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Her attention lingered on her son’s sweet face, and a fresh wave of grief closed her throat. He looked so much like his daddy. If only Eric could see him, hold him. Instead he’d died without ever realizing he was going to be a father.
The door to her left opened, and her grandmother stepped out onto the wraparound porch. People took Mary Tucker for fifty instead of seventy. Her boho attire added to her youthful air. Today’s outfit was enough to make Carly want to reach forsunglasses. The bright yellow top contrasted with the red-and-blue patchwork skirt that swirled around her grandmother’s slim figure in voluminous folds. Crystal clips kept her white hair in an updo that accented her cheekbones. The soft blue reflection of the porch ceiling enhanced her grandmother’s creamy skin and deepened the color of her eyes.
She carried a Boleslawiec tray with two mugs. Carly eyed the traditional Polish peacock design of the mugs and straightened.
Gram set the tray down on a table beside the Adirondack chair near the swing and leaned over to drop a cube of sugar into each mug of tea. She stirred the tea with a prized Sheffield spoon before handing one of the mugs to Carly. “Here you go, sweetheart. Herbal, of course, so Noah doesn’t get any caffeine.”
Carly accepted the mug and saucer with her right hand and balanced it on the swing. “What’s wrong, Gram?”
“Why would you think anything is wrong?” She settled on the chair and lifted her mug to her lips.
“You only bring out your favorite peacock mugs when you want to stay calm. What are you trying to talk me into now?” Carly smiled to take the sting out of her question.
“Busted.” An impish light danced in Gram’s blue eyes. “Have you thought about what to do next, sugar?” Her soft southern drawl was one Carly could listen to for hours. “I mean, you’ve been here for seven months now. The flea market season is in full swing, and you haven’t made a move to look at my mama’s estate pieces to get them ready for sale. I know little Noah has consumed every waking minute since he was born, but it seems unusual you haven’t made any noisesabout resuming your previous life. I’ve heard you typing a bit on your computer at night, and I suspect you’re finally writing a novel like you’ve talked about for years.”
Carly nodded. “I’m trying, but I still haven’t landed on the right story.” Her smile faded as she examined her grandmother’s face. “Noah’s been keeping you up, hasn’t he? I can change rooms and stay at the other end of the house.” The huge Georgian home was over five thousand square feet. Surely there was a place where Noah’s colicky cries wouldn’t disturb her grandmother.
Carly had moved in right after Eric’s death and had spent seven months of her pregnancy here before the baby came. It had been a lot to ask of her grandmother.
Gram put her tea down and reached over to place her hand on Carly’s knee. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. He never awakens me. It’s been so wonderful—like having my babies all over again. I’m going about this all wrong. I don’t ever want you to leave.”
“I’m confused, Gram. If you don’t want me to leave, what are you trying to say?”
Gram gestured at the expansive porch and view. “I want to restore this place and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. And I want you to run it. You won’t have to leave Noah, and you can putter around with your writing if you want.”
Carly’s gasp made Noah stir, his rosebud mouth puckering as if he was about to cry. She gave another push of the swing with her foot, and he settled. “But what about Amelia and Emily? They’ll think I’m trying to cut them out.”
Gram’s lips pursed. “You’ve babied those girls way too much, Carly Ann.” When Carly opened her mouth to protest,Gram waved her hand. “I know—I know. They needed you after your mama died. Lord knows I love my son, but Kyle has never grown up. You shouldn’t have had to shoulder the burden of raising your sisters. The problem is they expect you to rush in and fix things for them. If they want a part of this house, they need to help restore it. Emily can design the interior to her heart’s content, and Amelia will give it the finest paint job in all of Beaufort.”
Carly found her voice. “Gram, I don’t know anything at all about running an inn.”
“Lordy, I never met anyone with more of a gift for gab than you, Carly Ann. You could talk the paint off a fence post. And it’s not fake—it’s always clear to people that you care about them and are genuinely interested. We’ll buy baked goods from friends for breakfast, and we’ll have the best coffee anywhere in town.”
Carly looked across Bay Street to the water. The house boasted one of the best views in town, and the two “angel” trees on the front lawn had drawn amateur photographers for years. If a live oak tree branched down and rooted itself in the ground before stretching up to the sky again, it was a highly prized specimen of southern beauty. The biggest one in Gram’s yard had done its magic trick the year Carly’s mother died of a stroke at the much-too-young age of forty-five. Carly had always taken it as a sign Mama was looking down on them and smiling.
The massive home had been built in the early 1800s, and Carly had loved it for as long as she could remember. Huge verandas wrapped around both floors, and its red metal roof made a cheerful statement of invitation to passersby. She’ditched to bring it back to its former glory since she was in her teens, but Gram had always insisted it was perfect just the way it was with its worn rugs, uneven plaster, and wide plank floors.
“Gram, do you realize how much work it will take to reconfigure it for guests? For one thing, we’ll need more bathrooms. And we’d have to put in air-conditioning. Visitors won’t put up with sweltering all summer long like we do. You can talk until you’re blue in the face about opening the south-facing windows and letting the sea breeze lift the heat up through the top floor vents, but guests expect all the comforts of home.”
A frown settled on Gram’s face. “People are too soft these days. All that artificial air is bad for the lungs.”
“We’ll still have to fix it. And the cost. Gram, it will take alotof money.”
“Mama left me enough to do it. I’ve already consulted Ryan about taking on the job.”
Carly caught her breath at the mention of the next-door neighbor who had broken her heart all those summers ago. So far, she’d managed to avoid him, and she hoped to continue that good luck. “I see,” she muttered.
“I’m going to do this, Carly. It’s not up for discussion. Are you game to be an innkeeper, or do you long to go back to the hectic life of selling collectibles at flea markets?”
Carly stared down into the sleeping face of her infant son. A stable life for him would be right here in this home she’d loved all her life. “I’m in.” And she just might find more time to write.
***
Today was one of those days when Lucas Bennett wondered why he hadn’t chosen construction as a career instead of law enforcement. The spring breeze held the scent of salt and confederate jasmine, and puffy clouds blocked the worst of the sun’s scorching rays. He didn’t even mind the insects buzzing around his head as he and his brother, Ryan, nailed the last of the shingles on the garage in their backyard.
While their house had once been the most dilapidated on Bay Street, he and Ryan had worked diligently over the years since they’d inherited it from their parents to turn it into the beautiful lady it had been in 1850.
His gaze fell on the decaying porch of the house next door. Now Mary Tucker’s house held the distinction of being the most dilapidated. She’d had a metal roof put on last year, but it was the most current item on the grand old lady. Lucas had often thought about the things he’d do if he owned the mansion. But it had been in the Tucker family for generations, and he didn’t see it ever going on the market.
