be scared. I’ll take care of you.”

  The dog took two or three steps in her direction, his big brown eyes looking sad and lonely. She connected with his expression. And she felt something deep down give way. Here was a friend for life.

  But everything changed an instant later when the driver of the Lexus emerged. It was the same guy who’d darkened her door yesterday claiming to be Gabriel Raintree and demanding a room. He looked about as shaggy as the dog, with uncombed hair, unshaved chin, and attitude radiating from his piercing black eyes.

  The pricey Lexus seemed a bit out of character somehow. She’d expected him to have a black-and-chrome Harley stashed someplace. But then it was an icy morning, and this must be his alternative form of transportation.

  The dog looked over his shoulder and then stopped in his tracks. He turned and then shot forward, barking as if he knew he was supposed to be a watchdog, or perhaps he was just auditioning for the post.

  In any case, the dog was effective. The man backed up a step and then promptly lost his footing on the ice.

  Down he went with a curse. The dog came to stand directly over him, barking until the frozen swamp echoed with the noise.

  Uh-oh. Visions of personal injury lawsuits danced in Jenny’s head. Maybe taking in a stray was a bad idea. The guy had been kind of unpleasant yesterday, but she didn’t want to see anyone hurt.

  She carefully moved down the porch steps. “Here boy,” she said in a calm voice.

  The dog turned his back on the prostrate man and bounded up to her. She flinched, even though she knew somewhere in her mind that showing fear was absolutely the wrong thing to do. This stray was large with a capital L, and he’d already knocked one person down. Obviously he was going to need the full dog obedience course once she fattened him up so his ribs weren’t so prominent.

  The dog continued barking, but his big brown eyes didn’t look crazy or feral or anything like that. “It’s okay,” she said in a soothing voice. “You’re going to be okay now. You’re home.” The dog finally sat down, and she gave him a tentative pat on his lion-like head.

  The dog whimpered a little. As if he wasn’t entirely sure she was going to be kind. Jenny’s heart melted a little more. The poor guy had clearly been mistreated by someone. And obviously half starved.

  While she was soothing the dog, she asked the man, “Are you okay?”

  He didn’t answer right away because he was too busy swearing.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” she said in her best innkeeper voice. The man rose to his knees and then to his feet. He tested his weight on his left foot and let forth a manly grunt of pain. He limped over to the porch step and sat down.

  “You’re hurt?” Jenny asked.

  “You need to keep that animal in check.”

  The man stared daggers at the dog. After a moment, the dog lowered himself and made a little whining noise while looking up at the guy. Jenny didn’t know what to think about this. Obviously the dog had passive-aggressive tendencies.

  “Don’t you feed him? He looks half starved,” the man said.

  Jenny decided not to rise to the accusation in his voice. “Why are you here?” she asked calmly. “I told you yesterday that the inn isn’t open for business.”

  “I’m here to make you an offer on the house.”

  “What?”
/>   He reached down and rubbed his ankle. “Ow!”

  “You need to get some ice on that.”

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “Are you really Gabriel Raintree?”

  He cocked his head and looked up at her. “Of course I am. Do you want to see my ID?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She folded her arms across her chest, which was kind of hard to do because her winter coat was big and puffy. But she felt like she needed the whole arm-folding thing. She needed to look serious and in charge. Because this guy looked like the kind who would seize control of any situation if given half a chance.

  One of his black eyebrows arched, and his lips pressed into a grim line. But he also reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it up to his driver’s license. He held the wallet out to her.

  She minced her way across the frozen ground, the dog following her movements with a wary eye. She plucked the wallet from the man’s outstretched hand.

  He was, indeed, Gabriel Raintree.

  She handed the wallet back. He managed a somewhat ironic smile and said, “Have trust issues, do you?”

  She didn’t dignify his comment with a response. “Why are you here?”

  “To buy back the house.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Of course it is. We just need to negotiate a price. Everything is for sale… Jennifer?”

  “I’m Jenny Carpenter. And I’m cold. Come on inside. I’ll get some ice for your ankle and call Doc Cooper for you.”

  Gabe sat on the porch step eyeing the dog. There was no question about it, he’d had a dream about this dog last night. It looked like a purebred mastiff, exactly like Bear, only starved to death.

  He glanced up at the woman. She didn’t look like the kind of person who would abuse a dog, but Gabe had learned that the world was full of people who didn’t look like what they truly were.

  All people had the capacity to do monstrous things. He knew this as an undisputed fact of life. It was the bedrock upon which he based every single one of his stories. People sometimes said that he wrote paranormal fiction, but that wasn’t true at all. He never used any paranormal phenomena in his stories. He didn’t need do. His villains were all human beings.