The Innkeeper's House Page 2

  Just when it felt like she’d have to throw in the towel and move in with her father in order to cope, Greta met Kadan. After their first date, it occurred to her that This is it! Only to be forced into another substitute job until her current situation materialized. At times, Greta felt like life was living her rather than the other way around. Like she was a herky-jerky car hooked onto the roller coaster tracks rather than the eager amusement park guest looking for a thrill.

  That attitude, of course, would get her nowhere, as her brother often reminded her. He had little patience for Greta’s spells of self-pity. Truth be told, even Greta herself had little patience for her own doldrums.

  Rhett had long been a source of stability. He set a high bar in school and sports, establishing a standard to which Greta’s teachers and coaches would hold her accountable. At the time, it felt a little useless that Greta made all As and Bs in school. She had no plans to pursue higher education.

  In fact, back when she was still in high school, Rhett was the one who pushed her to give college a chance. He had dropped out himself, and since their parents were distracted with their parents, who were ailing, Greta hadn’t given much thought to life after senior year.

  One day, she had confessed to her older brother, who by then had launched himself into the world of construction and property management, that she didn’t want to work at all. She wanted to have babies and cook dinners, and that was that. He’d chuckled at her notion, but never invalidated it (after all, Rhett himself longed for the same traditional life they’d enjoyed during their childhood—with a mom who stayed home and fussed over them and a father who made a good wage and provided modestly).

  But with no romantic prospects in Hickory Grove, Greta’s plan was dead in the water.

  That’s when Rhett cracked an idea. She could be a teacher. That way, if she met someone (apparently college was actually less about the learning and more about the lovin’, as her freshman year roommate so eloquently put it), her schedule would be family friendly. And if she didn’t meet anyone, she’d get to be around kids all day.

  It was the perfect solution. So, she took out a boatload of student loans and enrolled at the University of Louisville, ready to study the art of meeting eligible bachelors in her classes.

  Quickly, Greta realized there was far more to college life than assessing her classmates on their breeding potential. Once she began her degree coursework, she fell in love with the content. Classics, which had generally eluded her throughout high school, turned into mainstays on her nightstand, replacing her grocery aisle tabloids and EASY! crossword puzzles. The poems of Robert Frost whispered to her soul, carrying her through the hard times and lifting her spirits when the various college boys she’d met were little more than frat rats who wanted the one thing Greta was sure she did not want. At least, not then. Not yet.

  And writing, which had only ever been a function in Greta’s life, turned into a hobby. She journaled, she penned short stories, and she even sent editorials into The Vermillion. Her most popular piece was a call to bring back traditional dating. She’d titled it Courtship for Co-eds. It was also the piece that earned her the most hate email. Greta didn’t mind. She didn’t have much to lose. Not a social life, sadly. And not any prestige, either. She was just an average English Education student looking for a husband while falling in love with the Romantics. It didn’t matter if her peers didn’t appreciate her. Nobody had given Thoreau much never mind, either.

  Her education classes added pragmatism to her creative studies. Lesson plan writing, curriculum mapping, and rubric design offered an end-goal to her journey through the world of literature and language. Suddenly, she didn’t just have her own ruminations. Suddenly, Greta realized she could share her newfound love with others. She could have a captive audience.

  It’s why she opted for secondary rather than elementary, in the end. Greta’s hope was to have moving discussions with the next generation of thinkers. She pictured herself sitting on a metal stool in the center of a ring of old-fashioned desks, ideas whipping by as she called on raised hands.

  The real world, however, disappointed her. Schools didn’t want Freedom Writers, they wanted data. They wanted buzzwords and call logs and tech-savvy teachers with twenty-first century skills.

  It was in her first long-term substitute job that Greta learned this. The truth of education didn’t, at first, discourage her. She fought it and found like-minded co-workers and inspirational administrators. She learned that it wasn’t faculty members and school leaders who thought test scores reigned king. It was society. That’s when the discouragement hit. It was also when Greta realized she might like to return to her initial goal: finding a mate. Settling down. Baking bon-bons and charioting a carpool. Slicing up oranges for the baseball team. Then, she could read in her spare time and have it all. Maybe she’d write, too. Maybe she’d turn to substituting as a way to stay in touch.

