“Hey, Mister! You’re here again.”
Taylor opened the door to the inn when Denny arrived the next morning. The dining room was occupied, and she trailed behind him to the office where he spread out his sketches on the floor so he wouldn’t have to clear the desk.
When she’d gotten home from school yesterday, Taylor had sat quietly at the end of the table watching him until her great-great-aunt called her for a late-afternoon snack. Cute kid, although not especially talkative. He’d tried to draw her out several times, but with little success. So she was Lillian’s sister’s child. What was her story, anyway?
From what Lillian said in relation to wanting to live in Hunter Ridge for her aunt’s and niece’s benefit as much as for her own, it sounded as if she thought the girl might remain with her for a while. But he sensed a mutual discomfort in interactions between aunt and niece.
He squatted and opened the big graph paper tablet to the first-floor draft. Taylor sat cross-legged beside him.
He’d told her yesterday what he was doing. Showed her how he’d measured the rooms by letting her hold the end of the tape measure while he demonstrated the technique, then explained how a foot—twelve inches—on the measuring tape translated to the much smaller grid on the paper.
“Aunt Viola says you’re going to tear the house up and put it back together again like those people on TV.”
“That’s the plan.”
“I can help.” Not a question. Not a request. A statement. But what could he find for a kid to do that would keep her out from underfoot? A renovation site held potential dangers for both kids and adults. “I can hit a wall with a hammer. Or kick it down for you.”
A demolition-day protégée in the making.
He smiled at her serious face. “I don’t think we’ll be pulling down too many walls—” Lillian had nixed that “—but I imagine we can find something you can do.”
He’d have to give it some thought. Get Lillian’s permission for whatever he came up with.
“Taylor! There you are.” Lillian stood in the office doorway, exasperation in her expression. “Tessa and her mom are in the car waiting for you. You’re going to make everybody late for school.”
The little girl shot her an aggrieved look, then scooted closer to Denny. “I don’t want to go to school today. I want to stay here and help Mister tear things up.”
“He’s not tearing anything up,” Lillian reassured her.
Taylor frowned, then looked up at him for confirmation.
“Your aunt is right. Not today.”
Her little shoulders slumped. “Bummer.”
“Let’s get going, Taylor.” Lillian held out her hand. “You don’t want to be late.”
Taylor hesitated a long moment, a rebel spirit rising. But then abruptly she stood and patted his shoulder, her eyes boring into his. “Promise you won’t tear anything up?”
“Promise.”
She let out a sigh, then squeezed past Lillian, ignoring her aunt’s outstretched hand.
“Don’t forget your backpack, Taylor,” she called after her, then turned a weary gaze on him. “She’s usually more cooperative.”
“You can fault me for that. She’s intrigued with what I’m doing here. She wants to help, and I told her I’d find something for her to do. Hope that’s okay.”
“Kicking down walls?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I saw her practicing a kung-fu kick before she sat down for breakfast.”
He chuckled. “I promise she won’t be kicking down walls without extreme supervision. She’s fascinated with the floor plans, and I predict you may have a future architect or contractor on your hands. I suspect by the time this is over, she and I will be great buddies.”
“From how things looked this morning, I think you already are. I hope she wasn’t being a nuisance.”
“Not a chance, although I imagine we’ll need to keep a close eye on her once work gets under way.”
“Definitely.”
He got to his feet. “If you don’t mind my asking, is your sister ill? Is that why her daughter is living with you?”
“No illness. My little sister, as dear as she is and as much as I love her, isn’t really into parenting. It’s an inconvenience for her at best, and periodically she wearies of its restrictions and drops Taylor off with me for weeks. Often months.”
“That has to be hard. Both for you and Taylor.”
“It’s heartrending each time my sister returns to claim her. And bewildering for Taylor when it happens again and again. I’ve watched her change over the years from a happy, laughing toddler to a more withdrawn, sometimes sullen youngster.”
“Trust issues.” He could relate to that. “You’ve had her in counseling, I suppose?”
She didn’t take offense at his question. “Each time she’s returned to me, we meet with a church or school counselor—of course, there’s nothing like that on the other end when she’s taken away again. Her mother visited for a few hours on Saturday, which is probably why we’re seeing a lack of cooperation right now. That will ease, hopefully, by the weekend. But I know deep down she’s confused and angry at her mother. Probably with me, too.”
“I’m sorry Taylor—and you—are going through this. It may be especially difficult when she reaches adolescence.”
He’d boiled over internally during those years, but with willpower he still didn’t understand, he was able to rein in destructive feelings and focus on a single lifelong goal—earning the respect of everyone he met.
