The Innkeeper's House Read online

  “All good advice. Okay. Let me take your notes and mine to the district. We’ll run a background check and call her references. Let’s see if this falls into place. In the meanwhile, I’m leaving the posting up.”

  The four women nodded and began chatting amongst themselves, throwing quick glances to Luke, who checked his phone after shuffling his pages to Mrs. Cook.

  “Luke,” she said as she accepted the notes and tapped them into a neat stack.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I agree with you, really. Greta had perfect answers, for the most part. She’s clearly committed. And she’s very personable. Kids would love her. I just like to make sure we are thinking big picture, you know?”

  He flinched at her words, defensive of the beautiful stranger. Realizing he’d better cool his jets or else be called out, he shook his head. “I know, Mrs. Cook. She may not stick around. I just think that’s going to be true of anyone, young or old, married or single.” He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

  “Well, all that said, I’m hopeful. I firmly believe she would make a perfect match.” Mrs. Cook dipped her chin meaningfully, a bizarre grin spreading her thin lips across her face.

  Luke’s face reddened and he turned to leave, but Mrs. Cook cleared her throat. “One more thing, everyone.”

  The small group fell silent.

  “Ms. Houston made a good point in her final question. It would be wise for us to collect information on local rentals or even, perhaps, put a bug in Gary Hart’s ear. If we court a great candidate, we want to offer her the world, right?”

  Luke nodded, but deep down something churned in him that he’d been fighting against for years. A sickening feeling in his gut that streaked through him, spinning against his gut instinct. The gut instinct that told him to stick it out for Liesel. For Mamaw’s memory. For the football program and his athletes. For... a beautiful stranger?

  Hah. It had been so long since Luke had been on a date, that he wasn’t quite sure he even knew what beauty looked like anymore. Now, leaving the school, he felt ridiculous fighting so hard for Greta Houston with her springy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Her full lips and perfect voice and all those big words that rolled off her tongue like she’d gone to Harvard or something. He shook his head and kicked at a rock in the middle of the sidewalk.

  Luke was lonely. Too lonely. He’d already signed his contract for the upcoming school year, but maybe sticking around Hickory Grove wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Maybe Mamaw’s death didn’t mean he had to stay. Maybe her death could release him from the ache in his heart. From the town with farm hands for P.E. students and vanilla malts instead of flavored lattes.

  ***

  “I don’t mean an entire renovation,” Liesel droned on as Luke followed her for what was fast becoming a weekly walk-through. The situation with The Hickory Grove Inn was restless. They needed a long-term plan for success, or else they’d have to sell. Likely, their very own distant relatives would involve themselves, wreaking havoc on the whole matter.

  Luke blew out a sigh. “You think it needs an update?” He ran a hand along the chair rail in one of the several available guest rooms. They hadn’t hung the wooden No on their (No) Vacancy sign in months. And Mamaw probably hadn’t used it much herself. Of course, the poor old woman hadn’t let the place fall into disrepair. None of them had, actually.

  But the rooms were plain. Not quaint, Amish plain, either. Plainly dated. As though decor efforts began in the 1950s and petered just as they were getting to the matching lamps. Narrow beds, not-quite twin sized and not-quite double (Mamaw had hand sewn and quilted all of the bedding for the entire bed-and-breakfast) stood with their waxed wooden headboards centered perfectly along the wall. One dresser sat opposite, its drawers creaky and prone to derailing from their tracks. Norman Rockwell paintings hung in each room, the only semblance of an attempt to add art or style. A good one, though. Luke loved the artist. It reminded him of his childhood, when they visited for Christmas and those paintings hung in Mamaw’s house instead of the guest rooms.

  The rooms weren’t chintzy. More, well, practical. Homemade but high quality, just how southerners liked to live, amongst the things they made with their own two hands. It meant there was a distinct lack of plastic and polyester, and that wasn’t a bad thing. Still, the entire bed-and-breakfast seemed cramped, despite the scarcity of junk, and not quite in an eclectic, homey way. Instead, the place reminded him of Mamaw’s little house next door, which stood as a tribute to those who survived the Great Depression. Those who collected and saved. Those who wasted not and yet wanted still.

