Appreciated? Surely his mother hadn’t given her the impression she was having him drop in for a cup of coffee and a friendly chat. Shifting uncomfortably, he smiled down at the little girl who gazed at him with open interest, then winked at her—and for the first time glimpsed a shy smile.
“Your daughter is quite the salesperson. I came close to buying her entire stock of tickets.”
“I’m not her daughter.” The child shot him an insulted glare.
“Taylor’s my niece.” Lillian reached out to draw the girl to her side, but, as if sensing her intention, Taylor abruptly knelt to inspect a fist-size pinecone on the sidewalk. What he interpreted as hurt momentarily clouded the woman’s lovely eyes. “She’s staying with me for a while.”
Apparently having had enough of adult company, Taylor handed her aunt the envelope, then hopped up on the porch and disappeared inside the building.
But even without the child’s listening ears, he didn’t intend to conduct business where passersby might be privy to his mother’s and the inn manager’s affairs. One young couple had already paused to give his silver Porsche an admiring once-over. He should have driven something less conspicuous, but too late now.
He motioned to the inn. “Perhaps we should step inside?”
“Yes, please come in.” Delivering another smile that ramped his heart rate up a notch, she turned to the inn and tilted her head in invitation for him to follow. “My aunt will want to meet you, and I know you’re tired from the drive and could use some refreshment. I’m grateful Mrs. Gyles sent someone in response to our inquiries.”
Interesting way of putting it. Constant complaints was more like it. Demands for plumbing fixes, gutter and downspout repairs, appliance and flooring replacements. Window treatments, furnishings and other upgrades. His mother, dealing with grueling postaccident physical-therapy challenges, had persuaded him to personally address the situation. No doubt she thought a son who’d spent the last decade directing renovation and management of properties for his stepfather’s boutique hotel enterprise, GylesStyle Inns, could best evaluate the complaints.
She wanted him to determine the level of attention the inn realistically required—superficial only, a moderate renovation or an investment in “the works.” Or, considering the possibility of Miss Everett’s deteriorating health—which he was also asked to report back on—was it best to shut down the inn and be done with it?
Denny was all for the latter.
But as he stepped onto the porch where Lillian Keene awaited him, he couldn’t help but notice that the paint on the white railing and wooden door was chipped and the porch’s floorboards were in need of resealing. Maybe those complaints were legitimate?
He frowned. “Ms. Keene, what—?”
“Lillian, please.” She opened the door and entered the shadowy interior. He followed, noting the welcoming creak of a hardwood floor and the faint scent of furniture oil.
“I’m especially grateful,” she continued, “that Mrs. Gyles is willing to see to the repairs before my aunt’s contract renews. We’ve been concerned as to the inn’s long-term sustainability in its current condition. Thanks in part to your mother’s efforts to draw an artisan dynamic to the town, guest expectations are rising. No criticism intended—tastes do change over time—but who knows when the most recent interior-design decisions were made? Obviously sometime after the structure was built by my great-great-grandfather in 1927, so it’s long overdue for a freshening up in multiple respects. And do you think there’s something your mother can do about those boarded-up buildings next door? Such an eyesore.”
Staring at her, Denny felt a muscle in his stomach tighten. Had his mother forgotten to call ahead as she’d promised? She was supposed to pave the way for his visit.
A quick glance around the entryway and into the spacious front parlor confirmed they were alone, but he lowered his voice.
“Actually, Ms. Keene... Lillian...” His mother had been clear about his marching orders. “I was asked to come here for what, depending on my findings, may result in something else altogether.”
“And what would that be?”
He shouldn’t be discussing his mother’s business with anyone other than Viola Everett, but no doubt the condition of the building, her aunt’s health and subsequent ability to perform her job well were fair topics for this niece who was evidently so involved with the inn.
“I’m here to let your aunt know,” he said as gently as he could, “that depending on my evaluation of the property, her managerial contract may not be renewed. The inn may be closed.”
* * *
Please, God, this can’t be happening.
But it was. And it was her fault.
