Inn at Last Chance

by Hope Ramsay

  He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Zeph, I’ve told you a million times not to call me ma’am. It makes me feel old. And maybe just a bit uppity if you want to know the truth. Now you come inside and you call me by name.”

  He shook his head, but the next thing he knew, Nita had grabbed him by the arm and was hauling him over her threshold. He was a weak man when it came to Nita. He should have resisted, but he didn’t. He ended up on the wrong side of her door.

  And then he made it worse by following her down a long hall into her kitchen and sitting down at a little table covered with a red-and-white-checked cloth. There was a plate of cookies right in the middle of that table, and another batch cooling on a rack on the counter. A radio somewhere was tuned to a soul station, and Ray Charles was singing about Georgia. The room was so warm he had to take off his coat.

  Nita put a cup of coffee in front of him. “Now help yourself to a cookie.”

  She sat in the facing chair just as her cat, Jasmine, materialized from out of nowhere, floated right up into his lap, and settled there like she was a long-lost friend.

  Which she was. He’d given Nita this cat last spring, and Nita was obviously doing a good job feeding her. Jasmine was a little bit fat.

  “So how have you been?” Nita asked. “I saw the work you did on the lobby of The Kismet. Honestly, I don’t think anyone in town, except maybe Dash Randall, had any idea you were such a gifted carpenter.”

  “Thank you, ma’—uh, Nita.”

  She gave him one of her wide, toothy smiles. Oh, man, she’d always had a smile as big as all of creation. When Nita smiled, it was like God singing.

  He caught his breath and spoke again. “Uh, I know you’re about to lose your job, and I think that’s just terrible. But I’m asking you please to give up on this idea of using Gabe to help raise money for the library. Gabe needs to leave town as soon as possible.”

  Nita didn’t react the way he had expected her to. He’d figured she would argue with him. But instead, she stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, her gaze kind of pinning him to his chair. He’d never had a feeling that someone was looking right through him until right this moment.

  Then she gathered herself up and spoke in her always soft voice. “Zeph, honey, a while ago I heard something from Molly Wolfe—something her husband told her—about the day Luke Raintree died. And I have a feeling your request has something to do with that, doesn’t it?”

  “What did you hear?” His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it inside his skull.

  “I heard that it wasn’t you holding the gun when it went off and killed Luke.”

  He stopped stroking the cat and put both his hands palms-down on the tablecloth. Then he stopped moving entirely, except for his racing heart. Lord have mercy, he wished his heart would stop. Because he’d dedicated twenty-five years to keeping Gabe’s secret. And it wasn’t easy to hear that his secret was known to someone other than himself, Gabe, and Simon Wolfe, Molly’s husband. The three of them were the only people who knew the truth.

  But he should have figured, now that Simon had returned to Last Chance, that he would tell his wife what had happened. Molly Wolfe wasn’t what anyone would call a gossip, but obviously she’d said something to Nita, so now Zeph didn’t know who in town knew the truth and who didn’t.

  Nita leaned forward and covered his hand with her own. The touch made everything inside him get all jumbled up together. He’d been thinking about holding Nita’s hand since he was a boy of fifteen. It sure had taken a long time for it to happen. And he’d never thought that it would happen like this. He gazed down at her long, manicured fingers as they draped themselves over his own dark, hard, callused ones.

  “Zeph. I haven’t told a soul. And I don’t think Molly or Simon has told anyone, either. It’s not the kind of gossip the Wolfes would want spread around. And to tell you the truth, when I found out, I said to myself, Well, isn’t that just like Zeph Gibbs, taking the blame to protect a ten-year-old boy. And here you are, trying to protect him again, even though he’s thirty-five now. Honey, Gabe Raintree can take care of himself.”

  “But you don’t understand. I made that decision because his grandfather was a hard, hard man who didn’t like Gabe very much to begin with. If he’d known the truth, well, I don’t know what would have become of Gabe.”

  “But, honey, George Raintree died a long time ago.”