Lillian’s hands fluttered almost helplessly. “I know God says not to, but I worry about that. Our folks weren’t real hands-on parents, either, and Annalise tended to be a free spirit in need of more guidance than most. I don’t want to see a repeat performance in this next generation.”
“Is there a father in the picture?”
She shook her head. “Annalise was pretty wild and got pregnant when she was sixteen. Insisted on keeping her baby, but refused to tell anyone who the father was. I suspect it wasn’t about stubbornness, but because she didn’t have a clue.”
“Stormy start for a sweet kid like Taylor.” He’d had a mother who mostly left him with sitters when he was small, and by the middle of grade school when twin baby sisters arrived, at a private school. He had a father and a stepfather, too, but neither had been much of a dad to him. Probably because, as he eventually grew to recognize, he wasn’t that lovable. He’d learned to live with that reality, but he hated to see Taylor, who was plenty lovable, in that same spot. “I feel for her. I know what it’s like to be set aside. To feel like you’re in the way.”
Lillian tilted her head slightly, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. Now, why had he gone and shared that, like some kind of crybaby?
“Taylor’s blessed to have you and your aunt in her life.” He gave her an assuring nod, certain of his words despite having known them but a few days. “You can rest easy, because I imagine that will make all the difference in the world.”
“I hope and pray so. I wish there was a way...” Her words came wistfully. Then she took a sharp breath as her gaze again caught his. “Oh, I’m sorry. Too much information, for certain. You asked a simple question and I dumped everything on you. Please accept my apology.”
“No, no, don’t think of it like that. I genuinely like Taylor and I wanted to understand her situation.” He offered a smile intended to set Lillian at ease. “In fact, I needed to know, since it looks like she and I may soon be a team. Who knows what this blossoming partnership could lead to? Perhaps a home-improvement reality TV show.”
She laughed, which had been his intention.
“Promise you won’t suggest it to her? She’ll never let us hear the end of it until the cameras are rolling.”
He held up his hand in a Boy Scout pledge. “I promise.”
For a delightfully long moment their gazes held in shared amusement, an unfamiliar warmth curling around his heart. He hardly knew Lillian, yet he was talking to her like he’d never talked to Corrine. His former fiancée was about fashion, career climbing and who was who on the social roster.
Not kids. Family. God.
Nothing soul-deep or too personal.
That, in actuality, should have made them a perfect match. Had they taken one of those relationship compatibility tests, they’d have likely scored off the charts side by side. So what went wrong?
Realizing his intense gaze was making Lillian uncomfortable, he looked down at the floor plans. “So what do you say we get down to business? I want to call contractors today, so I need a handle on what we’re agreeing to do here.”
Despite his words, he hadn’t given up the idea of bringing the GylesStyle team on board. But he’d do his best to at least give Lillian and her aunt the impression he wasn’t taking their concerns about not using local craftsmen lightly.
“I do have a few decorating ideas. We didn’t get around to discussing that direction yesterday. Let me run and get my tote bag. Be back in a minute.”
She had interior-design ideas? That was something generally left to a professional designer for GylesStyle properties, but he was going to have to wing this place on his own. Clearly what was needed here was a contemporary tailored look that would banish the gloom. Ironically, as much as he hadn’t wanted anything to do with tossing good money after bad—still didn’t, considering what might be transpiring back at the home office—he enjoyed envisioning what the finished product would look like.
He’d gotten his kicks out of that in the past, too, drawing satisfaction from the several times he’d served as the manager of one of those new-to-the-GylesStyle-fold properties. He liked seeing people enjoying something that had started as an idea in his head. Enjoyed making them feel special. At home. Thankfully, his stepfather ensured he had an appreciation of the world of hospitality from the ground up, sending him across the country on summer internships throughout high school and college.
He did need to talk to his mother about those vacant buildings on either side of the Pinewood, though, which detracted considerably from the image he wanted the upgraded inn to portray. Did she have any plans for them at all?
“Here we go.” Lillian entered the room with an excited smile, and he immediately found himself smiling back. She pushed aside items on the desk, then slid out the contents of her tote bag and spread them across the polished surface. Notes. Article clippings. Magazine spreads.
His smile froze as he stared down at the colorful array of glossy magazine images and what appeared to be photocopies from books. Curvy-legged tables. Gilded mirrors. Poufy floral comforters with ruffled pastel bed skirts. China bric-a-brac. Enough crocheted and beribboned throw pillows to outfit an English country estate.
“My dream inn.” Lillian made a sweeping motion to the desktop display, her eyes dancing with anticipation of his response. “What do you think?”
* * *
“I... Wow. Colorful. Feminine.”
