The Innkeeper's House Page 3

  On the other end of the line, Zack cleared his throat. “I know. I’m real sorry, Luke.” He cleared his throat again. “Listen, I have Liesel here with me, in my office. Your grandmother had indicated Liesel would serve as the executor for her estate, so we are going through various documents.”

  “Right,” Luke replied, trying to shake out his tension by tossing a baseball up and catching it in a mitt. The first summer school session had just wrapped up, and the entire month of July stretched before him. He was less interested in his free time than usual and had already begun to jump ahead in his mind to other chores he might take on. Plus, he wasn’t dumb. Luke figured Liesel would need his help. “Did Liesel get the bed-and-breakfast? I meant to touch base with her about it. I’m happy to help put it on the market or do whatever she’d like to get situated.” It was true. He did intend to bring it up to his aunt. Just as soon as he was certain he wouldn’t break into sobs talking to her. Their light text messages over the past week had been limited to the basics. Nothing regarding an estate. But Luke knew it would come up. Maybe he’d get his granddad’s tools. Or even Mamaw’s Buick. But those things just weren’t on his mind. In fact, he was actively pushing them out of his mind.

  He secured the ball in the mitt with a rubber band, snapping it in place then tossing it into a nearby chair as he stood and stretched.

  “Actually, it might be a good idea for you to come up to my office. It doesn’t have to be now, but we need to square a few things away. There is some paperwork for you, and yes—the bed-and-breakfast requires a conversation, too.”

  A sigh slipped between Luke’s lips, and he pushed a fist into his lower back, turning into a stretch. “I’m free now.”

  ***

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Luke was sitting in an uncomfortable chair next to his aunt, whose red-rimmed eyes betrayed her composure. He’d offered her a hug before he sat but kept his gaze away. If he and Liesel had looked at each other, it’d be all over for him, too.

  “Thanks for coming in, Luke.” Zack steepled his fingers over a thick leather binder. “Liesel has asked me to share the breakdown, so I figure I’ll get started. Is that all right?”

  Luke nodded, frowning to himself.

  “Your grandmother was a smart lady. She earmarked the lion share of her personal effects for the two of you.” The lawyer nodded to Liesel and Luke in turn. “I have a pretty clear list of who gets what regarding her heirlooms, photo albums, furniture, and so forth. Liesel has been assigned the Buick.”

  Luke’s head snapped up, surprised though not disappointed. “Oh?”

  His aunt glanced at him, a small smile spreading across her face. “I’m happy to sell it to you for a reasonable price.”

  He grinned back and shook his head. “That’s okay. I’ve got my truck.”

  “However, your grandmother was more ambiguous in the endowment of her income property, The Hickory Grove Inn and the home behind it.”

  Mamaw and Grandad Hart had inherited the bed-and-breakfast and the next-door residential property from Mamaw’s parents. Mamaw lived in the second property until very recently, at which point she let it sit, hopeful that they’d find someone to live there and run the front desk.

  To Luke, that plan sounded like something straight out of an Alfred Hitchcock Film. Liesel, however, liked the idea of keeping the place in the family but at arm’s length.

  The Hickory Grove Inn prided itself on being the best lodging in town. It kept to an outdated hospitality model in which guests could only register by phone or in person. Rooms rented cheaply on a nightly basis, and a full breakfast was served every morning. Mamaw had also offered an afternoon tea and evening sherry and dessert. Quaint didn’t quite describe the whole experience, or so Luke was told by those he knew who’d stayed there.

  In more recent years, there was talk of Mamaw selling the place—Liesel’s idea after it quickly became clear that there was a shortage in the workforce. No one in town who led so simple a life that they could give it all up for a local landmark that didn’t even belong to them.

  Mamaw didn’t agree and felt the place ought to go directly to her descendants. Unfortunately, there were only two of those left, and neither one was the type to take on a bed-and-breakfast. Liesel, despite her perfect exterior and vicious drive, focused on the church. All of her energy went into Little Flock. Every last ounce. Despite being unwed and childless, her heart and time were spoken for.