  “I know that. But see, Gabe doesn’t remember what happened.” Zeph looked up into Nita’s soft brown eyes. “I ran into him the night of the ice storm, and it was clear that he believes the lie I told all those years ago.”

  Her face softened. “Then there’s no reason to worry. Let him believe the lie. And if you want, I’ll have a word with Molly about it. I’ll bet Simon would just as soon drop the matter. It’s time to move on, Zeph. Luke died twenty-five years ago.”

  Everything Nita Wills said made perfect sense, except for one thing. She didn’t know about the ghost. And the ghost sure as shooting wasn’t at all interested in letting Gabe get away scot-free. In fact, the ghost had gotten real interested in haunting Gabe, only Gabe had no idea he was being haunted.

  What would Nita think if he told her the truth? She’d think he was crazy. Just like most everyone in town.

  She wasn’t going to help him. There wasn’t any reason to stay here, even though it would be so easy to drink the coffee and eat a cookie and listen to Ray Charles on the radio.

  But he didn’t belong here. He never would.

  He stood up. “Miz Nita, thank you for listening and telling me what you know. I surely do wish you would give up trying to use Gabe to save the library. It’s the only reason Miz Jenny gave him a room out at The Jonquil House. If you decided not to use him, Miz Jenny would evict him, which is what she wants to do. Lord have mercy, those two don’t get along. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be going.”

  He picked up his coat and headed for the door lickety-split, before the grace shining in Nita’s eyes sucked him in. Before he ate one bite of the heavenly manna she was offering in the form of coffee and cookies.

  He needed to keep his head straight. Gabe’s life might depend on it.

  “Oh, my goodness, Reverend Lake is headed this way,” Sabina said in a breathless, goofy voice that reminded Jenny of the legions of silly teenagers she’d spent most of her adult life teaching.

  She glowered at her friend. “Stop being ridiculous. He’s just a man.”

  “But he’s a gorgeous man.”

  Jenny had to agree. If Timothy Lake were a statue, he would rival Michelangelo’s David. He had to be six foot two or taller with a runner’s body and a face like a Greek god—quite literally. He had a sensuous mouth, a long, straight, aquiline nose, and a square chin with a prominent cleft. His piercing blue eyes pinned her right where she stood. He needed a haircut, but it didn’t matter. His tousled locks could only be described as golden, and they fell over his forehead just so. They absolutely gave him the appearance of having a halo.

  Beside her, Sabina let go of a deep, yearning sigh while Jenny sipped her coffee, completely unimpressed by the pastor’s good looks. She needed the coffee bad. She hadn’t slept well last night. Her conversation with Mr. Raintree yesterday had unsettled her. She didn’t fully believe him, but she had to admit that Zeph Gibbs gave her a little case of the heebie-jeebies.

  She had decided not to call the sheriff. After all, she had no real evidence that Zeph was guilty of anything except eccentricity. But she had made an appointment with the locksmith to have all the locks changed, just to be safe.

  Jenny watched the preacher advance. He was carrying a paper plate with a half-eaten muffin on it. No doubt he planned to praise her baking skills. He appeared to be enjoying the muffin; there was a crumb at the corner of his mouth.

  “Now, just be nice, Jenny,” Sabina said. “Let him do the talking. You were kind of abrupt to him at the end of the services.”


  She had been abrupt. She’d shaken his hand, welcomed him to the congregation, and beat a hasty retreat down to the basement to help the altar guild set up the after-service refreshments. She hadn’t even introduced herself.

  And if she could remain anonymous, she would. Her plan was to spend as little time in his company as possible so as to discourage the gossip and speculation that had run through Last Chance like a wildfire in just twenty-four hours. After the sewing circle left The Jonquil House last evening, it took exactly twenty minutes before her phone started ringing.

  She didn’t have the heart to tell her friends and neighbors that she’d entered the post-husband-envy phase of her life. They meant well. But if she could have one wish, it would be that Elsie and Sabina would be more like Wilma. Wilma was the only one who seemed to understand that some people were beyond romance. And it was all right for them to be that way.