Heart pounding, Lillian took in Hayden Hunter’s somewhat road-weary sea-blue eyes and dark brown, neatly styled hair. He was solidly built—a navy golf shirt emphasized broad shoulders, and charcoal Dockers showed off slim hips. A scar nicked the corner of his mouth, and the firm jaw was in need of a shave this late in the day. But now she couldn’t believe she’d thought him story-worthy handsome when she’d first spied him talking to Taylor.
With an agenda like his, he was no storybook hero.
“Charlotte is considering closing the Pinewood Inn?” Her words came out more sharply than intended. “Why? Because my aunt spoke up for her own best interests and those of your mother? Tried to persuade her that much-needed upgrades to the property are overdue?”
A flicker of surprise, followed by a slight narrowing of his eyes, confirmed Denny had been taken aback by her heated response. And didn’t like it.
“What is your connection to the inn? Other than that it’s managed by Viola Everett, who happens to be your great-aunt. Are you employed here?”
“No, I’m not an employee. I’m...”
What was she? A Phoenix librarian by profession. Then when her single aunt had faced serious medical obstacles in January with a fall that broke a hip, she’d taken a leave of absence to care for her. After a series of personal setbacks of her own, she’d ended up staying on, assuming the day-to-day management of the inn around part-time library clerk employment. A position that, God willing, might soon open up to a full-time one.
Hunter Ridge not only was her aunt’s lifelong home, but was more conducive to meeting the needs of Lillian’s troubled niece—for however long Taylor remained with her this time. Both great-aunt and niece, however, would have to pack up and go with her to Phoenix if she was unable to support them here. Unfortunately, relating those personal details to Denny Hunter wouldn’t prove her validity to speak on her aunt’s behalf that he was seeking.
“I believe, Ms. Keene—” A faint smile touched his lips. No more Lillian. “—that I should speak directly with your aunt regarding business matters going forward.”
“But I’m—” Don’t go there. Don’t further sink your aunt’s ship by implying she’s no longer capable of running the operation on her own. “My aunt would be entirely comfortable with my participation in conversations regarding her role and the future of the inn.”
He shrugged. “If she’s agreeable, I’ll continue this conversation with both of you.”
“Then I’ll let her know you’re here.” Lillian’s smile evaporated as she headed to the rear of the inn.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
Knowing what she did from Aunt Viola about Charlotte Gyles and her history of animosity toward Hunter Ridge, why had she encouraged her aunt to email her employer with what might be interpreted as demands? In fact, her aunt had balked at emailing the requests, but Lillian had been persistent, naively placing confidence in the fact that Mrs. Gyles—formerly Mrs. Douglas Hunter of Hunter Ridge—held her aunt in high regard. Hadn’t she, in many respects, indulged Aunt Viola in allowing her to manage the inn when she’d retired from her librarian position?
Lillian hadn’t expected a backla
sh.
The kitchen and dining room were empty of both aunt and guests, so she let herself into the two-bedroom apartment she and Taylor currently shared with the inn’s manager.
The little girl was sprawled on a floral love seat, her nose buried in a book, and Lillian’s heart contracted at her resemblance to Lillian’s younger sister, Annalise. Slim build. An upturned nose. Long-lashed green eyes that reflected a wary fragileness not often seen in a child her age.
But was that any surprise?
Her mother, red-eyed and sniffling, had dropped her daughter off on the first day of June, whispering that she needed time to breathe. To live life apart from the never-ending responsibility of child-rearing. She had a new man in her life—of course. And right then and there, she handed off Taylor’s overstuffed suitcase, gave her bewildered daughter a hug and drove away.
Again.
The look Taylor gave Lillian as she entered the apartment and placed the ticket envelope on the table was anything but welcoming. That was a familiar pattern that always followed when the child’s mother put in an unexpected appearance. In a few days, however, Taylor would recover from her mom’s visit Saturday, and all would be well again—or fairly well—between aunt and niece.
Drop off. Visit. Reclaim. Drop off. Visit. Reclaim.
How long would it be before Annalise again tired of the latest man in her life and bounded back into Taylor’s, sweeping her from Lillian’s arms and away from a stable home? Annalise wasn’t a bad person, but she was immature and too often thought solely of herself. Was Lillian morally obligated to try to gain legal custody? Or was she fooling herself that if given the opportunity she could eventually break down the walls her niece had built around her heart, which had her pulling away when anyone got too close.