  Everything in there was heavy lace and varying shades of cream tapestry and lots and lots of crocheted blankets and quilts. They had bedding for days. They didn’t need it, though, because Mamaw had seen to it that the Inn was properly outfitted. White porcelain dishes and bakeware rose in craggy towers inside small cupboards. Mamaw’s good china was displayed with pride along wooden shelves that framed the breakfast nook.

  Perhaps, Luke considered, it would be easy to rent out the house. It was a good size, and they might be okay with leaving some of the furniture. But Luke and Liesel first needed to ensure the Inn was sustainable. With no strong income there, they had a decision to make about what stayed in their names and what needed liquidating. Hopefully, (and deep down, Luke was hopeful), things could remain status quo. A little touching up. Sprucing up. Paint. An overnight manager, voila. Enough money to keep the properties running until Liesel had more time or Luke had more money or whatever.

  The biggest issue with the Inn, at the present time, was that no one really wanted a room with a single bed. A single, almost-twin-sized bed. Plus, the place could use cohesion and charm. Though how the two could coexist escaped Luke.

  Anyway, Liesel had no money to do that. Nor did Luke. And the Inn itself was obviously not a cash cow.

  “Updates, yes,” Liesel agreed. “By the way, do you have any leads on an overnight manager?”

  Swallowing, Luke averted his gaze and shook his head. “Let’s just put up a sign. It’ll attract people who need a place to stay, too. I can hang a flier in the teachers' lounge. Once school starts. Or even sooner... Could be someone there looking for a rental, or something. I don’t know.” He was rambling.

  Stepping toward the open door, she waited for him, cocking her head. Liesel could read Luke like a children's book. In one blink, she figured him out.

  “Okay, who is she?”

  He balked, squeezing past her into the narrow, wooden hallway. Everything in The Hickory Grove Inn was wooden. Wood. Wood. Wood. That probably should have made more sense to him, but Luke couldn’t see past the dark browns and into financial stability. And with Liesel pinning him to some sort of conspiracy, the darkness swallowed him.

  More than that, he felt entirely uncomfortable arranging for an overnight manager. No matter who it would be. “No one. What do you mean?” He played dumb, testing the newel post on his way down the also-narrow, also-wooden staircase.

  Stella was at the front desk, leafing through an old magazine and sucking the life out of the place.

  “Mmhm,” his aunt chirped behind him. A cringe curled his spine at the thought of Liesel Hart, a borderline nun, entering his romantic business with any form of an opinion.

  “What do we even sell in here?” Luke gestured to the tiny gift shop that spanned the square footage of a broom closet.

  “Essentials. Snow globes. Shot glasses. Decks of cards.” She walked past him into the dining room, gesturing for him to follow as she poured two mugs of coffee and set them at a little round table, a yellowing doily acting as an incomplete centerpiece.

  The Hickory Grove Inn had become a bed-and-breakfast years back, when travel through Hickory Grove was nothing more than a wrong turn. It never enjoyed the traffic of a boom town or a tourist destination.

  Over the years, even as people came to town for other reasons than
as a mistake, the types of guests grew into a steady pattern. Family of those who lived in town but who weren’t quite close enough to offer a sofa. Or those who’d flown into Louisville on their way elsewhere, destined for a bigger, brighter, better locale but too tired, after all, to drive much farther into Indiana. Just one night here, honey. Then we can start fresh tomorrow, the fathers would say to the mothers. Lastly, and more rarely, sometimes a couple or a small group would spend the whole day at the Horseshoe Casino on the Ohio River. If they weren’t from around the area, they might get turned around and head into Hickory Grove instead of Louisville. With no motel on the map, it would become clear they’d better pull into the corner market or Mally’s and ask for a little help. At that point, southerners being what they were, the owners would redirect the lost souls down the road to The Hickory Grove Inn. Always charmed by the hidden gem (as one internet user wrote of the place in an errant Facebook review), those were the ones that kept Mamaw going after Grandad’s passing.

