Chapter Two
Two days later, Cordelia stood outside the Asheville Regional Airport. Slipping on her sunglasses to battle the glare of the sunrise, she scanned the area for the car rental stand.
A gust of wind whipped around her, giving her cheeks a healthy sting and offering a not-so-subtle reminder to zip up her jacket. Despite being in the South, it was cold. Not the same cold as in Boston, which seeped deep into your bones and made you think you’d never know what warmth felt like again. Instead, the mountain air here was reinvigorating and intoxicating, inspiring one to get outside and take a hike through the woods or hit the slopes.
Taking a deep breath, she filled her lungs, easing the tension she’d held on to for far too long.
What would it be like to have time to do those things again?
She sighed. This was no time for nostalgia or comparisons. Time was ticking. She needed to get the car, drive the forty-five minutes west to Fraser Hills, check on her parents, meet with the contractors she’d thankfully strong-armed into coming on short notice, ensure the inn was in good hands, and get out.
Based on her schedule, it would take four days, tops. Maybe three if she didn’t tap into the contingency time she scheduled for the unexpected.
She prayed she wouldn’t need it. Although Melody had allowed her to take the short trip, it was obvious Cordelia was on thin ice. As the lead event planner, the only way she’d been able to convince Melody was by promising she’d be back in time to run point for the Sinclair event at the State Room, a breathtaking venue in Boston.
Craning her head to the right, Cordelia spotted a tiny sign with an arrow directing people to the otherwise hidden rental booth. Beelining for it, she opened the glass door and was greeted by a smiling face.
“Well hello there, ma’am,” the young boy said. “How may I help you today?”
It took her a moment to process his accent. Did the people here really have that strong of a twang? No wonder her college roommates poked fun at her, so much so that she tried to tone it down to fit in with the Northerners. Doing it for as long as she had, her Southern accent was now practically nonexistent.
“I have a reservation for Cordelia Winchester.” Placing her stylish carry-on on the laminate-tiled floor, she folded her manicured hands on the counter as she waited for the teen to access her information.
“Alrighty. Here we go, ma’am. I see a Hyundai sedan reserved for four days with a drop off at this location.” He looked up from the screen and shot her another cheery smile. “Is that correct?”
She nodded and suppressed the urge to tap her foot, her patience already wearing thin. She forgot how slow everything moved here. “Yes, thanks.”
“Great.” He swiveled the screen to face her. “I’ll need you to review this information and sign at the bottom. I’ll pull the car out front in the meantime.”
“Perfect.” She scrolled through the endless forms, opting out of unnecessary add-ons, and signed at the bottom. By the time she was done, the employee was back and handing her the keys.
“Drive safe.” He shook her hand enthusiastically.
She gave a tight smile in return. In Boston, you were lucky to get eye contact, let alone a grunt of acknowledgment. All this chatting and grinning was throwing her off.
She grabbed her bag and exited the rental store. Placing her carry-on in the trunk, she slipped into the driver’s seat and got situated. Pulling up her map app, she plugged in the address for the Winchester Inn to see which route would get her there the fastest. Every option lit up green.
Hmm, I guess there’s not much traffic this early in the morning.
It was a rare occurrence to find traffic moving freely in Boston this close to rush hour. The smooth ride would be a treat.
The drive to Fraser Hills was uneventful, if not productive. As Cordelia navigated the empty roads through small towns and farmlands, she made calls to the office and her vendors, and gave an update to her most important client, Elizabeth Sinclair. By the time she ended the call, she had turned off the highway and taken the exit ramp that led to Fraser Hills Road, the main street that went through downtown.
Her breath hitched as the town came into view. The impeccably clean streets were lined with cute shops, restaurants, cafes, and stores. The center of the main road had a roundabout with a small park. A picturesque gazebo sat square in the middle. But it wasn’t the small-town America feel that was appealing, it was seeing it with the Great Smoky Mountains backdrop. The distant mountain range looked like it was outlined in blue, and the infinite trees lining the hills were now speckled with yellows, oranges, and reds as if someone painted them just that morning. The mountains protected the town, cocooning it in a valley of impenetrable walls.
