The Innkeeper's House Read online

  He cleared his throat. “Maybe I could just explain this?” It came out with a squeak, and both Liesel and Fern hushed him on the spot, his aunt glaring at him meaningfully. Maybe he was the confused one.

  “Sweetheart,” Fern slipped her arm through Greta’s as though she were confiding in a dear friend. “That little cottage that Mamaw Hart left behind is vacant and in want of a tenant. Now, the nice thing is the rent is very, very reasonable.” Fern turned to Liesel, “Right, Liesel?”

  Liesel nodded and jumped in. “We’ll practically pay you to live there.” Liesel turned to Luke, a domino effect of assurances. “Right, Luke?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. It was clear now that the two women were scheming, and he was very worried that they were about to ruin everything. “It’s just a place to stay. If you’re still looking. That’s all I was going to tell you.” He closed his eyes and swallowed, picking up his plastic gloves and ready to return to shelling out catfish patties.

  Then, Greta spoke. “Um, this is a lot to take in.” Her face softened again, but worry lines appeared at the corners of her eyes as she looked at the two icy southern women who were laying it on thick for a reason unknown to poor Greta. “Let me talk to my brother.” She wrapped an arm around Ky’s shoulders. “And Maggie. See what they think about it.”

  “You do that, honey,” Liesel chirped back. Then, as though Luke needed one more reason to never talk to his aunt ever again, she winked at him. A big, fat, full-faced wink.

  And much to Luke’s palpable horror, Greta saw the wink, frowned, and walked Ky back to his mother and her entourage.

  But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that he would have to face her on the following Monday. At work.

  Luke Hart was never going to live that wink down.

  The only thing he wanted to do now was get clear away from his meddling aunt. No matter how well-intentioned she and her eccentric friend, he couldn’t sacrifice his love life for a family heirloom.

  That’s when it occurred to Luke that, actually, he didn’t even have a love life.

  Now it was clear that he wouldn’t have one, either. Not if he stuck around Hickory Grove, Indiana with its nosy residents. Not if he committed to being Mamaw’s postmortem innkeeper, either.

  He grabbed the tongs, clacked them together a few times and got back to work. He had at least one more year in Hickory Grove. And he had obligations. Football. Fish frys. And getting through the school year unscathed by the enigmatic new hire who was going to make H.G.M.S. so great!

  Chapter 11—Greta

  “What was all that about?” Maggie asked once Greta and Ky were safely back to the table. Greta had lost her appetite during the whole ordeal, her stomach flip-flopping in confusion.

  Maggie sent Rhett, Ky, and Dakota back to the line to get platefuls for the girls. Once they were gone, Greta replied, “Did you tell Miss Fern that I needed a place to stay?” She pressed the heel of her hand to her head, willing away the threat of a headache.

  Shrugging, Maggie took a sip of her lemonade and picked up the Barbie that Briar had dropped. “We were just talking. That’s all.”

  “Well, Fern told Liesel Hart. And Liesel is Luke’s aunt.”

  “Who’s Luke?” Maggie frowned.

  Greta assumed Gretchen would have gossiped with her mother about their awkward conversation from before. Apparently not. “He’s a P.E. teacher at the school. He was on the interview committee. He’s... well, he’s really hot.”

  “Oh, Coach Hart. Of course I know him. He’s the high school football coach, too. He’s always at the diner with another one of them teachers, a whistle around his neck and playbook sprawled out across the table. It’s adorable. He’s like a little old-fashioned gym teacher who moonlights on the sidelines.” Maggie paused, studying Greta as though through new eyes.

  The image clung to Greta’s brain like syrup, dripping down and making her feel woozy and flirty. “Well, it was awkward.”

  “What do you mean it was awkward?” Maggie pressed, furrowing her brow. “And what does Coach Hart have to do with you needing a place?” The frown turned suspicious.

  Greta let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, apparently Luke’s grandmother passed away. And, if I’ve got this right, her house is available for rent. But it seems to come with a catch.”

  “That’s right. June Hart. So sad. She was a good woman. So, what’s the catch?” Maggie took another sip, and Greta suspected she was only drinking in order to hide her reaction.