  Things got muddled somewhere. They turned backwards. Instead of searing off into a passionate career and settling comfortably into part-time classroom work, the opposite developed. Her attachment to Kadan, which began as a tepid first date, evolved into some form of commitment until they framed out a life. In Greta’s eyes, it could be the perfect life. But Kadan’s commitment grew tired, and their entire relationship turned delicate. Greta came to realize that it was an act. Her own act, at that. For whom, she wasn’t sure. Did she want her mom to look down from Heaven and breathe easy? Did she want to make her dead mother happy?

  Was a stale-from-the-start marriage the only way to feel personal pride? To feel like her mother was smiling down?

  Hopefully not.

  Presently, Greta was poised to return to her professional focus with a new passion. Sure, it might not yield a husband and babies and bon-bons. But it could satisfy her for the time being. Anyway, Greta’s hopes and dreams weren’t going anywhere. They’d be there while she found her footing back in Hickory Grove. They’d be waiting. Elsewhere, probably. But they’d be waiting. Greta wasn’t despondent yet. She was a woman on a mission.

  ***

  After wrapping up another useless effort to reach out to some connection in the world of education, Greta tossed her phone into her purse on the passenger seat and pulled into the parking lot of Mally’s. The heart of Hickory Grove, Mally’s was the only logical place to meet her brother and discuss plans. On their earlier call, he’d indicated he’d bring Maggie, too.

  Rhett’s truck sat beneath an oak tree at the far side of the parking lot, away from anyone who might pull up beside him and ding his door. Predictable. Greta grinned to herself and parked two spaces over, pulling forward into the dirt lot behind Mally’s. She pushed out of her sedan, stood up from her car, and stretched in the warmth of the afternoon. It was nice to be a little farther south, where the sun burned hotter and the accents drawled thicker.

  Kadan was an east coast transplant. His vowels and consonants came out crisp and businessy. At first, she liked how he spoke. He reminded her of some Wall Street guy with things to do and places to go. Smart and savvy. Over time, the staccato syllables and fast clip of his speech grew to be an irritant, and she found herself asking him to slow down or repeat himself as though she were an idiot.

  Greta glanced back to the moving trailer she’d rented. Had she not sold off her already-second-hand furniture, she would have had to enlist Rhett to come move her. But a fresh start was a fresh start, and if she’d be holing up in Maggie Engel’s barn for a month or more, then it’d be best to show up with less.

  Just as Greta mounted the sidewalk toward the front of the diner, the door popped open. The clang of the bell above drew her attention to the exiting patrons, and she braced herself for a run-in with a local from her past.

  The first figure was a man, tall and dressed neatly in Wranglers and a polo. Entirely unfamiliar. Behind him, a younger man, closer in age to Greta, strode out. Also tall, he wore a crisp white t-shirt and athletic shorts. Long tanned legs stretched down int
o smart-looking tennis shoes. He could have been a model for a sports catalog. Greta’s breath caught in her throat and her hand flew to her blonde waves, scrunching them, and then to her eyes, where she rubbed the corners to clear any eyeliner smudges.

  The second man noticed her, too, his gaze holding hers. She lifted her mouth in a smile just in time for Rhett to appear in the open doorway.

  Her eyes flicked to her brother, and the stranger’s followed.

  “Greta!” Rhett’s entire face lit up and he opened his arms, moving toward her just as she caught sight of the stranger, who by then had assessed the situation, turned his head, and left.

  She swallowed and smiled back at Rhett. “I missed you,” she replied to him as he wrapped her in his burly embrace.

  They had seen each other just a couple of months earlier, but the intervening time had felt long. A lot had happened. For both of them.