Denny gazed down at the desk as if held rapt by the beautiful display, and a tingle of excitement raced through Lillian as she awaited his approval.
“And I see,” he added, “that you’re fond of florals.”
“I thought it would be perfect to carry over from the garden, don’t you think? Unify the theme, since it’s the garden that draws guests here.” She picked up a photo of a canopied four-poster bed. “I was wondering...should the inn be renamed? Would that be hard to do? I was thinking maybe the Secret Garden Inn. Or Pinegarden Inn, if we wanted it to sound more mountain country-ish.”
“I hadn’t given any thought to renaming. You’re ahead of me there.”
Dreaming up names and ideas had been a diversion when she first came to Hunter Ridge and the librarian job, managing the inn and taking care of her aunt got too overwhelming.
“Sorry. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought since I first came here to help Aunt Viola. I let my imagination run wild for when the place could be redecorated.”
“I can see that.” He motioned to the images. “What does your aunt think of your ideas?”
“She loves them. I was afraid she might be unwilling to go light and bright after living here so long in the shadows, but she’s on board. Excited about it.”
At long last, this is going to happen. Our dreams for the inn will finally come true.
Denny continued to gaze down at her array of clippings. Moved a few around. But he wasn’t smiling now. In fact, it was slowly dawning on her that he’d avoided looking at her since she’d spread out the fruits of her imaginings on the desk.
“Is this,” she said in a more subdued tone, “similar to what you’re envisioning?”
Pursing his lips, he propped his hands on his hips and continued to stare down at the desk. “Not exactly.”
Oh. She hadn’t thought about the fact that he might have ideas beyond what needed to happen structurally—the electrical and plumbing, insulation, and the kick-down-the-wall stuff. Regarding the decorating, she’d thought that at most his mother might have a few suggestions she would gladly incorporate.
Lillian studied him, willing him to look at her. “So...how far off the mark are we from each other?”
The look he delivered when his gaze finally met hers was bleak. “From here to Mars and back. I’m sorry, Lillian. I can see you spent a lot of time and thought on this but—”
“But what?” She swallowed, fighting back disappointment.
“It’s too much.”
“How so?”
“I thought I heard voices in here,” Aunt Viola commented cheerfully from the doorway.
But she wasn’t drawn to the desk and its scattered photos, which clued in Lillian that her hip might be giving her problems this morning, and she feared Denny might pick up on it. She’d been relying on a walker or cane in the apartment or elsewhere, but managed to avoid using them when Charlotte’s son was around.
“Making decorating decisions, are you?” Aunt Vi nodded her approval. “Can’t you imagine cuddling on a cool evening under one of those big cozy comforters?”
“Denny doesn’t care for my ideas,” Lillian said flatly before her aunt got too enthusiastic.
Aunt Viola gave him a disbelieving frown. “What’s not to like?”
If a man could ever be said to squirm, Denny was doing just that right now under her aunt’s laser-like glare. “It’s not...suitable.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not in keeping with the vibe we need here.” His words were spoken carefully. “And as lovely as they are, the delicate bed linens and other fabric elements won’t stand up to the frequency of launderings required in a commercial establishment.”
“Wash them on delicate.”
He smiled indulgently. “A proliferation of knickknacks and furnishings with curlicues carved into them will only serve as dust collectors. There’s a reason why old estates were overrun with house servants.” He gave Lillian an apologetic look. “And while I’m not entirely opposed to a feminine touch, let’s remember men should feel equally comfortable.”
Aunt Viola rolled her eyes. “So tie a ribbon around a horseshoe, hang it over the door and be done with it.”
Lillian cringed. This was not going how she had envisioned the “reveal” of her decorating ideas. While irritated that Denny had rejected her vision—which she still thought was a good one—she could see his point as far as maintenance. But for the most part, it was women who made the reservations at a bed-and-breakfast. Often for a girlfriends’ weekend, a sister weekend, or a mother-daughter or grandmother-mother-daughter retreat. Surely it wouldn’t kill a man to occasionally indulge his sweetheart in a fabulously romantic overnight stay?
Which told her exactly where romance rated in Denny Hunter’s book. That might explain a lot about why his lady had bolted at the last minute.
But Aunt Vi wasn’t done with him yet.
“Young man, don’t you think you should run Lillian’s ideas by your mother? She owns this place, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“I haven’t forgotten, ma’am,” he said quietly, and Lillian actually felt sorry for him. Having headed up the local library for decades, her aunt had mastered the put-you-in-your-place persona when needed. No doubt he felt as if he were ten years old and being shushed for whispering among the book stacks.
“Good. Then that’s taken care of.” She turned to Lillian. “Barbie called again. She’d like you to call her back.”