  Shrugging, Greta’s face fell. “That’s just it. I don’t know.”

  ***

  Southern small towns being what they were, Maggie promised Greta they’d get to the bottom of the matter. Though, Greta was beginning to suspect that in all likelihood it was as simple as southern charm. A kindly neighbor—or kindly co-worker—who offered a well-timed opportunity.

  Coincidence. No catch.

  And yet, Maggie had spent the remainder of the evening flitting about the fish fry, bouncing from Father Van to Rhett and his friend Jake, landing finally among the coaches’ wives.

  It was a brilliant move, actually, and Greta studied her carefully. Gretchen and Theo had slipped off into the woods, which left Greta in the position of tending to little Briar. Greta could just steal the little girl away. To have a child of her own felt like a faraway dream, something that could so easily disappear on her tongue like cotton candy. The anticipation and taste were so sweet, but the reality left her wanting. Greta feared she was on the edge of the end of her opportunity, even despite modern technology and other options. For Greta to get the chance to grow her own sweet baby and raise it—her heart ached to miss the experience. It ached.

  But the ache was not about to dictate her standards or her decisions. Other parts of her life did that for her. Like her career. And a place to live. Besides, everything still hung in the balance. Sure, she had a job, but did she have a home in Hickory Grove? A real one?

  ***

  “I’ve got the scoop.” Maggie lifted Briar from her white plastic chair and pulled the sleepy-eyed girl onto her lap as she slid beside Greta. Her voice was a giddy whisper, and Greta leaned in immediately, her eyes sweeping through the darkness, landing for the millionth time on Luke. Mostly, he stayed in position at the deep fryer, his attention securely on his task and distracted only when someone came up for catfish. His eyes never once flitted in her direction. It was just in the past ten minutes that he had finally left, first disappearing into the parish hall then returning outside to reign over the football players who laughed around a bonfire out past the tables in a clearing on the edge of the woods. Ky was out there, too. Even younger Dakota. They sat on the fringe, with another boy who looked to be closer to their age. Luke stood nearest them, protectively.

  “What?” Greta hissed back.

  “First of all, I think there is a catch.”

  Her heart sank. “Like what? Is it a dump? Is the rent super high? Did they fib or something?”

  “No, no, no.” Maggie licked her lips, grabbing her sweaty lemonade, the ice melted down to nothing by now. The white rim of the cup caught a reflection of the fire and bobbed with light in front of Maggie’s face.

  Briar swatted at a mosquito for the millionth time, and Greta reached her two hands out and slapped it between her palms. “Spill, Miss Maggie Devereux. Spill.”

  Maggie gulped the beverage and nodded. Her face serious, her voice low but animated, she leveled her gaze on Greta and divulged every gory detail. “Okay, here we go. So, Liesel, bless her heart, can’t stand to be in her dead mother’s house. Who can blame her? Right? Well, Luke, bless his heart, is about to be too busy, what with school and football, to keep checking in on the old place. And you know how football season is around here.” Maggie paused only to lift her eyebrow. “Well, you see, turns out that Mamaw Hart was basically the night manager for the inn, in addition to running the place. Then when she went into care, well, Stella—she’s the day cle
rk—pitched in. But Stella is, well. Let’s just say it wasn’t working. Liesel helped where she could, and I guess Luke was practically on call twenty-four-seven. Now that ol’ June Hart is dead and gone, Liesel and Luke are all but at each other’s throats over what to do with the whole thing. They have the house and that precious little inn but hardly any income to justify keeping both. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I doubt either one is hurting for cash, but running a second home and a literal mansion can’t be cheap, right? But then again, it’s an heirloom, you know, so there’s that to consider.” Maggie stopped for a breath but instead drew the red cup back to her lips, gulping at it again as though it wasn’t the lemonade that could possibly quench her thirst, but finishing the gossip.

  Briar started to whine. She’d hit her wall.

  Greta pressed Maggie, desperate for the final details. “So then, that’s it? Why did you say there was a catch?”