  “Is Maggie here?” Greta glanced back to the parking lot as she and her brother moved inside, but the man had disappeared entirely. It was just as well.

  “Yes.” He pointed at a booth to the far right, where Maggie sat, chatting cheerily with the waitress, who was a near spitting image of Rhett’s girlfriend.

  “Is that...”

  Rhett replied, finishing her sentence. “Yes, that’s Maggie’s daughter. Gretchen. You’ll love her.”

  Greta put on a bright smile as they neared the table for Rhett to make introductions.

  Something felt off, though. In spite of their similar names and soon-to-be similar addresses, the teenager couldn’t seem to shake a scowl. She reminded Greta of a mean girl, beautiful and prickly.

  Still, Greta tried. “Nice to meet you, Gretchen. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from my brother.”

  The girl’s manners prevailed. She offered a weak smile. “Mr. Rhett is a good man.” Then, Gretchen averted her gaze, pretending to review an order on her little notepad.

  Even Maggie must have noticed it, because she all but shooed Gretchen off to the kitchen to get their drinks.

  Greta took a deep breath and smiled at her brother’s new girlfriend. Memories from middle school flooded her brain. Rhett and Maggie spent a lot of time together back then. They never officially dated, but Greta could recall praying that they would. Maggie would make for such a fun older sister. She slid from the booth and held her arms out to Greta, wrapping her into a warm hug.

  She smelled like apple cinnamon butter.

  “It’s so darn good to see you, girl.” Maggie bit her lower lip and studied Greta, who felt naked beneath the woman’s gaze, but not as naked as Maggie’s fresh face. Time ought to have dulled her vibrant red hair and washed away her freckles, but it hadn’t. Wild locks zigzagged around her bright, speckled cheekbones.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Maggie.” They sat as Greta threw a sidelong glance at Rhett, who stood by like a proud father. He had every right to be proud. He was off to the races, building his own place out in the sticks and dating the woman of his dreams all the while running his Louisville properties and helping Maggie turn her new farmhouse into a dream house. Greta was proud of him.

  “Okay, should we shoot the spud or get down to business?” Maggie opened a menu then slapped it shut and tossed it back to the table. “I seem to forget that I know this menu backways and front.”

  Greta laughed and cracked open her own laminated booklet, scanning for comfort food before recalling that Mally’s only served comfort food. In fact, comfort food was about all Hickory Grove folks knew how to whip up. Carbs, butter, and a drizzle of sugar, the staples. And a mason jar of sweet tea.

  “I’m game for whatever.” Greta felt her words begin to slope out as she got her accent back. It wouldn’t take long until she was singing about a holler log down by the crick. Gretchen returned with a round of tea, took their orders, then left again.

  Maggie threw up her hands and sighed. “That girl has never in her life given me an attitude. Or anyone else for that matter. She’ll settle in, though.” She winked at Greta.

  Rhett cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea, Mags.”

  Greta’s gaze flew to Maggie, who dipped her chin and replied, “It’ll be fine.”

  Out of the loop and now embarrassed, Greta cut in. “I’m sorry, is the barn—am I intruding?” Her face grew hot, and she sank back in her seat, feeling like an interloper in her older brother’s business. Her older brother who meant well but possibly overstepped his boundaries. Greta stared hard at him, willing him to come clean.

  Rhett held up his hands and looked at Maggie. “Hey, now. Greta can stay with me out on the new build if necessary. She won’t mind a camper until something better comes along.” Rhett himself had stayed in the barn for a little while as they made necessary improvements on the farm. But once things were in order, he took up in his modest R.V., which he’d parked at the lot where he was building a cabin for himself.

  Lifting in her seat and leaning forward, Maggie jabbed a finger at Greta. “You are staying in our barn, and that’s the end of it, Greta Houston.” A pink grin formed on her lips and she raised her eyebrows to Rhett. “I don’t want to hear another word from either of you.”

  Rhett and Greta exchanged a smile, too. She eased back. It was nice to have a southern mama put her in her place for once. Forced hospitality. Something Greta needed right about then.

