Izzie peeked through the window again. “Hang on, she’s getting out.” The curtain swayed as it fell from her hand. Izzie ran back to stand beside the Seniors at the bottom of the stairs, a perfect welcoming committee. Even Jacob stopped sending angry texts to his ex-girlfriend and moved to lean against the banister next to them. Nate shrugged, and slotted into formation.
Moments later, the front door rattled and creaked open. “Show time,” Nate whispered, and only Jacob gave a snort of laughter. Everyone else was too busy focusing on Carrie Archer as she stepped into reception.
* * * *
The heavy, dark-wood front door, with its stained glass panel showering colored light onto the stone floor of the reception area, felt like another old friend to Carrie. She remembered being too small to even open it on her own; sitting on the step outside waiting for Nancy to come back from the garden to help her, or for a kindly passing guest to let her in. Today, Carrie’s hand hovered above the wood, suddenly reluctant to enter. What if it wasn’t as she remembered? Who was waiting inside?
Carrie sucked in a breath and shoved. The door fell open under her hand, easier than she’d remembered, and she stumbled before finding her feet.
Her favorite tapestry still hung above the reception desk and the sparkling silver threads of the unicorn’s horn caught her eye immediately. Her gaze moved lower. A line of senior citizens spanned the width of the hall, all standing straight backed and staring ahead, like the staff of a 1930s stately home, welcoming their master back from a long trip.
Exactly who had Nancy been hiring lately?
They looked faintly familiar from the funeral, but Carrie knew she’d been too upset that day to really take anything in. Plus, she’d spent most of the day arguing with Dad. Nothing much else had registered. Now she wished she’d paid more attention.
After a long moment of staring at each other, a younger man at the end of the line stepped forward out of the shadows. Even at a six-foot distance, she had to tilt her chin up to take in his cropped brown hair, accentuating a strong jaw. She let her gaze drop enough to linger on the wide, muscled shoulders that looked like he spent his days slinging oxen around, or something equally rural.
“Shall I do the introductions?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Carrie blinked. He wasn’t just gorgeous, he felt...familiar, somehow.
And despite his welcome, he didn’t look too pleased to see her.
Carrie managed a nod, expecting him to start with himself. Instead, he motioned to the elderly gentleman at the front of the line, and Carrie scrambled to pay attention. “This is Stan Baker.” Stan gripped her hand hard enough to burn, and Carrie focused on the light reflecting off the row of military medals pinned to his knitted waistcoat.
“Pleasure, I’m sure,” Stan said, his words clipped and sharp. “I was very fond of your grandmother, girl. I know she’d want you to do right here.”
Carrie smiled and nodded, adding find out what Stan means by ‘do right,’ to her mental to do list, before moving on to the lady with the pillbox hat.
“Mrs. Cybella Charles,” her guide murmured, and the woman in question added, “Widowed, of course. Almost everybody is these days, it seems. But we’re just so excited to have you here with us. Do you play Bridge?”
Carrie blinked at the onslaught of words. She vaguely recalled a New Year’s Eve at the inn, ten or so years ago, when Nancy had tried to teach her over too much whiskey. “Um, badly, I think.”
Mrs. Charles gave a wide, still-toothy smile and clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”
“And I’m Moira Green,” the next lady said, her voice reassuringly gentle.
Carrie smiled, and let her gaze move to the under seventies.
“And here we have your staff.” The man motioned to the last two people, both a good forty years younger than the previous three. Carrie hoped this meant Stan, Cybella and Moira were just well-wishers, rather than a fundamental part of the Avalon Inn. They seemed nice enough, but they didn’t exactly scream new, upcoming, luxury wedding venue.
“I’m Izzie,” said a perky blonde from the foot of the stairs. “I do, you know, reception. And the rooms. And stuff.”
“That’s...good to know,” Carrie said.
“And this is Jacob,” Izzie went on, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she indicated the other guy, who was apparently surgically attached to his mobile phone.
“And Jacob is...?”
“Your chef,” Jacob said, shoving his phone into his pocket, where it proceeded to beep out a staccato rhythm.
Carrie turned her attention to the one person she hadn’t been introduced to yet. He smiled, not entirely warmly, and said, “And I’m Nathanial Green. Nate.”