  “They don’t exactly want to rent the house next door. It’s not meant to be a ‘rental house,’” Maggie dragged her fingers into quotation marks into the night air.

  “What do you mean?” Greta asked, chewing furiously on her fingernails, bitter bits of pink polish depositing on her tongue and lips. The chance at a place to live might be just out of reach. Or just within it, depending on what her friend said next.

  “Greta, honey. Listen to me.” Maggie’s eyes flashed in the dark. Wisps of Briar’s downy hair blowing up into her face. “They want to turn it into an innkeeper’s house.”

  Chapter 12—Luke

  Ignoring Greta for the duration of Fry-day proved dang near impossible. Luke had never focused harder on a bubbling basin of grease.

  Even with concerted effort, he still couldn’t shake her. Not her beauty and not the painful way she excused herself from the conversation with Liesel and Fern.

  Besides that, his and Liesel’s one shot at a decent candidate for the Inn blew away like dandelion fluff on a summer breeze.

  The ensuing weekend saw him hitting the playbooks and tapes again, squeezing in his own workouts on the track and meeting Mark for breakfast after mass. And, of course, hours at the inn. Liesel didn’t pressure him to be there, just as Mamaw never would have. But that pressure existed, pulling Luke over whenever he had a spare moment. Come Monday, when it was time to report back to school, Mamaw’s house was cleaned out, and Stella was advised to call Liesel if anything came up, since Luke couldn’t leave work as easily.

  Liesel’s stress had grown insurmountable, though. She wrung her hands and fretted to the high Heavens about whether to sell. At one point, Luke couldn’t hold back any longer, telling her if she and Fern hadn’t pressured Greta, she might have said yes.

  Then again, he knew that was a long shot, anyway. They hadn’t even spelled out the terms of the arrangement. Plus, now they’d be working together. She was too cute to make it a comfortable scenario, and Liesel was too overbearing and fraught with anxiety for anything to go well. Liesel murmured that she’d reach out to Maggie herself to set up an interview, which Luke fiercely opposed, threatening his aunt that if she meddled one more time, he would step away from the whole thing.

  He hated to do that to his aunt, who really did mean well and really did have cause to panic. But Luke couldn’t allow stress from his personal life to seep into his workplace.

  Of course, as he stepped from the shower Monday morning, a fresh polo and khaki shorts laid out on his bed, new sneakers on the floor, he knew it already had.

  Not once in Luke’s entire teaching career had he laid out his outfit the night before. He suspected other types (such as Mark) took to such measures to prepare. That wasn’t really Luke though. He was a casual guy. So, stepping into the carefully selected outfit felt both ridiculous and also... important.

  He showed up just before seven-thirty, which is when Mrs. Cook and her admin team would have breakfast and coffee set out. Before going to the cafeteria, where their Welcome Back meeting would commence, he diverted to his office, adding an extra spray of cologne and grabbing his spare pack of gum. Plus, he had an extra clipboard and notebook on his desk, which he grabbed along with a pencil.

  By the time he made it to the cafeteria, it was seven thirty-five. Standing on the freshly waxed tiles, he let out a sigh and scanned the space. Some of the staff had already arrived, and Mark was slogging down the buffet table, neatly curating his breakfast table.

  No sign of Greta Houston.

  Luke found an empty, outermost table, set his things down, then joined Mark in line.

  “Welcome back, my man.” He squeezed his friend’s shoulders and grabbed a plate, scooping fresh fruit and sliding a bagel on as they made brief small talk and wandered back to the seats Luke had picked out.

  “Let me grab my stuff.” Mark walked to a different empty table and returned with his own clipboard and notebook as well as a novel.

  Luke pointed to it. “Think you’ll sneak in a little recreation?”

  “Always,” Mark replied with a grin.

  “Another historical?” Luke tried to make out the cover, and his friend grabbed the book and held it up.

  “Not this time. This one is a Mitch Albom. Lighter reading. And deeper reading, I guess. One of those books that just grabs you and sucks you in. Fast read, but it’ll pull your guts out.

  Luke nodded and swept his eyes across the cafeteria again.

