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your mother, but I thought we could put a journal in each room—themed to it. I got this on loan from TTP. Guests could write comments in them.”
“Fine with me.”
“Good. And I thought we could get a nice registration book. I know we’re not doing that sort of thing, but if we could find a classy one, put it on the desk in The Library, it’s another way for guests to write something. And I got this sample today.”
She reached inside the planet again, pulled out a cream-colored folder. “For the rooms—we put a nice welcome note in here on the stationery—from the staff, the list of art when we get that worked out, a menu from Avery’s, other information.”
“You’re having entirely too much fun with this.”
“I really am, and just wait until I start buying office supplies. Oh, and while I’ve got one of you, I thought of a few things last night.”
She reached in again, pulled out an enormous notebook.
“Beckett!” Ryder yelled down from the second-floor porch. “Are you going to stand around making time with the innkeeper all day, or get any actual work done?”
“Kiss my ass,” Beckett called back pleasantly.
“I’ll let you go.” Hope stuck the notebook back in her bag. “Tell me something first. Is he ever going to call me by name, or am I always going to be ‘the innkeeper’?”
“The only time you have to worry is when he calls you that damn innkeeper.”
“I suppose so.”
She glanced up again, cool stare in place, but wasted it as Ryder had already gone back in.
FOR THE FIRST time in months, Beckett considered demoing his apartment bathroom and installing a hot tub. He might not have been a gym rat, but he considered himself in pretty damn good shape. Or had, until the day of hauling tubs and toilets, sinks, vanities, and Christ knew what up a couple flights of stairs—multiple times—had done him in.
Everything ached.
A hot tub, he thought as he stripped and dropped sweaty, filthy clothes on the bathroom floor. Maybe a new shower system with body jets like they were putting in the inn.
An in-house masseuse would be a nice touch.
One thing, he told himself as he got into his all-too-pedestrian shower, he’d be modifying his house plans and adding some well-deserved perks to the master bath.
Of course, the way he was going, he’d be an AARP member before he built the damn place. Really had to get on that.
But right at the moment, building anything, including the doghouse he’d promised the kids they’d start next week, seemed like the seventh level of hell.
One of these fine days he’d stick with his drawing board, his CAD, his slide rule, and blueprints, and just tell other people where to hammer, saw, and haul.
“Yeah, that’s going to happen,” he mumbled and tried to imagine hot jets swirling and pulsing around tired muscles. His imagination didn’t quite make the grade.
He remembered to pick up the clothes, ditch the towel in the hamper when he considered Clare might use the bathroom when she came to pick him up.
His back snarled at him—he snarled back.
Since he didn’t know where they were going, he considered wardrobe choices. Probably not jeans, though jeans and a sweatshirt seemed like the perfect choice for his overworked body.
He settled on black pants and a casual shirt with tiny blue and green checks. If absolutely necessary, he could dress it up with a tie and—please God, don’t make me—a jacket.
If she hadn’t already made plans, whatever they were, he’d have nudged her toward a quiet evening in, with delivery and DVDs.
But a woman who worked all week, at home and at business, deserved a fun evening out on a Saturday night.
If she wanted to go dancing, he might break down in tears.
He glanced around the apartment, deemed it reasonably clean, mostly because he hadn’t spent enough time in it recently to mess it up. Between Clare, work, family meetings, dogs, kids, time for sprawling out with beer, chips, and ESPN had dwindled down to next to never.
He paused a moment, asking himself if he missed it, and decided not very much. Being busy had its perks, especially being busy with Clare and her engaging brood, work he genuinely loved, the regular contact with his own family. Time to stop bitching, he decided, and maybe stock up on the BenGay.
The brisk knock sounded just as he considered stretching out on the couch for five minutes. Telling himself to stop thinking like an old man, he opened the door.
Avery and Hope, arms loaded, breezed in and straight by him.
“Pretend we’re not here,” Avery advised as she marched back to his kitchen.
“What—”
“Hi.” Clare paused long enough to offer him a kiss. “We’re just going to set up. It won’t take long.”
“Okay. Set up what?”
“This and that. Enough of this and too much of that for me to carry up by myself.”
“We’re invisible.” Avery cleared off the drop-leaf table he sometimes used for eating. “You can’t see us.”
Hope opened a white cloth, draped the table with a quick billow and snap while Avery pulled a corkscrew out of her pocket. She drew the cork on a bottle of cab, set it on a silver wine holder.
“I thought we’d have dinner in. I hope that’s okay.”
Baffled, Beckett followed Clare into the kitchen to watch her put a roasting pan in his oven. “You want to stay in?”
“Unless you hate the idea.”
“No, but—”
She wore a dress, short and slim in a dark, deep blue, and shiny red shoes with tall, skinny heels.
“You look great.” He caught the scent of something miraculous. “What’s in the oven?”
“Pot roast.”
“Seriously?”
Obviously pleased, she laughed. “I talked to your mother, and she said it was your favorite. Hopefully mine will measure up to hers.”
“You made pot roast?”
“And a few other things. If that wine’s breathed long enough, why don’t you pour us a glass. I have a little fussing to do yet in here.”
“Sure, I’m . . .” He trailed off when he saw a familiar shape on the counter. He stepped over, lifted the lid. “Apple pie? Are you kidding me? You baked a pie?”
“Also rumored to be a favorite. I like baking pies when I have time.”
“Clare, this must’ve taken you all day to put together. I didn’t expect—”
“Why?” She tipped her head at him. “Why shouldn’t you expect now and then. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“I guess I did. It’s just . . . wow.”
“You take me out. You take my kids out. You brought them dogs, and put in motion lights at my house. You give us all time and attention, Beckett. I wanted to give some back to you.”
It staggered him. It moved him. “I think this is the best thing anyone’s done for me in maybe ever.”
“I don’t know about ever, but I enjoyed doing it. How about that wine?”
“Sure.”
He stepped out, saw that Hope and Avery had transformed his lowly drop leaf into a sparkling table for two, complete with candles and flowers. Music played quietly from his stereo.
He poured the wine, carried the glasses into the kitchen, where Clare put together a fancy tray of olives. “It looks pretty impressive out there. Are they really invisible, or did they leave?”
“It’s just you and me.” She took the glass, tapped it to his. “So, to just you and me for an evening.”
“I can’t think of better. Clare. Thanks.”
“Beckett.” She moved into his arms. “You’re welcome.”
She wouldn’t let him help, and he had to admit it felt damn good just to sit with her, talk over wine and fancy appetizers. He felt the burden and effort of the day slip away—and pure gratitude when they sat at the table and he took his first bite of her pot roast.
“It definitely measures up.”
“Your
mother and I compared recipes. They were pretty close. I had to make it good,” she added, “so you wouldn’t be disappointed we weren’t going out.”
“Clare, I hauled half a ton of bathroom fixtures up those stairs today. By the time I got home I felt like an eighty-year-old man who got run over by a truck. Pot roast and apple pie at home? It’s like Christmas.”
“I heard you worked today. I thought you’d all take Saturday off.”
“Normally, but we wanted to get the fixtures up so the plumber can start Monday morning.”
“It’s getting more real, isn’t it? It’s not just a building, however beautiful. It’s form and function now, or coming to it. I remember when we put in the bookshelves, the counter, opening those first boxes of books. I remember that so well, that feeling of this is real now. This is actually a bookstore. Mine.”
“Most days there’s so much going on, so it’s get it done and think about what’s next. But yeah, there are days like this when it hits. It’s real.” He topped off her wine, then his own. “Right now, here with you, I can look back to beginnings, to plans, to how can we do this, and real’s good. Tell me you’ll stay tonight?”