  Even with the latter type of guest, the Inn looked exactly like what it was used for. Like a place with a purpose. Solid. Trustworthy. Would it ever be more? Would there ever come a day where Hickory Grove transcended the label of sleepy small farming town?

  That would take a miracle. Or another casino. Or, maybe, something else that Luke and Liesel couldn’t even fathom. The best they could hope for was to do their own bit of modernizing. Just so long as they kept the southern charm and the sherry, things could improve for the place. At least, that was the hope. Maybe the town didn’t have to draw people in with bright lights and flashing signs. Maybe wooden bed-and-breakfasts could be enough.

  “Luke.” Liesel lowered her coffee, cradling it against her petite hands.

  “Yes?”

  “No one drives by here on a whim. Anyone looking for a house to buy or rent stays to the northeast side of town where there’s new construction and family neighborhoods. The west side is all old farms and big Victorians. Why do you think a sign would help? We need to put another ad in the paper. Or maybe you can finagle something on your social media. A post or whatnot. I can write it up if you’d like?”

  Sipping from his mug, he mulled it over then swallowed the hot liquid. Afternoon caffeine was never a good decision. And neither was sharing news that didn’t belong to him. News that might not even be true come morning. “I have a confession.”

  She dropped her chin and eyed him. “Is it your friend again? Is that who’s interested in renting the house?”

  “Who, Mark?” Luke’s mouth turned up in a crooked smile at his aunt’s suspicion. So, she didn’t suspect he had his eyes on someone. Her interest was entirely for herself, not his love life. For once. “No. But now that you mention it, maybe he’d enjoy cuddling under an afghan with an antenna TV glowing in the dark.”

  It was meant to be a suggestive push. A coy reply. Mark and Liesel would make a terrible couple, but Luke never planned to give up hope. Instead, though, his words sliced through the air like a mean joke at Mamaw’s expense. He dropped his gaze and shook his head. “I don’t mean to make fun. I just—”

  Liesel sighed, her breath rattling out from her thin lips. “I know. It’s still so hard, i’n’t it? Golly, Luke, if it’s that big of a stressor, I could take over on nights. It’s not fair to you. You have the school and your football. I’ll get over her... her stuff. All we left were the basics, right? I won’t even notice. I can handle it.”

  Luke covered her hand with his. He knew that Liesel could not bear to stay the night in her dead mother’s house. He knew it. He wouldn’t put that on his aunt, no way, no how.

  Reading his mind, she squeezed Luke's hand. "I'll stay in one of the guest rooms. How about that?"

  "Aunt Liesel," he replied, "I am not making you sleep on one of those tiny beds in a tiny room without so much as a coffee maker. You’d be better off moving into the rectory with Father Van. Come on, now."

  After a small laugh, she released her grip and slid her hand back to the steaming mug, drawing it to her mouth for a long sip. "Then tell me. If it isn't Mark, who do you have in mind? Because I saw that wobble in your step. The stutter in your speech. Who’s crawled up into that brain of yours? Who do you want living in Mamaw’s house? Do you have an innkeeper in mind?”

  Chapter 9—Greta

  Greta pulled a fresh fitted sheet from the wicker laundry basket. Doing the wash was hardly a chore for her. She loved its rhythm, especially with the added pleasure of hanging everything out on the line. Load, wait, hang. Load, wait, hang. Fold, fold, fold. And the smell of it! Maggie had recently planted great, bushy lavender plants at the edges of the clothesline. Their blossoms sweetened the fabric better than any softener or dryer sheets.

  After running a hand to smooth a few wrinkles, she plucked the flat sheet from the basket, gripped the edges, and threw it out over the bed. The soft cotton billowed up above the futon for a blissful moment. Notes of lavender hung in the air, and after a quick snap of the wrists, it lay almost perfectly in place.

  She busied herself with tucking the corners and folding back the top, then adding her quilt and pillows, the ones with pretty embroidery. Maggie mentioned they were hand-me-downs from her aunt, who was a seamstress. At that, Greta’s interest tripled. Gretchen joined in the conversation then, even helping Greta unpin her clothes from the line. They chatted coolly, making barely comfortable small talk.