  Luke, on the other hand, had the time. Plus, his heart wasn’t yet spoken for. But, well, he was a thirty-something-year-old guy who preferred tinkering over simple chores like changing the oil in his truck and mowing the grass in his free time. Not passing out brochures and positioning squares of chocolate on some stranger’s pillow. He was more HGTV than Hallmark. Leaky pipe? He’d handle it. Decorate the gift shop for Christmas? Hard pass.

  He swallowed and exchanged another look with Liesel. Her eyebrows had furrowed, and lines formed like rivulets on her forehead. Liesel had always held age at bay, keeping clear of the sun (though her naturally olive complexion would suggest otherwise) and watching what she ate. She kept fashionable despite a modest income as the secretary and religious education director for Little Flock Catholic.

  “What do you mean ambiguous?” Luke asked.

  “She didn’t specify an heir.”

  “It goes to Liesel, though. Right?” He hooked a thumb at his aunt, whose expression turned unreadable. She licked her lips and shrugged her shoulders. “Shouldn’t it be Liesel? Mamaw’s daughter?”

  “Well, it’s the reason the estate has fallen into probate. We have to come to an agreement on what happens to the place.”

  The answer was simple. Bed and breakfasts weren’t for men. He wasn’t the type who could turn a bed or work a cash register. He didn’t know diddly squat about the hospitality business.

  Then again, maybe Liesel didn’t, either.

  “You can list the properties and split the profit once they sell. Your mamaw owned it free and clear.” Zack leaned back, one hand outspread as if it was the only option. As if this was all simple and quick.

  Twisting in his seat, Luke pinned his aunt with a hard stare. “Is that the right choice? What if we try again to find someone to help run the place? Maybe Stella could take on the nightshift in the interim. Or, if she can’t do it, I suppose I could stay there the rest of the summer. Until school starts.” They had hired Stella, a kindly local, to run the front desk. She began once Mamaw moved from the house next to the Inn into the assisted living facility. She was no work horse, but she got them through. But she alone wouldn’t be enough. Liesel had filled in where she could, but the place really needed a live-in property manager.

  Liesel shook her head. “That’s a short-term solution, Luke.”

  “Maybe we should sell.” Luke felt a knot form in his throat. If they were discussing this pre-Mamaw’s death, he’d feel more secure in that decision. But now, with his only direct ancestral link to the Hart family dead and gone, he felt differently. Anxious about the right path. Uncertain about the future. Everything flipped now that it was after.

  Liesel squeezed her eyes shut and delicately pressed the pad of her ring finger to the corner of each.

  “What about Grandad’s brothers and sisters? Is there someone who might have a serious interest?” Luke asked.

  “Gary Hart.” Liesel heaved a deep sigh after the name fell from her mouth.

  Even Zack grimaced.

  Luke just shook his head then looked up at Zack. “Has Gary asked about it?”

  When Zack glanced to his right then down at the leather binder, Luke had his answer.

  “It can’t go to Gary, Liesel,” Luke pleaded.

  She nodded quietly. “I agree. But it’s a big commitment, Luke. I would do it if I could, but... oh, I don’t know. I hate to see someone else take the place. I mean, I know I wanted that a while back, but...” her voice trailed off and tears began a slow descent down her cheeks. She didn’t bother
to brush them away and instead folded her arms over her chest, sobbing quietly.

  Luke reached out, offering his hand to his aunt. She took it, and he squeezed gently. “Zack,” he began, forcing himself to keep it together. “I’ll take care of The Hickory Grove Inn. We’ll keep it. We have to.”

  But the lawyer didn’t seem satisfied. “This could be complicated. The deed can, technically, go into both of your names. Are you sure you want that? It would tie you both to the properties, for better or worse.”

  Liesel lifted her shoulders weakly. “If we don’t keep it, Gary Hart will buy it. You know he will. He’ll turn it into a gym or an office space, and poof. There goes the past.”

  And just like that, Luke’s summer was spoken for.