  But later, after chicken-fried steak and two glasses of sweet tea, when she and Rhett had a brief moment of privacy as Maggie used the restroom, Greta needled her brother.

  “What’s going on with Gretchen and the barn?” she asked in a low voice.

  Rhett glanced back then leaned closer. “Gretchen was going to move into it. At least, she wanted to. She likes to sew and do projects. I think it was going to be her studio or something. But when you called, Maggie changed the whole thing on the spot. She’s a bit of a bleeding heart for scorned women.” He gave her a knowing look.

  Heat crawled up Greta’s neck and she glared back at him. “Rhett, this will be so awkward.”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “Maggie’s the boss.”

  Rhett paid the bill, and they bid Gretchen a quick farewell then left. The brief memory of the strange, handsome man returned to Greta as the bell clanged above their heads, but she shook it once they started toward their vehicles.

  The plan was for Greta to follow Rhett and Maggie to the farm. She could get situated immediately.

  But Greta wasn’t too sure that was a good idea anymore. It was one thing to accept an invitation if the space was available. It was quite another to dash the hopes of a teenager who liked to wield sewing needles.

  Chapter 4—Luke

  Over the next few days, sleep eluded Luke. Guilt and confusion washed together at night, materializing as brief, horrific nightmares.

  He called out of school for the week, though really, he should have gone in and pushed through. Teaching may have been a good distraction.

  Liesel had taken the reins on funeral planning, but Luke still showed up for that, drained of energy and quiet.

  Truthfully, he ought to have been well prepared to arrive at the hospital and handle it. He should have known that his life would be vivisected yet again.

  Just like it had when his dad died. There was the beforetime and the after.

  Still, despite her blood clot and extended hospital stay, the beforetime in the case of his Mamaw felt bizarrely mundane. He was eating lunch with Mark, complaining about bus duty and lesson plans. He paid his bill. He took note of a pretty stranger and then strolled to his truck in disappointment after he witnessed her reunite with a boyfriend. He followed the speed limit all the way to Hickory Grove Regional Medical Center, playing ‘90s country music and tapping his thumb on the steering wheel.

  It turned out that Liesel had dramatically downplayed the situation. All she asked him to do was come to the hospital. So, he did.

  He arrived at the same exact time as Father Van, the
parish priest from Little Flock. They rode up in the elevator together. Even then, however, Luke did not connect the dots. When, in eerie silence, the two walked in tandem to the same hospital room, it finally clicked.

  Luke fell apart. Throughout the Last Rites, Luke and Liesel sobbed without restraint.

  Even during the funeral, which drew in a modest but faithful crowd of mourners (mostly relatives and even his own mother), the experience felt both uncomfortably intimate and strangely remote. Perhaps the issue was that Luke compared it to his father’s funeral, in which he was the heart of everything. The well-wishers and the grief were all his.

  At Mamaw Hart’s funeral, the grief was more Liesel’s. Liesel, his spinster aunt in her too-perfect funeral ensemble of black lace and buggy sunglasses. She was crushed, no doubt about that. But she was, well, ready. And Mamaw was even Liesel’s own mother. He started wondering if death grew easier with time. It was a thought that haunted him, playing a stark reminder that Luke had hardly even lived yet.

  The following week, he threw himself into work, calling the football team out of their summer break for two-a-days and staying up until ten watching tape.

  By late June, he was prepared for the new school year, even if it wasn’t starting for another two months. However, he was not prepared for the phone call he’d get from Zack Durbin.

  Zack was a local family law attorney who, apparently, Mamaw Hart had hired to handle her final affairs.

  “Zack, hi. How are you?” Initially, Luke figured Zack was calling to check in. That’s how small towns worked after all. People cared. And Zack and Luke were no strangers.

  Soon enough, he learned there was more to the phone call than a show of sympathy.

  If Luke had the emotional energy, he’d bluff and claim that he was managing or some fancy word. But he was not managing. “It’s been a bad week.”