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“What happened?” Peter asked. His cheeks fell.
“I’ll explain in the car,” Charlotte hissed. While Charlotte had taken the bus, Peter had driven. This made for an easy escape with Peter’s car.
Peter raised his shoulders. “Fine by me. I’ll get your suitcase,” he said. “Let’s get on the road.”
With the rest of her family in the dining room, laughing and gossiping over pie, Charlotte bundled up her illustrations and slipped the folder back into her suitcase. With a final glance at the illuminated Christmas tree and the crackling fire, she bolted through the foyer and out onto the front porch. By the time she’d buckled herself into the passenger seat of Peter’s car, she’d worked herself into a frenzy. Tears drifted down her cheeks. Peter hit the gas pedal too hard, and she flung forward.
“Let’s get out of this two-bit town, huh?” Peter said, touching her thigh as he whizzed along Main Street, ten miles over the speed limit. “Let’s go back to the city where we belong.”
ChapterSix
Present Day
Two days after Charlie met Charlotte Summers at Rudy’s bar, he found himself on the sidewalk in front of the Cherry Inn. As usual, he’d left his car back at the cabin, and he felt refreshed and sporty after yet another stroll through the snowy woods. On the way, he’d watched three chipmunks playing along the branches of an old oak, scurrying in and out of little holes. He’d felt like a little kid, captivated by nature.
To Charlie, the Cherry Inn was a perfect blend of three elements: historical architecture, small-town charm, and ornate features that made the old structure like something out of a fairy tale book. He could already picture it on the front cover ofArchitecture Digest, along with an article called something like: “Why You Should Spend Christmas in a Family-Run Inn.” With his help, he knew this place could be back up and running by next Christmas, with guests milling in and out, sitting on the porch swing with mulled wine or waving from the windows, their cheeks ruddy as they settled into the warm interior.
“Hey there.” Charlotte’s voice rang out from the front porch. She stood in the crack of the doorframe, smiling in a way that made it clear she wasn’t sure about him.
Charlie stepped onto the porch and strode toward her, eyeing the busted porch swing on the floor and the cracked windows.
“Time has really had its way with this old place,” Charlotte said with a sigh as she cranked the door open wider.
“This is nothing,” Charlie assured her. “Easy fixes.”
Charlotte laughed, and the sound was heavenly. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”
Charlie followed Charlotte into the foyer, where he stood along a dusty mahogany front desk, gazing at the beautiful wooden cubby holes that, once upon a time, had held iron keys for the suites upstairs. Charlotte closed the door behind them and crossed her arms. It seemed she was always closing herself off.
“Have you ‘flipped’ old inns like this before?” Charlotte asked, breaking through the strained silence.
“A few,” Charlie said. “I fell in love with Bar Harbor about ten years ago, and I spent a summer there, buying and flipping inns.”
What he didn’t tell her, of course, was that they’d only gone to Bar Harbor because Sarah’s family was from there, that one of the inns had belonged to Sarah’s cousin.
“Do you have photographs of your work?”
“I can send you my website. You can find anything about my work there. Photographs, articles, and testimonials from previous clients. Do you know who Baxter Bailey is? I’ve worked with him for many years. He backs my projects.” Charlie was babbling. He took a small step forward, and Charlotte inched back. Charlie wasn’t accustomed to this. Back in the city, women were continually drawn to him; they made excuses to whisper in his ear or touch his back. Sarah had always told him he was too handsome for his own good, that he drove people crazy. When she’d said this, he’d always shaken his head, refusing a statement he more-or-less understood to be true. But his charms were nothing to Charlotte. She looked at him the same way you’d look at a sign above a storefront or a normal-looking tree. He didn’t want this to bother him, but it did.
After a brief pause, Charlotte cleared her throat and said, “I haven’t heard of Baxter Bailey, no.” She turned on her heel and beckoned for him to follow her through the foyer and into the main living room, where furnishings had been covered with white sheets, the fireplace was filled with ash, paintings were crooked on the walls, and the hardwood was in dire need of polishing.
“It looks slightly haunted in here,” Charlie tried to joke.
Charlotte raised her shoulders but remained quiet. Charlie watched her eyes, noting how they seemed to scan everything. They were heavy with nostalgia, as though, upon every square inch of the old place, she felt the ache of long-ago memories.
“Like I said at the bar,” Charlotte began, “I don’t mind selling it next year. I just want my grandfather to be comfortable.”
“Why don’t you let me take a crack at it?” Charlie spoke too quickly, nearly scrambling his words. “It’s a gorgeous space. There’s so much potential here.”
Charlotte locked eyes with Charlie’s. Charlie’s diaphragm spasmed.
“I can’t tell if you’re just a sweet-talking Manhattanite,” Charlotte said, raising her eyebrow. “Maybe you’re just saying pretty things to get what you want.”
Charlie laughed nervously. It wasn’t every day you met a woman who spoke her mind like this, to the point of rudeness.
“But I can’t figure out why you would lie,” Charlotte continued. “You’ll probably lose money on this project. So, let me ask you. What’s in it for you?”
“I just want to make something beautiful,” Charlie stuttered. “Something that has nothing to do with a high-rise building for very rich people. Something that has a link to history.”