Maybe that was part of the reason Cordelia left in the first place. She felt safe in Fraser Hills and sheltered in the valley. Too safe. If you hiked up far enough, you could see the town, a small speck in an otherwise rural area of North Carolina. Whereas other people thought the open lands were freeing, to her, the nothingness was suffocating, closing in on her each day that passed. The disconnectedness from the world made it hard to envision a fulfilling future.
She wanted more for her life than what would be passed down to her, which is why she purposely traded in mountains for skyscrapers. A future could lie in any one of those tall, shiny buildings. And if not, she could easily hop on one of the many flights around the world to find a new calling. The world was at her fingertips in Boston.
Staying in Fraser Hills would have been too easy. Wasn’t life about handling challenges head on to see what you were made of? About discovering you could do more and be more than whatever you’d been pigeonholed into?
Taking the roundabout, she passed by Evergreen Avenue and continued on Fraser Hills Road. She loved this section of the main strip, with the manicured Fraser firs lining the median and the rushing stream that ran under the small bridge, leading to the heart of the town: the Winchester Inn. Her home.
Despite being the largest building in town, it was homey. Off-white cypress siding covered the two-story structure, complete with black shutters that lined large windows. An ornate wrap-around porch dominated the first floor, with a wide staircase leading up to two windowed wooden doors. Rocking chairs painted deep blue and window boxes filled with seasonal flowers gave the inn a pop of color. Smoke floated lazily from the chimney.
Cordelia remembered sitting on those rocking chairs in the fall when she was growing up, wrapped in a throw blanket, a mug of hot chocolate keeping her hands warm. She enjoyed watching the leaves change and the town slow down right before the holiday rush started.
Aside from Christmas, fall was her favorite time of year. Although Boston didn’t provide the same serenity as a rocking chair on the veranda did, she embraced the vibrant colors of the trees through the crisp autumn months. During the rare free time she found, she’d visit one of the local parks when the colors were at their peak. Those days, she could breathe.
In the fast-paced life she lived, it was hard to remember to do that sometimes.
She pulled into the circular driveway and parked. Stepping out of the sedan, she made her way to the back of the inn to see the damaged roof, following a stone pathway around the side of the inn, which stopped before it reached where she needed to be. She eyed the soggy ground and then down at the pumps she was wearing.
Not exactly made for off-roading.
Leaning around the corner of the house, she noticed the remainder of the giant Fraser fir towering precariously over the inn. The top had broken off and was now lying on the ground, chopped into pieces. She tilted her head for a better view of the collapsed roof but couldn’t get the right angle.
Assessing the muddy ground again, she identified a few dryer spots along the way. If she could make it to those, she would be fine. Kind of like playing the lava game when she was a kid.
She took a giant step, reaching the first dry area successfully, and then a small leap to the next. More confident with her decision, she hopped along to the section she needed to inspect. She was mid-hop to the next spot, but before she could land, something flashed in her peripheral vision and slammed into her knees, causing her to pinwheel her arms to keep her balance. But it didn’t work. The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back.
In the mud.
She laid in the cold slop, stunned by what happened, and tried to catch her breath. A moment later, a face hovered over her and gave her a sloppy, wet kiss.
“Willow,” a voice commanded from a distance. The dog stopped its frantic kissing and ran to the man who was calling.
Cordelia pushed onto her elbows and took stock of the damage to her body and clothes. Her back was sore and the cold seeped through her slacks and jacket, causing a chill to run up her spine. Her pants were caked in mud—they would be impossible to clean—and one of her pumps stuck out from the mud, doing its best reenactment of the Titanic in its final moments.
A hand thrust in front of her face. She grabbed it without looking up, but couldn’t help noticing the owner of said hand lifted her with ease. She bent to pull her shoe out of the ground, and her gaze trailed up the length of the man who had helped her.