  The topics stayed superficial. Gretchen tentatively poked around about Greta’s interview from the day before. Greta confessed airily that it didn’t go as well as she’d have hoped.

  In reply to the confession, Greta told Gretchen that what she needed was a cozy night in with a good book. Gretchen offered one of her murder mysteries. Grateful for the bit of sympathy, Greta was still hesitant to accept at first.

  “I normally read...” she started to ramble off a list of literary titles, highbrow works with bizarre prose and hot-and-cold critical acclaim. Instead, she nodded. “Actually, that sounds perfect right about now.”

  Gretchen nearly sprinted through the field and upstairs to her bedroom before sprinting back out, her breath heavy as the thick, humid July air. “Here. I’ve read this one about eight times.” She slapped a weathered paperback onto Greta’s hand.

  Accepting the book was less about the book and more about a delicate truce. Greta grinned broadly. “Thanks, Gretch. I’ll read it tonight.”

  And she would. They parted ways after a promise to dish over fan theories in the morning before Gretchen had to leave for work.

  It was just before five (the family shared an early pizza dinner), and Greta knew that getting under fresh sheets with a fast-paced mystery so early in the evening was a fool’s errand. No doubt she’d fall asleep after a marathon reading session only to wake at some odd hour of the very late night, confused about the time. Anyway, Greta ought to be filling out applications. Looking for apartments in downtown Chicago, close to public transit. After all, with no immediate reaction to her interview, and a disappointing lack of contact in the past twenty-four hours, she needed to put Hickory Grove Middle and its handsome P.E. teacher firmly out of her mind.

  She’d barely turned from page one to page two when her phone buzzed on the wooden crate nightstand beside her.

  An unfamiliar, local number flashed on the screen, each digit a foreign object. Could it be?

  Carefully closing her book, she took up the device. One beat later, she pressed Accept.

  ***

  The call was brief and shocking, and it was quite possibly the best phone call she’d ever had in her whole career. It beat out every other job offer, and not because of the salary or the details of the contract.

  After calling Rhett and sharing the good news (and the admission that, yes, she was staying in town), she did the same with Maggie. But it couldn’t stop there. She had to celebrate. So, illogically, she texted Gretchen.

  Now they were sitting crisscross applesauce on the futon, a bowl of popcorn between them. The last
time Greta had a sleepover was in high school. With her old friend Bridget. Bridget was still, technically, Greta’s best friend. But she was married with kids far away. Greta could use a little nostalgia. Mostly, she could use a little friendship.

  Age difference be darned, the Grets, as Rhett had started calling them, had officially warmed to each other.

  Greta had already spilled how she got the job and felt a weird sense of excitement.

  “So, you’re staying in Hickory Grove, obviously?” Gretchen asked, munching away.

  Greta shrugged. “Yes?” It came out more like a question than a statement. “I’m looking for a rental, but in all these years, no one has erected an apartment complex. I mean there’s Hickory Hall, but that doesn’t count.

  Gretchen made a face. “No, don’t live there.”

  “I saw a string of condos just north of town when I was driving around after the interview yesterday. Up past the school? Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Greta,” Gretchen rested a hand on her arm, “you don’t have to move. Okay? This barn is, like, perfect for you. I have a room in the farmhouse. And soon enough, I’ll probably get my own place somewhere else.”

  “No. Come on, Gretch. You’re young. You’re saving money. You belong here.” Greta pushed a finger into the top of the quilt. “I’ll be out soon, and you’ll have your futon and a sewing machine that works.” Both women glanced at the wooden sewing table on the far side of the space. An antique Singer growing dust. Several parts were missing. Neither Gretchen nor Maggie could find them.

  A shallow sigh escaped Gretchen’s lips, and she turned her head back to Greta. “I have to admit, I like you being here.” A small smile turned her lips up.

  Greta smiled back. “I like being here, too. But this is your home. I’ll find my own, then I’ll come back here and read one of your books while you sit over there and hum along to a pretty pattern.”