I was as out of breath when I reached The Iris a few hours later as I was when I’d arrived at the office, the distance almost doing me in despite the fact it was only a short couple of blocks past my house to the bed and breakfast and the ongoing construction site next door to what used to be Petunia’s annex.
Huffing and puffing like I’d run a marathon wasn’t my favorite experience, and my pug seemed concerned at my slow pace, continually looking back and up at me with her brow-furrow expression that made my heart melt.
“I’m okay, old lady,” I reassured her as we finally crossed the street, the siren lure of my new house almost impossible to resist. I adored the lovely pale blue siding exterior and white stone accents towering three stories high in a traditional foursquare design, the steel roof that shade of slate blue I loved, dark gray shutters in place, the bulk of the work now happening inside, though my landscaping was a dream that would have to wait until spring.
There was always something.
Petunia didn’t let me stop and stare and bother Jared and his workmen, however, with one more question and just a tweak of a suggestion and wouldn’t things be just a tad more lovely if…? She was hoofing for her favorite place, and nothing was going to keep her from The Iris now that the fat pug had it in her sights.
Not that the guests or the staff or the beautifully designed interior was what she longed for, oh no. I giggled at her insistence, knowing despite everything, my Petunia lived for her stomach and scritches, attention and adoration could wait.
The only distraction that kept me from following her at pace was the sight of an argument unfolding in the parking lot next to the main building. I didn’t stop, Petunia wouldn’t allow it, but it was obvious despite their lowered voices the conflict between the two people engaged in the heated conversation over the top of a car it looked like at least one of them had just arrived in wasn’t something that was going away anytime soon.
It wasn’t until I was past them, the man’s face twisted into anger, (handsome though he might be, the expression taking his attractiveness down a few notches) I caught sight of the woman and, in a shock of surprise, realized I knew her.
Libby Kim—formerly known as Eve O’Shea—the aide to fashion designer and my personal friend, Grace Fiore, seemed to have the upper hand in the argument if her sardonic expression and lack of loss of temper was an indicator. Her companion, however, seemed ready to punch the car, though he managed to control the volume of his voice, making me miss what the fight was about.
Wasn’t lost on me the daughter of the O’Shea family who had fled their clutches had arrived at a rather fortuitous moment. Then again, maybe she wasn’t here on her own. If Grace was in town, I’d be delighted. And, if the secretive project our very own Queen of Wheat, Vivian French, was working on had anything to do with fashion, it was possible Grace was here to assist.
Vivian hadn’t told me details yet, promised to when she had things sorted. Then I’d gotten sick, and I had only seen her twice while recuperating. She hadn’t lingered either time, Vivian’s clear discomfort with dealing with infirmity triggering my compassion and driving her away in as cheerful a manner as I could. The fact she lived in that big, quiet mansion with her overbearing mother and two elderly relatives might have had something to do with her lack of enthusiasm for coddling illness. While her Auntie Clara was healthy enough, as far as I knew, her grandmother, Martha, suffered from dementia and was likely a handful.
There were times I pitied Vivian despite her wealth, her stunning looks and her success. Because I knew what lay beneath all of it, didn’t I? Enough I no longer despised and shunned her but called her friend like I had when we were children together.
An old story I really didn’t need to spend any more time on.
I’d just reached the steps to the front door when the man came rushing past me, not exactly pushing his way by but definitely giving me the stink-eye when I wasn’t fast enough for him. I paused to let him go, annoyed by his arrogance and lack of empathy, though it was impossible for him to know I was wheezing like an old steam engine due to my remaining lung weakness. It gave Libby—Eve, calling a kettle what she was—time to join me.
“Fee.” She’d been terrified and shaking the last time I saw her, afraid of Malcolm Murray and what her family would do to her if they found her. Which they had, thanks to him. This Eve? A far different creature, as though the year and a half had changed her attitude about her past. Or maybe it was the fact the fall of the O’Sheas gave her the kind of freedom she’d longed for in the first place?
“Hey, Eve,” I said, not even bothering to toss out her fake name. She wrinkled her pale nose at me, eyes black-rimmed with those thick, dark lashes, still dressed in Goth style as though she’d claimed the tall, heavy boots and dramatic makeup, the jet wool waistcoat over her skull stockings. Not hiding in the look anymore, but owning it.
“It’s nice to see you,” she said. “I heard you weren’t well.” Was that real concern or was she just making conversation?
“I’m better now,” I said. “Are you here with Grace?”
Eve didn’t answer that. “I hope we get a chance to chat while I’m in town.” How about now? But her statement didn’t offer an opening, despite the words. Instead, she smiled a little, black lipstick thick on her full lips. “For now, adieu.”