Shortly after Taylor’s arrival, Lillian had guiltily consulted a lawyer. But he’d warned that with her being a single woman, currently working part-time and in temporary housing with an elderly aunt, she didn’t have much to prove that her situation was superior to her sister’s. And now, if the inn closed, they’d lose the roof over their heads until other arrangements could be made. So things would look worse than ever, should she attempt to take legal action now.
“Is Aunt Viola here, Taylor?”
Focused again on the book, she didn’t look up. “Nap.”
That extreme weariness was one of the reasons Lillian continued to stay on with an aunt who’d always welcomed her for visits when as a child and adolescent Lillian needed an anchor in the storm of her parents’ seminomadic lifestyle. An anchor against which Annalise chose to rebel.
As much as Lillian wanted to continue the discussion with Denny, however, she wouldn’t wake her aunt. She’d be groggy. Not at her best. Not how Lillian wanted Charlotte Gyles’s son to see her. With a regretful glance at Taylor, she stepped back into the hallway and pulled the door shut. Then, mustering what she hoped was a convincing smile, she returned to the front of the inn, where she’d left Mr. Hunter.
In her absence, he’d moved from the entryway into the front parlor and was inspecting the fireplace. Had he checked out the crack in the window? The drapery rod pulling loose from the wall and the water stain on the ceiling? What were his qualifications, anyway, to be “evaluating” the inn?
And judging her aunt.
Unfortunately, the latter was what he was undoubtedly here for as much as anything. To report back to his mother that her aging friend was no longer capable of fulfilling her responsibilities. The condition of the property was a secondary issue.
Sensing her presence, the man turned in her direction with an easy smile, his brows lifted in expectation.
“I’m afraid my aunt’s unable to join us at the moment. If you’d care to wait...?” Please, please don’t let him wait, Lord.
“As a matter of fact—” He glanced at his watch. “I’m joining my father shortly and need to check into my cabin at the Hideaway first. I got to town early and thought I’d stop in to introduce myself. I didn’t plan to inspect the property today.”
Did he expect her to thank him for that? Truth of the matter was that he’d hoped to catch them off guard. Wouldn’t he have otherwise called ahead for an appointment?
“You’ll return tomorrow, then? Say ten a.m.?” She wasn’t working at the library Tuesday, and her aunt would be at her best to meet him in the morning, so she may as well call a few shots here. Control what she could.
“Ten it is.”
He thrust out his hand, and she reluctantly shook it, irritated at the way his larger one engulfed hers and sent a betraying tingle racing up her arm. He’s nice enough to look at, but don’t make the same mistake twice.
For a fleeting moment their gazes locked, questioning, as if seeking to draw out the secrets the other harbored. Then he released her hand and headed out the door.
Intending to follow him onto the porch, she abruptly halted at the threshold, loath to step out on the street where teenager Randy Gray was ogling Denny Hunter’s shiny sports car. Her face heated. Not a single time since she’d left Cameron Gray standing at the altar in June had his younger brother failed to greet her with flapping wings and clucking chicken sounds.
She stepped farther back into the shadowed interior. But too late. The blond fourteen-year-old had glimpsed her and, fists curled under his armpits, he strutted slowly around the back of the car, his head bobbing. The toe of his tennis shoe scratched at the blacktop surface. A cluck. A squawk. Then he threw back his head with a yelping laugh and raced off down the street.
A bewildered-looking Denny glanced back at her.
She held up her hands in a beats-me gesture. “What can I say? Small-town eccentricity. Get used to it.”
Eccentric or not, though, she’d stay inside until certain Cameron’s brother wasn’t circling back. She had to prepare her aunt for what might be coming—and to decide what they were going to do about it if worse came to worst.
Copyright © 2018 by Glynna Kaye Sirpless
ISBN-13: 9781488090424
Anna’s Forgotten Fiancé
Copyright © 2018 by Carrie Lighte
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Anna's Forgotten Fiancé (Amish Country Courtships Book 2) Page 20
