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“and my other boys kept the brothers’ vow of silence. But I knew, and I bought him this CD player he’d been saving up for. So he knew I knew.”
“They’ve got Riley blood, and Rileys take care of their own. Montgomerys, too.” Carolee jabbed a finger in the air. “It’s how that Freemont boy was raised. Spoiled rotten. His mother’s the worst—never could stand that woman—but his father’s just as bad for going along. Anything he wanted, anytime he wanted. And he just lorded it over everybody.”
“She got what she deserved, didn’t she?” Justine shrugged. “A big prick for a son.”
Clare smiled as she started the grinder. Justine Montgomery was exactly what Clare wanted to be when she grew up. Smart, strong, self-aware, an excellent and beloved mother to her sons. An attractive woman with her dark hair scooped up in a sassy tail, the body she kept in excellent shape clad in casual but stylish capris and a thin white shirt.
Carolee, who had stood up to browse with her sister, was pale gold, nearly as tall, delicate in build.
They were bonded like glue, Clare knew.
Justine walked over, set two books on the counter. “You know, honey, Ryder—any of them—would warn Sam off if you said the word.”
“Thanks, really, but I can handle him.”
“Just keep that in your back pocket. So Owen tells me you and Avery may have a prospect for innkeeper now that Karen’s buying baby booties.”
“Hope would be amazing. I think the place deserves someone as talented as she is. I only really got the sense of one room—Beckett filled us in on Titania and Oberon this morning. But oh, I’m in love. I can really picture it.”
“You and Avery both have good heads on your shoulders, so your recommendation’s something I take seriously. That place.” She stepped over to look out the glass in the front door. “It’s got my heart now. Ours—doesn’t it, Carolee?”
“I’ve never had so much fun in my life. Helping to pick out everything from four-poster beds to soap dishes. We’re going to have a smell contest next week.”
Clare paused as she added whipped cream to the iced coffee. “Sorry?”
“Scents,” Justine explained with a laugh. “You put us on to Joanie—Cedar Ridge Soaps.”
“Oh, she’s great, isn’t she? She did tell me she was going to do your amenities, all locally made. I think that’s such a wonderful idea.”
“With each room having its own signature scent.”
“Now that’s a fabulous idea. Soaps, shampoos, lotion. Have you thought of doing diffusers?”
Justine narrowed her eyes. “Not until right this minute. Can she do those?”
“She can. I use them at home.”
“Carolee—”
“I’m writing it down.”
“That does look sinful.” Justine took both cups, carried one to her sister. Have you got a minute, Clare?”
“Of course.”
“I wanted to talk to you about The Library. We’re going to hit the used bookstore for the bulk, I think, but I want to mix in some new. I want romance novels, thrillers, mysteries. The kind of thing somebody might like to read on a rainy day, or curled up in front of the fire on a cold night. Can you put a list together, things you’d recommend?”
“Of course.”
“Mix of paperbacks and hardcovers. And some of the local books. Nonfiction on the area. Nobody’s got a better spread of those than you. You can put some together now, some closer to the first of the year. Add that to the books for each room. And Beckett said you can get DVDs.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I want DVDs of all the room books, and I’m going to make you a list of what I want us to have on hand for guests. You can add any ideas you have on those, too, if you think of any.”
“I will.” She grinned at Carolee. “It is fun. I’m going back over later, to get a better sense. Beckett asked if I’d help write the brochure copy.”
“Did he?”
“If that’s all right.”
“It’s just fine with me.” Justine smiled as she licked whipped cream from her fingertip.
CHAPTER FOUR
ARMED WITH A NOTEBOOK SHE’D ALREADY ORGANIZED and divided, Clare crossed Main Street. Helping out with room descriptions wouldn’t take much time or trouble, but it made her feel a part of the project. In a minor role. Plus, she’d help select and supply some of the books and DVDs.
She wondered what the inn’s library would look like. Would there be a fireplace? Oh, she hoped there’d be a fireplace. Maybe, if she inched her way in, they’d let her help set it up.
She stepped in through the back, into the bangs, buzzes, and echoes. She heard a voice say “fuck yourself, Mike” in easy, casual tones—and the answering “I would, but your sister did such a good job of it last night.”
Laughter rolled out just ahead of Beckett.