She stepped past me into The Iris, leaving me on the steps like the man she’d been arguing with had, Petunia panting up at me, whining just a little that I’d failed to remember she really, really wanted to go inside now.
I encouraged her to go ahead, followed her inside, two people standing around with luggage and waiting to be served. They had to be tied to the tournament. This time of year was often quiet in Reading, the in-between of Thanksgiving and Christmas not lending itself to full rooms as much as more popular seasons. The final weeks around the holiday mind you would be packed, I knew.
Where was Daisy or one of the staff to check everyone in?
That question distracted me from thinking about Eve and if her reason for being in town had something to do with the tournament or her family. Or I made a connection that instantly added a flare of nervous excitement to the job Emile hired me to do. Both?
No matter. I hurried around the sideboard, Petunia settling at my feet with a resigned sigh. She’d sat and waited on guests more than enough times to know she had to be patient. I smiled down at her, murmuring, “Good girl,” got a cinnamon bun tail wag in response, then looked up with my best welcoming smile to the two guests waiting to check in.
Noted one was the man fighting with Eve in the parking lot, while the woman next to him—older, and familial enough I pegged her as his mother—smiled back, if forcibly.
“Jameson Kale,” she said like I should know his name. “And Gabriella Kale. Two rooms.”
He didn’t even bother to acknowledge me, staring down at his phone with a scowl, dark hair coiffed with more product than I ever used, scruff on his cheeks artful rather than neglect, his expensive leather jacket fitted to his medium-sized frame like he’d had it personally tailored, a ring with a set of sparkling diamonds in the shape of a Queen of Hearts on his middle finger.
I found their booking on the computer. “You’re both upstairs,” I said, fighting to keep my cheery tone. This wasn’t my job anymore, but I didn’t begrudge assisting. But again, where was Day? And the staff? Mom never checked in guests, too busy in the kitchen with not just cooking for those who stayed here but for her catering and private clients. Besides, it was always nicer to step in when the guests weren’t self-centered jerks.
Okay, Fee. Inhale, woman.
“The best rooms in the house, I was assured,” Gabriella said, leaning over the sideboard’s edge to look at the screen, as though not trusting I knew what I was doing. “Only the best for my son.”
I pegged that right. “The Iris’s rooms are all equally beautiful,” I said, meaning every word. “You’ll both be very comfortable here.” I sorted out their keys, paused with a smile. “Payment method?”
“Pay the girl, Mother.” That was the first time Jameson spoke, and it was with such withering condescension toward her I almost smacked him. If anyone talked to Lucy Fleming like that, least of all me? They’d be yipping and holding their offended body part that just encountered the firm end of her wooden spoon.
Gabriella just blanched and took it, fishing out a credit card, handing it to me, eyes now as downcast as her mouth. The card went through, though was that relief on her face when I handed it back?
“Just a one night hold,” I said. “The balance will be paid at checkout.”
She took her card and the keys, Jameson not even looking up when he liberated one and turned, walking away from her, still staring at his phone, heading for the stairs. Leaving his luggage behind.
Yeah, I was a big fan already, let me tell you.
“I take it your son is one of the players?” Footfalls hurried toward me, one of the staff finally showing up, her young face creased in a regretful expression before she began hefting luggage to the stairs.
Gabriella’s attitude shifted all over again, back to unearned arrogance. “You don’t know Jameson Kale?”
Oh, she did not, not when I was trying to be nice and all. I heard and saw peripherally the front door open, felt the draft of winter’s chill enter, another guest arriving. “Nope,” I said. “Sorry.”
Snap.
She didn’t take the bait, though. “He’s an amazing player,” she said. “Big on the circuit. He’s going to win, naturally.” Gabriella let the poor girl Mom employed wrangle all the bags, pretending not to see her struggle. I grit my teeth against the utter lack of anything resembling humanity and held my temper as the woman bragged on about her clearly awful spawn. “He’s here just to keep him focused, you know. Too much going on at the hotel hosting the tournament. He’s a professional, needs to keep his mind on the game.”
“I’m sure,” I said. Like I cared at this point. “Enjoy your stay.”
“You just wait,” Gabriella said then like I hadn’t dismissed her. “My Jameson is going to take the pot, and no one can stop him.”
Maybe she would have walked away and left me alone if her parting shot hadn’t gone unchallenged. Thing was the man who’d entered and stood waiting behind her for his chance to check in chuckled at her pronouncement before winking at me.
“We’ll just have to see about that.”
***