  Chapter 5—Greta

  About two weeks had passed since Greta had taken residence in the Engel-Devereux family barn. There, she helped tend to the land and the animals. Goats and chickens. Two dogs and a cat with her kittens. If it weren’t for the ever-growing tension with Gretchen, Greta might have liked to stay on longer. Even as a girl, she’d always liked housework. It brought her a sense of calm. Every Friday, as a young woman, she’d do light cleaning for her grandparents. They paid her ten dollars a week, but Greta would have done it for free. There, she would make the beds, tidy the kitchen, and add little touches here and there—if Greta hadn’t fallen into teaching, she might have become a maid. Maybe in some southern manor somewhere. Service had long been a part of the fiber of her being, and housework particularly filled that calling.

  Working outside at Maggie’s quickly took on the shape of therapy for her, allowing for the chance to process her life, reflect on where things soured with Kadan (spoiler: they’d started off as being sour).

  And while she raked the back field, she practiced her answers to interview questions.

  Interviews that hadn’t yet been scheduled.

  Despite the bond that grew between Greta and Maggie and between Greta and the land, she took back up with completing online applications; first, in every district she was familiar with. But with no open secondary English positions, she had two choices: lower her standards and consider returning to long-term subbing or broaden her geographic scope.

  After her most recent experience in the world of educational babysitting, Greta knew her only option was to look elsewhere. Dead set on returning to a big city, where she’d still have a shot at a dating life, Greta now sat behind her laptop on the futon in Maggie Devereux’s barn and tapped away her responses to the online interest form for Chicago Public Schools.

  Ten years’ experience. Indiana State Teaching License: Secondary English Education. (She made a mental note to see about certification reciprocity between Indiana and Illinois.) Specialization in literature and language with added emphasis on reading instruction. Yes, she’d be interested in coaching an after-school sport, though her experience was limited to softball and volleyball. No, she was not familiar with ASTUTE, a state-wide assessment technology system that also offered curriculum maps, professional development webinars, data tracking, and student-friendly software. However, yes, she was a fast learner, flexible and driven.

  Greta rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and hit submit on the darn thing.

  CPS was an expansive district, and right then, that’s the only hope she clung to. A big school system. Lots of openings. Lots of students. Lots of children who needed a teacher to inspire them and love them. Even if the inspiration would be muted by a wide-reaching technology platform.

  Anxious, she closed her laptop, leaning back and stretching her legs out.

  Rhett was due for supper that night, and Greta needed to shower and change. She’d spent the day cleaning the chicken coop, and she had promised Maggie she’d help prepare dinner. At every one of Greta’s offers to take on this chore or head up that project, the kind mother of four insisted up and down that Greta ought to relax and enjoy herself. Go for a walk. Get a bite to eat at Mally’s. But Greta refused, feeling that, for a while, she’d quite like to retreat. So long as Greta didn’t have anywhere else to be, she preferred to play Transcendentalist. Maggie’s farm was her Walden Pond.

  ***

  Maggie’s kids flopped in from the backyard, their shoes caked in dried mud, though it hadn’t rained in recent days. Ky, the oldest of the three who lived at home, was leading the parade, a baby cat nestled in the crook of his arm. “What’s for supper?”

  Maggie left Greta at the stove and redirected the children back outside to hose off. “And then go through the front door so you can leave your sneakers on the porch!” Maggie’s voice grew louder at the end of the sentence as the kids dashed away. “And don’t forget to wash up!” she added loudly after them with a laugh.

  Greta admired her. The single mom never seemed to grow impatient with her rascally brood, instead laughing off their mess-making as “kids!” Greta might have done well to see Maggie in action before she took on the elementary subbing gig.

  “How’re the taters lookin’?” she asked Greta as she transferred a steaming pot of collard greens to the center of the table.

  Greta left the chicken on the stove and grabbed the bowl she’d finished whipping. “Mashed and buttery,” she answered with a proud smile.

  Maggie took over on the fried chicken and Greta took up with scooping creamy ladlesful onto each plate. The doorbell chimed, and a ruckus ensued. Voices mixed out on the porch.

  “You all get your rear ends to the bathroom and wash up on the double!” Maggie hollered.

  “I already washed up.”