  The minister stopped in front of her and held out his hand, which was almost as beautiful as his face. She found herself comparing that pretty, manicured hand to Mr. Raintree’s much rougher and less well-kept hands. It struck her, then, that Mr. Raintree and Reverend Lake couldn’t be less alike if they tried.

  “Elsie told me you’re the person who made the muffins. I’m blown away. This may be the best muffin I’ve ever tasted.”

  Of course his compliment made her face flame. Of course he noticed. And like day follows night, he smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “I’m Tim,” he said, holding out his hand for her to shake.

  Beside her Sabina sighed.

  Jenny took his hand, intending to give him a quick, business-like shake, but he held on to her. And his palms were dry, and warm, and perfect, and scary as hell. Men like Reverend Lake were so far out of Jenny’s league as to be another species entirely. She had no idea what to say to him. And really, she didn’t want to talk to him at all. She would be happy to scurry back into the kitchen and make another pot of coffee.

  “I’m Jenny,” she managed to say.

  And then Sabina took over. Because Sabina knew how shy Jenny could be when confronted by situations like this. “Jenny is about to open a bed-and-breakfast out on Bluff Road,” she said. “And don’t you believe what any of the Episcopalians say about Savannah Randall—Jenny is the best cook in Allenberg County. She always wins the blue ribbon for her peach pie. And we’ve been enjoying Jenny’s muffins for years here.” This was where Sabina leaned in and said in a near whisper, “And she’s been known to cook supper for bachelor ministers.”

  Maybe if Jenny were lucky, the earth would swallow her up right now, just the way Reverend Lake had suggested that hell swallows sinners in his sermon. Come to think about it, in addition to being boring as sin, the preacher’s sermon was a tiny bit heavy on the hellfire and damnation to suit Jenny.

  Timothy Lake smiled, but somehow his smile didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. “I’ll look forward to an invitation,” he said. His voice was as deep and resonant as Grant Trumbull’s, the announcer for the local FM radio station. But it made sense for him to have a strong voice. He was a preacher. All preachers had deep, resonant voices.

  “Why don’t you invite him out to The Jonquil House next week?” Sabina said. “I mean, you’ll have dining room furniture by tomorrow night, and I know how you’re looking forward to using that new stove.” Sabina was on a roll now. Once she started talking, it was pretty hard to shut her up. She turned toward the minister. “You have to see what she’s done with that old house. I mean it’s really beautiful. She has a gift for decorating and cooking. Lord knows, she’s also got a good eye for antiques.”

  “Uh, well,” Jenny stammered, “I’m sure that Reverend Lake has other social engagements next week. I—”

  “I’d love to come see the inn. I’ve heard a lot about it, and you. I’m trying to get to know everyone in the congregation. So dinner next week could be very nice.”

  “Oh.” She ran out of words.

  “How about Wednesday?”

  “Uh, Wednesday?”

  “Is that a good day? Will you have furniture by then?”

  “Uh, yeah, the furniture is being delivered tomorrow.”

  “Wednesday, then.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  And with that, the minister smiled and turned and headed off to have a conversation with Bernadette Oscar, who organized the Sunday School and all of the church’s youth programs.

  Meanwhile Sabina let out a little squeal that Jenny was sure the minister heard. “Oh, I’m so happy. Honey, he’s going to be perfect for you. And you just need to relax because, really, if Miriam Randall says that Pastor Tim is the one for you, then he’s the one for you.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Monday was a busy day. The service providers who had bailed on Jenny the previous week showed up all at once. So by eleven in the morning, six burly movers were hauling pieces of furniture into various rooms, an equal number of landscapers were running trimmers and chain saws in the front and back yards, her electrician was poking around in the heating system seeing if he could figure out why the baseboard heating was so finicky in the back bedroom, and the locksmith was changing the locks on all the doors.

  Jenny had finished wallpapering all of the upstairs bedrooms. The curtains had been sewn and hung, and now she hovered in the hallway, watching the movers haul the big bedroom pieces into place.