He stopped, stared at her, then blew out a breath. “Lady in the house,” he called out. “Sorry.”
“No problem. I thought there were already ladies in the house.”
“Mom and Carolee are checking out the third floor. And they’re used to it anyway. So, okay. Ah . . .”
He looked distracted, she realized, and busy. And just a little confused.
“If this isn’t a good time, I can—”
“No, just shifting gears. We can start right here.”
Relieved she wouldn’t have to bottle her excitement for later, she turned a circle.
“Where is here?”
“You’re standing in The Lobby—double glass doors where you came in—they’ll look out on The Courtyard. Tile floor, nice pattern, with a tile rug centered to highlight the big round table under the chandelier. The light’s kind of contemporary and cool, and organic. Looks like white glass pieces that melted. Mom wants big, showy flowers on the table. Couple of slipper chairs there.”
“Tell me you’re keeping the brick wall exposed.”
“Yeah. The chairs, the tile have a French feel to them, straw green upholstery, bronze rivets on the chairs, so it’s a blend of rustic and French. Mom’s still fiddling with the table for the chairs. Maybe another chair in the corner, and I think we’ll need something on the facing wall.”
She studied it, tried to get a picture. “A little server, maybe.”
“Maybe. Artwork to be determined, but we’re going local all the way, and we’ll have a list of the art and artists in the room packages, with pricing.”
“That’s a great idea.” He rattled everything off so fast she assumed he was in a hurry. She scribbled down notes as quick as she could, trying to keep pace. “So this is really a pass-through? A place to sit down with a cup of coffee or tea, maybe a glass of wine? You didn’t say anything about a desk or counter for check-in, so—”
“That’s Reception. Entrance for that’ll be right off the sidewalk. I’ll take you around. Jog left from here, and into The Lounge.” He gestured, vaguely, toward a short hallway. “It’s crammed with equipment and materials right now. It’s long, a little narrow. It used to be the carriageway.”
“A lounge, for . . . lounging?”
“Hanging out. Kind of a contemporary pub feel, I guess. We’re going leather sofa and chairs. Big, comfortable, rolling ottomans for the wing chairs. Mom went for yellow.”
For the first time, he smiled, seemed to relax.
“I thought Ry was going to have her committed.”
“Buttery yellow, buttery leather.” She tried to imagine having a yellow leather sofa, thought of the kids. Just couldn’t do it. “I bet it’s going to be fabulous.”
“She and Carolee swear it’ll have that upscale pub feel. Some kind of card or game table, with lime green leather club chairs,” he continued. “Thirty-two-inch flatscreen. Three ceiling lights—organic feel again—oak leaves. We’re still filling in the details.”
“I can’t believe how far ahead you are, and how you can furnish a place when it’s still under construction.” She scribbled in her notebook as she s
poke. “I should’ve known Justine wouldn’t go for chintz and gingham.”
“She wants a jewel, every facet sharp and shiny. We’re going to give it to her.”
Struck, Clare looked up. “It’s nice, the way you are. All of you. It’s what I want for me and my boys. The affection, the teamwork, the understanding.”
“I’ve seen you with your boys. I’d say you already have what you want.”
“Some days I feel like the ringmaster in a three-ring circus inhabited by demons. I imagine your mother felt the same.”
“I think if you asked her, she’d say she still does.”
“Comforting and scary at the same time.”
Yes, he looked busy, distracted—and flat-out sexy on top of it. But she’d been wrong about the confused. He knew every sharp and shiny facet of the jewel they were creating.
She remembered she’d dreamed about him one night not long ago, and, flustered, turned away.
“What’s down there?”
“The ADA room and the front entrance to the dining room.”
“Which one’s the ADA room?”
“Marguerite and Percy.”
“Scarlet Pimpernel. Speaking of French.” She flipped through the notebook. Tilting his head, Beckett noted she’d headed sections with the room names. “Can I see it?”
“You can try. It’s got material stacked in it, too. It’s the smallest,” he said as he led her down the short hall. “We had to work with the footprint of the building, and the ADA code. Going with two full-sized beds, night table between, with this great old ornate lamp that was my grandmother’s.”
“You’re putting family things in here?”
“Here and there when they work. Mom wants to.”