“What’s it about this time?” And why didn’t Barbie use Lillian’s cell number as requested instead of calling the inn’s number and getting Aunt Viola involved? Her aunt found dealing with the bride-to-be stressful.
“Something she doesn’t like about the caterer.”
“The bride contracts directly with them, and our part is only cooperating with the vendor to make certain he or she has everything needed from our end.”
“I know, I know. But you know Barbie.”
Yes, she did. All too well. This event was certainly not one she looked forward to, especially considering it was likely Cameron Gray would fly in from Boston for his sister’s nuptials.
When Aunt Viola left the room, Lillian turned to Denny, who was again studying the remnants of her fledgling design dreams.
“May I see your concept, Denny? Or do you not have anything worked up yet?”
“I have something in draft form.” He retrieved the graph paper pad from the floor and placed it on the desk, then flipped to the back, where he’d sketched out several renderings in colored felt-tip marker.
She couldn’t help but laugh as she took in the bold strokes. Bare spaces. Clean-lined furnishings in what appeared to be leather, glass—and chrome? No way.
“No offense, Denny, but you think this is in keeping with the vibe we need here? With a building set in ponderosa-pine mountain country that’s closing in on a hundred years old? With a clientele that’s predominantly female, no less?”
His concept was far more modern and masculine than she’d have ever dreamed up in a thousand years. Surprisingly, though, he had an artist’s eye for perspective, texture and color. But that didn’t make up for the chrome.
“Something similar—to a more upscale degree—has been extremely popular in another GylesStyle Inn in Aspen, Colorado. Big-time mountain country.”
She could concede something simpler than her ideas might be a better route to go. But stark? Downright austere? She’d hate staying in a place like that. It would be like trying to relax in a showroom window display.
This was going to be a long month and a half.
“Well, don’t you think Aspenites are a different animal than those of more modest means who are drawn to rustic Hunter Ridge? You’re not intending to incorporate the Pinewood into the GylesStyle family of inns, are you?”
“That’s not the intention. This is solely a pet project of my mother’s. But she has the money and will want to do it right.”
“Then I suggest something less, shall we say, streamlined? Urban? I’m aware of minimalism’s popularity these days. But no doubt you’re aware that Hunter’s Hideaway falls into the rustic style of things, and they pretty much stay booked year-round. People still gravitate to a more traditional, homey type of place to kick back in. Sure, they shop at health-food stores and cling to their Wi-Fi connections, but they haven’t abandoned a secret indulgence in comfort food or a hunger for more down-to-earth accommodations.”
“The Hideaway is doing well,” he admitted. “And will do even better once it fully launches its plan to promote itself as a destination spot for reunions, anniversary celebrations and the like. It’s a perfect complement to the hunters, hikers and horsemen who have been its traditional target audience. I wouldn’t have a spot there right now except a cabin needed repairs done before it could be reserved by guests, and Uncle Dave agreed to put that off and rent it to me since I’m family.”
“See?”
“What I can’t see is the Pinewood Inn decked out with Navajo-blanketed bunk beds, deer heads on the wall and cattle brands burned into the woodwork.”
He wasn’t even trying to understand what she was saying, and she didn’t have time to talk sense into him. She had to get to work for a meeting.
She reached for the tote bag, intending to gather the remains of her rejected proposal.
Denny held up his hand. “Leave that, please. I’d like to look through what you have here.”
She shook her head. “Don’t humor me. I’m a big girl.”
“I’m not humoring you. I want to take a closer look. See if there’s anything here that can be incorporated into my own ideas. I’m sorry if I hurt you. That wasn’t my intention.”
“You didn’t hurt me.” Okay, maybe a little. “I’m disappointed, I guess. But you’re the pro, not me.”
“You told me, though, that you’ve stayed in a lot of hospitality properties. That you know what others like and don’t like. What you like and don’t like. I’d be remiss if I didn’t take a potential paying guest’s viewpoint into consideration, now wouldn’t I?”
She felt as if she were being given a pat on the head and sent on her way. But at least he wasn’t antagonistic or hostile about their differing opinions. Which was more than she could say for Aunt Viola when she had leaped in to straighten him out.
“I’m sorry my aunt lit into you.”
“No problem. She’s right. Anything I do will be approved first by my mother. I’m not used to working like this, with someone directing over my shoulder, but this project holds a special place in my mother’s heart. As it does in your aunt’s. Let me see what I can come up with by way of a compromise.”
With a forced smile, she gave a brisk nod, then headed out the door.
Compromise.
English cottage and minimalist chrome?
She wasn’t holding her breath on that one.