  There were two bedroom suits. Mother had bought one of them when she set up housekeeping as a young bride. The other had once belonged to Grandma Nelson, who had bequeathed it upon her death about fifteen years ago. Both bedroom sets were made of walnut and came with marble-topped vanities. The larger suit had a four-poster bed, a beautiful mirror with a Gothic arch, and a lot of racetrack molding. The smaller bed came with a matching chifferobe, which was handy because the middle bedroom didn’t have a real closet.

  The furniture was dusty from its long sojourn in storage, but the moment the men finished putting together the bed frames, Jenny knew that guests were going to be blown away by the Iris and the Rose Rooms. The reproduction furniture for the Daisy Room was on order and would arrive whenever it arrived. Jenny had given up trying to get a hard answer from the company she’d purchased it from. She fervently prayed it would be here before March first.

  Jenny was equally pleased by the transformation of her dining room. Mother’s walnut dining room set with its claw-and-ball footings and the matching china cabinet brought the room to life. The honey-colored wood contrasted with the magnolia-blossom wallpaper she’d chosen for the area above the chair rail. And the moss green damask-rose upholstery on the chairs matched the wallpaper’s background perfectly, even though Jenny had selected the wallpaper with just the memory of the upholstery to go by. The chair backs and cushions were in remarkably good shape, and since they matched, she concluded that she could put off reupholstering them for a couple of years.

  Once the furniture men left, she spent the rest of her day with a rag and furniture polish. By sunset, the house smelled pleasantly of lemon and beeswax. She was finishing the dining room table, her mind completely occupied by the prospect of serving breakfasts and the occasional dinner to guests in this beautiful room, when Mr. Raintree burst her bubble.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  She looked up to find him leaning in the doorway to the kitchen. He appeared as disheveled as ever in a black T-shirt, jeans, biker boots, and walking cast. She wondered if he had shaved even once since he’d arrived in town. He looked completely badass.

  She blushed at the thought. And then wondered if the flush was because she’d never, ever say the word “ass” in public, or whether she was titillated by the idea that Mr. Raintree was, in fact, the original bad boy, with a bad-boy attitude to go with his bad-boy looks. And starting tomorrow, the two of them would be sharing the house.

  She faced him and squared her shoulders. “It’s a table,” she said slowly.

  His stare never wavered. “I know it’s a table, but it
’s an ugly table.” He cast his gaze over the magnolia wallpaper. “Flowers? Really? The house looks like it was decorated by a seventy-year-old spinster.”

  The comment hit perilously close to the mark. It hurt, especially since she was beginning to find the man lounging in her door frame just the tiniest bit attractive. And it shouldn’t have hurt. Hadn’t she decided to embrace her spinsterhood?

  She tore her gaze away and started babbling. “The house is called The Jonquil House and so I decided to dedicate each room to a specific flower. This room, as you can see, is dedicated to magnolias. Upstairs you’ll find the Rose, Iris, and Daisy Rooms. The Rose and Iris Rooms are now furnished, not quite completely but good enough for you to move into one of them, which I’d like you to do as—”

  “You want me to sleep in a room called the Rose Room?” The indignation in his voice sounded like an alarm bell.

  “You’ll be more comfortable upstairs. The beds are bigger. And besides, the upper floors are warmer. The Iris Room has a fireplace, too.”

  “You mean Granddad’s room.”

  “It’s the Iris Room now.”

  “Well, you can call it what you want, but the room with the fireplace belonged to Grandma and Granddad. And they sure didn’t have any flowered wallpaper. When I was growing up, this house was a hunting lodge. We hung fishing rods and hunting trophies on the wall for decoration. We had comfortable furniture.” He turned around and strode off in the direction of the foyer and the stairs, no doubt looking for more outrages. Goodness gracious, Mr. Raintree was moody. One minute he was smiling, and the next he was as grumpy as a bear coming out of hibernation.

  In the last few days, she’d gotten a little better at reading his moods. If he came out and limped around the house, it was because the writing wasn’t going well. If he stayed in his room with the door closed, it was because he was making progress.

  But there were times when he would emerge from his room and go into the yard to play with the dog. Somehow, when he was interacting with the dog, he seemed more relaxed. More himself.