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It was just after ten o’clock Thursday evening, and I was perched on Aunt Phyl’s stool behind the front desk, reflecting on a very difficult, draining day that had also filled my heart with love and made me feel supported.
Aunt Phyl’s funeral had been this morning. It was a fitting tribute to her, with a funeral-home full house, so to speak, and many tears, laughs, and memories shared during the service and afterward at the lunch in the church.
The Diamonds had closed ranks around me like the mother hens they were—well, mother hens plus Magnolia. They’d stood by my side throughout, making me feel like I wasn’t the only surviving family member, and that was fitting since Aunt Phyl had considered these women to be her sisters.
Loretta was the eternal ringleader, ensuring everything worked smoothly, that the receiving line kept moving, and the service started on time. Dotty was quietly efficient and had taken charge of the meal, making sure everyone’s donated dish was on the right section of the table—mains, sides, or desserts—and had a serving utensil. Rosy had hovered by me like a cross between a mom and a best friend, prompting me with names and coming up with the right thing to say when I couldn’t. Kona, Nancy, and Magnolia had always been nearby and quick to offer a reassuring hug.
Afterward, Magnolia and Dotty, who’d closed the Lily Pad for the day, had brought me back to the inn and insisted I take a nap. I’d been so depleted in every way that I’d done exactly that while they covered the inn. I had to admit I wouldn’t be able to stand up now without that hard-core pass-out nap.
This evening was poker night for the Diamonds, as every Thursday was. The ladies had all gathered here at the inn, where they normally met, and spent the past few hours remembering my aunt, laughing, sharing, and yes, there were more tears shed, including mine. They hadn’t gotten the cards out, just needed to be together.
It’d taken quite a bit of convincing, but I finally got them all out the door, leaving me here on the stool, breathing. Though I was exhausted, I resisted heading back to the cottage for the night. I’d slept there the past three nights, but I knew tonight, in my current mental state, it would echo with loss and emptiness, and I dreaded going inside. I intended to sit here and continue planning and researching for all the tasks on my inn to-do list.
I was still dedicated to not selling the Honeysuckle Inn, but there were some inherent challenges in that.
Obviously, my life was on the West Coast. I couldn’t move back here. Even if, God forbid, the Stream opportunity went south and they didn’t offer me the head writer job, I needed to be in LA.
I’d made countless in-person contacts over the years, through school, through former classmates who now worked in various positions in the industry, and through my dad, an attorney who represented several key players in the entertainment industry. Compelling screenplays were obviously a necessity, but being seen, networking, those counted too. You never knew what or who would bring about a big break. I’d landed my agent after Kelsey, one of my best friends from film school, introduced us at a party, and look where that agent had gotten me so far. Hopeful and on the cusp of something big.
When I’d made the decision to find a full-time manager, it had been approximately four thirty in the morning after no sleep and the shock of learning about my aunt’s death. I stood by that decision now, but in reality, finding the right person was going to take time.
Before I could begin the search, though, I needed to overhaul the inn. No one in their right mind would want to take charge of an out-of-date, tired, in-need-of-shit-tons-of-maintenance inn. It was just like real estate. If you wanted to sell, you had to make sure the property shone and looked pretty. If I wanted to find a new manager to nurture and love this place, it had to look hopeful and attractive.
Until I could hire a couple people to help at the front desk, I wouldn’t be able to fully dedicate myself to Operation Inn Overhaul. I didn’t know how my aunt had done it with only Deshon, other than posting her phone number and making herself continually on call. A few of the Diamonds had pitched in for the past three days, bless their golden hearts, yet I was still overwhelmed by the growing to-do list.
Deshon’s daughter hadn’t fully recovered, so he hadn’t been able to work.
Halstead had gone home for the day a couple of hours ago after coming back post-funeral, insisting he needed to stay occupied. Gretchen and her housekeeping staff had been gone for hours, so when I heard a noise in the gathering room on the other side of the stone fireplace, I got up to make sure it was an inn guest and not an intruder. I was ever wary of the lack of security on the lake side of the inn, as my aunt had been too trusting and, again, resistant to any kind of tech update that would require guests to access the deck door with a key card.
When I peeked around the wall, I spotted the guest I’d seen chatting with Loretta earlier. He was the only one of the six parties I hadn’t met yet, but I knew from checking out the index cards his name was Knox Breckenridge.
He sat in a worn, comfy easy chair that faced away from me, at a diagonal toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the lake during the day. A low end table sat in front of his chair and a second matching one. The dark-haired guy had a laptop on his lap, an open notebook on the table, and his gaze focused off in the distance.
I walked toward him and he looked up as I approached.
“Hello,” I said, flashing my friendly inn-owner smile I’d been working on. I held out my hand, noticing he was maybe forty, good-looking, and smiled back easily. “I’m Ava Dean, the new owner. I don’t want to bother you but wanted to introduce myself and make sure you’re having a good stay.”
“Knox Breckenridge.” He stood, holding his laptop with his left hand and shaking with his right. With a laugh, he said, “I’ve been staying here for so long it feels like home. I’d call that a good stay.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. The index cards went by the week, and I hadn’t looked into anyone’s history, assuming most were here for the typical Saturday-to-Saturday stay. “That sounds positive. I’m glad.”
His expression went serious. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your aunt was an amazing, hospitable lady. The service today was thoughtful and fitting from what I knew of her.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I searched for a way to change the topic. “Are you a writer?” I nodded toward his notebook.
“Aspiring. Well, I’ve been writing my fool ass off, so I guess that makes me more than aspiring, doesn’t it? I have a little imposter syndrome hanging out on my shoulder, I guess.” He sat back down.
I was all too familiar with imposter syndrome. “Writers write,” I said lightly. “What do you write?”
“By day I’m a tech writer in the financial industry. I’ve recently started writing fiction in my off hours.”
Fatigue, grief, and being overwhelmed ceased to matter. This guy was speaking my language, and I lowered myself into the chair opposite him. “Yeah? What kind of fiction are you writing?”
He seemed to turn self-conscious. “Science fiction. It’s what I love to read. The financial industry has treated me well, but it’s dry as the desert.”
“I write fiction too,” I said. “I can only imagine how different financial stuff is from making things up.”
“It took me a bit to get used to that. So what do you write?”
