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“I think it’s lovely the way you’re mixing in some of your family things. It makes it more personal.”
“This whole building’s personal.” Justine reached out, rubbed Owen’s arm. “You hang that mirror, then I’ll cut you loose.”
“Can you take a look, see if you like the arrangement in here?” Hope asked Justine.
Owen seized the opportunity to hang the mirror without two fussing opinions as his mother went into the bath with Hope.
He measured, marked, again approved his mother’s choice—the mirror’s frame picked up the purple tone of the occasional chair and still managed to be dainty.
With his mind on his task, and wandering toward others on his list, the waft of honeysuckle didn’t register. He began to hum as he hammered, unconsciously picking up the tune that whispered on the air.
He picked up the mirror, slid the wire over the hanger. Being Owen, he reached for the mini level in his tool belt to check the position.
And saw her.
For an instant she stood in a dove gray dress, her hands folded at the waist of the bell of the skirt. Her blond hair swept back from her face, bound into some sort of net at the nape with a few wispy curls escaping to flutter at her cheeks.
She smiled at him.
He spun around, and it was Hope, dark hair clipped back, a dust rag hanging out of the pocket of her jeans, and her dark eyes wide against her pale face.
“Did you see that?” Owen demanded.
“I . . .”
But she wasn’t looking at him. She stared at the doorway to the hall. At Ryder.
“When you’re finished playing house with the women, I’ve got actual work for you,” Ryder told him.
“Did you see that?” Owen repeated. “She was here.”
“Which she? They’re every damn where.” He glanced toward Hope as he spoke, then he frowned. “Sit down,” he ordered.
When she simply stared, he strode over, took her arm, and dumped her into the pretty little chair. “Mom! Your innkeeper’s having a moment.”
Justine rushed out, took one look, and dropped down at Hope’s feet. “Honey, what’s wrong? Ryder, get her some water.”
“No. No. I’m fine. I just . . .”
“Jesus Christ, did anybody see that?” Frustrated, Owen waved his arms in the air.
“Where the hell is—” Beckett broke off as he came into the room. “What’s wrong?”
“I saw her. She was right there. Did you see her?”
“Who? Hope? I’m looking at her.” Then Beckett’s eyes narrowed. “Elizabeth? You saw Lizzy?”
“She was standing right there.”
“You saw her? Why you? That kind of pisses me off,” Beckett decided.
“Did you see her?” Ignoring his brother, Owen focused on Hope. “She was right there. Then you were.”
“I . . .”
Ryder yanked a water bottle from his belt, shoved it at her. “Drink.”
“I’ll get you a glass,” Justine said when Hope stared at the bottle.
“No. I’m fine.” But she lifted the bottle, drank deep. “Fine. It just startled me.”
“You did see her.”
“Yes. And no. For a second, I thought I did, but it was more feeling her. That sounds crazy.” She looked directly at Ryder. “She’s waiting.”
“For what?”
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
“She smiled at me. I was hanging the mirror, and I saw her in it. Reflected in it. Gray dress, hair thing, netty kind of thing in the back. She’s blond, pretty. Young.” As Hope held the bottle back out to Ryder, Owen snagged it, finished it off. “Wow.”
“She was humming,” Justine said. “I heard humming, and smelled honeysuckle. I stood still a moment, wondering if . . . but I didn’t see her. Come on, sweetie, I’ll take you downstairs.”
“I’m fine,” Hope repeated. “She just . . . It’s an experience, but I’m not scared of her. I’ve felt her before. This was more intense.”
“The building’s nearly back. And this room?” Beckett circled around. “It basically is. Stuff on the walls, bedding on the bed, towels on the rack,” he noted. “I’m thinking she likes it.”
“Now that we’ve satisfied our ghost, maybe we can cut our way through this punch-out list.”
“No romance in Ry’s soul,” Beckett said sadly. “Everybody okay?”
Hope nodded. “I’m—”
“Fine,” Ryder finished. “How many times does she have to say it? Let’s get to work.” But he paused at the doorway, gave Hope one last study. “It looks good in here.”
“He’s right about that anyway. Take a minute if you need it,” Beckett advised Owen, then walked out after Ryder.
“I saw her.” Owen grinned when he said it. “Very cool. She smiled at me,” he added, and strode out.
“Do you want some fresh air, some time off?”
Hope shook her head at Justine. “No, but thanks. Ryder had it right—I had a moment. I guess there’ll be more of them.” Hope pushed to her feet. “I’d say she likes the room.”
“She’d be crazy not to.” Justine continued to rub Hope’s arm. “If you’re up for it, we can start fussing in T&O.”
“Let’s.”
An experience, Hope thought as she picked up the empty hamper. Owen had been right about that. And Elizabeth had smiled at him—briefly. But it had been Ryder who’d brought on that sudden burst of emotion, that bittersweet tangle of joy and grief, so strong, so real Hope’s own legs had all but buckled under it.
Whatever it meant, she assumed she’d find out when she took up residence at the inn.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HER LIFE WAS chaos, and she had no one to blame but herself.
In Beckett’s former office area, one she’d semi-transformed to her own, Avery sat surrounded by boxes, wrapping paper, tissue, ribbons, and bows.
Insanity.
She promised herself, every year, she’d do better. She’d shop earlier—and with a list—she’d keep her wrapping paper and ribbons and so on in their containers, packing them back up again after every wrapping session.
She would approach the purchase, storing, wrapping, and stacking of Christmas presents like a sensible adult.
And she meant to, absolutely.
Next year, for certain.
She knew how to organize and stay that way, but it seemed to her all her organization skills arrowed toward work and missed her life by a mile.
So, as usual, with three short days until Christmas, she dug through gift boxes, tore through piles of ribbon, panicked every time she couldn’t find what she knew she put right there a minute ago, and generally exhausted herself.
She loved Christmas.
She loved the music—which she knew drove other people crazy by the time the big day arrived. She loved the lights, the color, the secrets, and excitement.
She loved the shopping and the wrapping, and the happy satisfaction of seeing gifts all bright and pretty in ordered stacks. So why did she always end up rushing through it all at t
he last minute?
But this year, at least, she refused to spend the last hours and minutes of Christmas Eve in a stressful, eleventh-hour whirlwind. She’d have everything wrapped, stacked, bagged, and ready tonight.
Tomorrow, latest.
She’d given up working at the counter—just too much stuff, so she sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes and scraps of paper, hanks of ribbons. Next year, definitely, she’d organize the counter space first, and she’d buy more containers for bows and so on. Label them, like Hope did.
Damn Hope anyway.
Thinking of Hope and her currently annoying efficiency, Avery admired the earrings she’d bought for her friend. Good shopping job, she congratulated herself. She reboxed them, selected the silver foil paper, the curly red bow, the matching tag. She head-bopped to Springsteen’s “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” as she carefully cut the paper to size, meticulously folded the raw ends.
Organization might be lacking, she admitted, but by God, her presents would be beautifully wrapped.
She reached for her tape, pulled the end—and got the sliver left on the roll.
“Damn it.”
No problem, she told herself. She’d bought more tape.
She was sure of it.
After a fifteen-minute search with rising frustration, trickles of panic, and a lot of swearing, she admitted she’d meant to buy more tape.
So, no problem. She’d just run out and buy some.
She checked the time, cursed again.