Carrie blinked. “You, I’ve heard of,” she said, reaching out a hand. Last Christmas, she remembered. Nancy had been dragged away from her inn at the behest of her son, Carrie’s father, to join them for a family Christmas at their home in Hertfordshire, during which both her parents had put considerable efforts into persuading Nancy to give up the inn and grow older with a little more grace. Nancy, Carrie recalled, had spent much of the time on the phone to somebody called Nate. Carrie’s mum had joked about her new boyfriend, which had thrown her dad into a mood, and everyone had gone to bed grumpy. Just like most Christmases.
That had been less than ten months ago. Nancy had seemed perfectly well then.
Nate took her hand, and Carrie felt tingles up her arm at the scratch of his calloused skin on her fingers. She swallowed, and kept her voice even. “Although Nancy never really said what it is you do around here.”
Nate shrugged, and Carrie could make out the lines of his muscles shifting under his white polo shirt. At least she could see why Nancy hired him.
“Gardening, mostly.” Nate flashed her a small, sharp smile. “And pretty much anything else Nancy could cook up for me.”
“My Nate has been holding this place together with string and brown paper,” Moira said, and even if Carrie hadn’t put together the identical surname thing, the relationship between them would have been clear. Moira was every inch the proud grandmother.
There was another awkward silence as Carrie tried to figure out why the gardener had been left in charge of her inn. A worrying sign suggesting there was no one better available.
“Well, I guess you’re the guy to give me the tour, then?” she said. “It’s been a while since I was last here.”
Nate nodded, and stepped forward from the stairs. “Of course. Where do you want to start?”
* * * *
They started in the dining room.
“I’d forgotten about this carpet,” Carrie said, staring down at the green and purple monstrosity, her face sour.
Involuntarily, Nate glanced down too. “You don’t notice it after a while,” he lied, moving quickly toward the kitchen.
“Denial won’t fly with most clients.” Carrie pulled a notebook out of her handbag and started scribbling. “You only get one chance to make a first impression.”
Nate wondered how much she’d paid for the all-cliche business course to teach her that one. Curious, he stepped closer to see what she was writing.
The list, headed up ‘Renovations,’ read:
–Replace dining room carpet
–And probably chairs, tables and crockery
–Definitely replace curtains
“At least you’re leaving the walls intact,” he muttered, and Carrie glanced up in surprise, as if she hadn’t realized he was there. “Come on, you can mentally tear down the kitchen, next.”
Actually, he thought as Carrie trotted after him, it was possible the kitchen might prove a saving grace. Not the room itself, although it was at least hyper-hygienic, thanks to Jacob’s obsessive nature, but what it stood for. The Avalon had always been famous locally for its food. Nancy liked to put on a good spread for any occasion, and hired the best chefs to make it happen.
Yes, ten minutes chatting about roast lamb and sticky toffee pudding with Jaco
b should have Carrie falling in love with the inn, he reckoned. Especially if Jake provided samples.
Unfortunately, when they entered the kitchen, it became clear Jacob had other priorities.
“I know that, Sally. But she promised...” Jacob stopped shouting into his mobile and ran a hand through his disordered hair. “Look, I’m at work. Can’t you just–” Looking up, Jacob spotted them in the doorway and abruptly fell silent.
“Don’t mind us,” Nate said, finally regaining control of the situation and shuffling Carrie into the hallway. “We’ll come back later.”
“Who’s Sally?” Carrie asked, her pen poised on her notebook, looking like a teacher about to write up a detention note for Jacob.
Nate considered how much to tell her while guiding her back to reception. It was Jacob’s business, not hers. But he wouldn’t want her thinking Jake made a habit of slacking off.
“Childminder,” he said eventually, wondering where Gran had got to and if she’d be free to step in. Except Jacob was already feeling guilty about the number of hours of unpaid care Moira put it. Felt, he’d confessed over several beers the previous weekend, he should be able to take care of Georgia himself. That it was failing, somehow, to have to rely on Gran. “Sounds like Jacob’s ex wasn’t able to pick Georgia up today, after all.” Because she’s a self-centered bitch who’s probably too busy off playing with her new, rich boyfriend, he added in his head. The woman was only supposed to have her daughter two afternoons a week. Not exactly hard to arrange.