  Greta’s head whipped to the doorway. Her brother stood there, his hands held up in defense of himself. His eyes were on Maggie, and in his gaze, Greta thought she spied the look of a groom as his bride entered the aisle. Desire. More than that, actually. True love.

  She glanced away, grinning to herself. Rhett deserved all the happiness in the world. It seemed like Maggie did, too.

  ***

  Dinner was a boisterous affair. It began with a sweet, lumpy, rushed rendition of grace by Briar.

  Bless us o Lord and these is my gifts from Ky bounty Christ the Lord Amen. Rushed signs of the cross morphed into a squabble about who would get the last dinner roll, which made no sense to Greta, who had baked no fewer than forty of them.

  “It’s thy bounty,” Dakota corrected his little sister as he rolled a piece of his bread into a doughy lump and tossed it into his mouth. “Not Ky bounty.” The brothers shared a laugh, but the spunky girl shrugged it off and resumed babbling to her Barbie doll.

  Once tummies started to fill, and the adults wrapped up their small talk, attention turned to more serious matters. The kids kept chatting, and their previous bickering churned like butter into easy conversation about those little conspiracies children formed between each other. What traps the boys had set. Which kitten Briar had just finished bottle feeding before they dragged themselves back to the farmhouse.

  Maggie smiled warmly at them then pointed a manicured finger to the empty seat, a veritable elephant in the room. “Gretchen’s been taking her evening meals with Theo.” She wiggled her eyebrows at Greta then Rhett.

  “He’s a nice kid,” Rhett commented, oblivious.

  “Yeah, if only his girlfriend was a nice kid, too.” Maggie flicked a knowing look to Greta, who was the only one to catch the joke. But it didn’t sit well with her. Why bring up the most awkward thing about their arrangement?

  Dabbing her lips with her napkin, Greta spoke next. “I filled out an interest form for Chicago Public Schools today. I’m going to send my resume to some principals up there, too.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Maggie replied, clicking her tongue.

  Greta looked at her, trying to read between the lines. She had yet to pressure Greta to stay. So far, things felt like a pleasant arrangement, only made pleasant by the promise of its impermanence. “Maggie, Gretchen is sick of me being here. I have to get a plan in place sooner rather than later or else we’re in danger of ha
ving a full-blown falling out.”

  Maggie set her fork down on her plate, and it clattered to the center, leftover butter sliding up the length of the silverware. The woman wiped her hands on her napkin and shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to start trouble. I was just pointing out that maybe this was a good thing.” She waved her long fingers back and forth between Greta and herself.

  The three younger children fell silent, turning into an audience rather than the sideshow act.

  Greta cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “That girl was on track for working her life away. She wakes up, does some classwork for school, goes to Mally’s and takes orders, gives them ten hours, heads to night school, comes home and does more coursework then starts all over again. Once she got together with Theo, he was little more than a footnote in her phone. And if Gretchen had moved into that barn, if just to set up her little sewing studio, it’d go to waste. She’d still be working all day, rolling in late with her nose in a book, and falling asleep well before she ever sat down at a sewing machine. One, which, by the way, we can’t even find all the parts for.” They’d been down this road. Maggie complained about her daughter’s work ethic every second of every day. “I just want her to have a little fun, but I can’t seem to convince her to slow down.”

  “It’s because you’re her mom,” Greta replied evenly. “She needs to hear it from someone else.”

  Maggie lifted an eyebrow to her other children, who were rapt with this lesson in family dynamics. “So, is that also why Dakota and Ky can’t be convinced to do their homework? Because it’s their mama who tells them to?”

  The table erupted in laughter, and all was well again.

  School was one arena in which Greta was supremely comfortable. She took a long swig of her sweet tea then braved the waters of opening a conversation with an adolescent boy. “Ky, what books did you read in English class last year?”

  He took an oversized bite of chicken, the crispy crumbles sticking to the corners of his mouth as he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t remember. Some story about a boy named Jonas.” He swallowed but didn’t bother to wipe his face. “Oh, yeah. We had to read The Secret Garden which the girls liked, but it was a kids’ book to me.”