  “She’s not here,” Mark said through bites of a croissant.

  Three members of the English department sauntered in from the door that connected to the front office. Luke tried to avoid eye contact, but Mark raised his hand and waved to them.

  “What are you doing?” Luke hissed. He hadn’t chugged enough coffee to pretend he was in the loop on their Shakespeare references and snide comments about grammar. “I’d rather sit with the maintenance guys.”

  “Just watch and learn,” Mark replied, his voice low.

  “Donna, Judy!” He smiled and waved at the open seats. The third, Susan, beelined for the breakfast spread. “Come on over. Plenty of room.”

  Luke mustered a smile to the women, immediately uneasy.

  Thankfully, Mark took the lead. “How was your summer ladies?”

  The women chatted happily about where they went and what they did. Books they read. Luke forced himself to nod along. At one point, when Susan had returned, a realization formed in Luke’s mind.

  He glanced around the room again, while Mark was recounting what he’d read so far in Tuesdays with Morrie. When there was still no sign of Greta, he started to eye empty seats at the smattering of round tables. Three with the science people. Four with the secretary and dean. Two open spots at the table where the other social studies teacher sat with the math folks.

  One at his own table. With the English teachers.

  Luke slowly turned his head to Mark, who had broken from his own animated conversation about the merits of the memoir in a publishing world dominated by novels, or something.

  “I know exactly what you’re doing,” he hissed.

  “I’m not doing anything,” Mark replied, his eyes flashing beyond Luke. “Now, look alive, kid.” Then, abruptly he added, “Stand up.”

  “What?” Luke asked, frowning.

  “Be a gentleman and stand up.”

  “Why?” But as he said it, Mark rose and smiled at something behind Luke.

  The other women at the table turned their attention, too, and immediately oohed and ahhed and gushed.

  “Good morning, everyone!” Mrs. Cook’s voice rose cheerfully behind Luke. He whipped around in his seat and started to stand, only to come face to face with her.

  Mrs. Cook pressed on. “I’d like you to meet Miss Greta Houston. She’s joining our Language Arts Department this year.”

  The others at the table stood, and handshakes were crossing the laminate wood top, leaving in their ghostly wake invisible threads of a spider web. The H.G.M.S. tradition of warmth and welcoming was alive and well. But when Greta had finished smiling and takin
g in the new names, and when Mrs. Cook had left her there to go see about a sound check for her microphone, a waiting quiet wrapped them.

  Luke pulled himself together and offered his hand. “Miss Houston,” he said, mustering a professional tone. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” she answered. He could have sworn he detected a smile behind her lips.

  It was time she took a seat. The empty one, conveniently and inconveniently was directly next to Luke.

  He wavered momentarily, struck by the fact that he wasn’t sure if now was a good time to pull a seat out for her or if it would come across as indecent. If he did, was he being respectful? The rules and nuances of the workplace momentarily eluded him, as though he was experiencing a stroke, then and there. He froze up, and instead of making a decision, he awkwardly just rested his hand on the chair back.

  “Um,” Greta looked around the table, but the others had returned their attention to Mark, who launched into another controversial point about the usefulness of Spark Notes in the modern English classroom.

  Luke, still frozen, gathered the energy to swallow. He watched Greta’s eyes drift down to his hand, but words stuck in his throat like gum.

  “Is that seat...?” She pointed to the chair, which finally moved him to action. The only thing he could do was to pull it out.

  The metal legs screeched against the tile, and all eyes were on them.

  Luke murmured an apology and sank into his own wobbly chair as Greta made herself comfortable.

  “You should grab a bite to eat, dear,” Susan pointed out as she bit into a blueberry muffin.

  Again, Luke wondered if the polite thing was to get Greta a plate, or if that would be wildly inappropriate. Never in his life had he questioned the norms of interacting with a co-worker at a work event. It was ridiculous. He closed his eyes momentarily, willing his brain to just turn off already.

  “Oh, thanks,” Greta replied, glancing briefly at Luke.

  Silently, he took a deep breath. “I need a top-up. I’ll walk with you, Miss Houston.”