Work boots. Long, solid legs in dark jeans. Broad shoulders and athletic build. All very nice, but it was his face that had her heart beating uncontrollably. His strong jaw was covered with dirty-blond scruff, and his olive complexion complemented his light brown hair, which still held hints of being sun-kissed from the summer. Blue-gray eyes popped under his thick eyebrows, and full lips hitched up on one side in a boyish smile.
He was ruggedly handsome, not at all like the clean-cut, well-manicured men from the city.
“Looks like you’re a long way from home,” he noted in a playful tone. His deep voice had a hint of Southern to it, but not from the Carolinas. Cowboy, maybe.
Next to him sat the dog who knocked her over, a shaggy golden retriever mix with random tufts of hair spiking out awkwardly. Her ears were covered in crinkled hair like they were styled after an eighties icon, personifying a bad hair day.
The dog gave a big lopsided smile, its tongue lolling.
“She yours?” Cordelia asked as she tried to shake the clumps of mud off her pants.
“Yup. Sorry about that. She gets excited sometimes. She saw you hopping around and thought you were playing.” He patted the dog on the head and pure adoration filled her goofy face. “This your first time here?” Another attractive grin crossed his features as he nodded at the shoe in her hand.
She bristled at the realization he was mocking her. Patronizing her. She dealt with that type of “humor” while building her career in Boston. She battled it and won.
She’d be damned if he thought he could get away with it.
~ * ~
Logan MacDermot appraised the woman and her sudden change in demeanor. She went from adorably embarrassed to prickly and cold. Straightening her back, she raised her chin as if to assert dominance and prepare to battle.
For what? He didn’t know.
But it was clear she wasn’t about to back down, even if she looked ridiculous, all full of mud with her one heeled foot slowly sinking into the ground.
Her light brown eyes turned to honey as the sun broke from a cloud and shined down on them. They were beautiful, even if they were tiny slits staring him down.
“For your information,” she said in a steely tone, “this is my home.”
Logan cocked his head in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
She huffed a breath. Her tight smile was meant to intimidate. “I’m Cordelia Winchester. This is my family’s home.”
He recalled the photos scattered around the main lobby of the inn. Mariam and Ron had many pictures of their family, with Mike and his sister, Lia, in various stages of their childhood. They often featured a lanky, freckle-faced girl with wild curls who was always up to something. Hiking, working with animals, steering the Christmas sleigh. Every picture showed her with the biggest smile.
He took in the woman in front of him with her straight brown hair, unblemished skin, and curves he could tell were hidden under her jacket. Not a smile or freckle in sight. This couldn’t be the same person, could it? Yet, out of all the stories Mariam had shared with him, she’d never once mentioned another daughter, so it had to be.
She held her head high as if she were royalty, and he supposed in a town like this, she was.
Although, for one wavering moment, uncertainty flashed across her face, but in an instant, it was gone.
“Cordelia.” He let the name roll over his tongue. “You mean Lia? Little Lia Winchester? The prodigal daughter has returned.” He hoped his light teasing would get her to loosen up a bit.
She scowled at him. He rewarded it with a smile that only seemed to irritate her more. “It’s Cordelia. And you are?”
“Logan MacDermot. I’m the superintendent. I make sure everything’s in working order at the inn.” They both turned to the roof’s gaping hole. “Well, almost everything. That’ll be fixed in no time though.” He held out his hand and she eyed it like he was handing her a dead fish, refusing to take it.
Okay then.
“Mac’s our superintendent.”
He dropped his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. Clearly, he wouldn’t be getting a warm welcome from this ice queen. Lia may have grown up in the South, but her Southern hospitality was long gone. “Mac was your superintendent. He retired four months ago and moved down to Tybee Island. Wanted to enjoy the island life for his retirement.”
She crossed her arms. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”
He shrugged. “From what I understand, you don’t want much to do with the inn.” At least that’s what Mike said when Ron urged him to call her after the accident.
If his statement bothered her, she didn’t appear ruffled by it. “Well, I’m here now.”
“That you are.”