Later that afternoon, I worked in the English garden that filled most of Chapters’ backyard. Cutting a flower stem, I jerked back my hand as a thorn pierced my skin. The crimson roses fell, scattering across one of the white gravel paths that outlined the formal flower beds. I stepped back, twitching my finger away from the blood that pooled inside my suede gardening glove.
“War of the Roses, indeed,” I muttered to myself as I yanked off the glove and waved it at my friend, Julie Rivera, who’d agreed to help me decorate Chapters for the costume party. “The things I do for my guests.”
“It will be worth it. You’ll see,” Julie said.
I wasn’t so sure, afraid I’d taken on too much with my War of the Roses dinner party. When I’d planned a week-long literary event as a celebration of Golden Age mystery author Josephine Tey, I’d thought it would be fun to include a costume party honoring Tey’s famous story The Daughter of Time. A War of the Roses–themed event had seemed a natural nod to the book, which featured Tey’s detective, Alan Grant, investigating the truth about Richard the Third and the princes in the Tower. But the complexity of offering a fifteenth-century-influenced dinner, along with the necessary decorating, had proven so stressful, I wished I’d never come up with the idea.
I peeled off the other glove and shoved both into the pocket of my jeans. Hanging my garden shears off the edge of my bucket, I stared at the containers overflowing with flowers. Now we’ve really done enough, I thought, considering the swaths of scarlet and white fabric Julie and I had already hung in the dining room to frame a reproduction of a medieval tapestry panel. With the addition of fabric chair covers and two faux-metal shields, I’d thought my decorating was complete. But Julie had noticed the blooming shrubs in the garden and suggested adding vases filled with red and white roses. Which I’d thought a great idea at the time. Until I encountered the vicious thorns studding the stems of the flowers, of course.
“I feel like a pincushion,” I said, wrapping a tissue around my bleeding finger.
“But he that dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose,” Julie said, her brown eyes sparkling with good humor.
“Good old Anne Bronte—she sure had that right,” I said, not surprised that Julie could quote a classic but not-so-well-known author. A voracious reader, she owned Bookwaves, an independent bookstore on Front Street.
We’d actually met when I visited Bookwaves not long after I moved to Beaufort. Julie, upon discovering I was the new owner, had graciously offered to lead the local book club discussions held at Chapters once a month. “Until you get used to it,” she’d said. Appreciating her kindness, I’d made a habit of visiting Bookwaves to buy new books. Which had led to a close friendship. Even though Julie, at thirty-five, was seven years younger than me, we’d bonded over our mutual interest in books, music, good food, and intelligent conversation. And while I was a widow who had no current interest in dating, I enjoyed Julie’s tales of her romantic adventures. I suppose it was a bit of living vicariously.
“I think we probably have enough.” I motioned toward Julie’s pail of white roses before leaning over to collect the scattered crimson blooms and drop them into my own bucket.
Julie shoved a pair of garden clippers into the pocket of the green canvas apron I’d lent her. “I won’t argue with that,” she said, stripping off a pair of borrowed gardening gloves.
“Here, let me grab that bucket so you can take those things back to the garden shed,” I said, crossing to her.
We were about the same height, but Julie possessed the curvier figure—a fact she sometimes bemoaned. Although she enjoyed flirting, she didn’t like to be appreciated simply for her dark-haired, dark-eyed, voluptuous good looks. She preferred men who admired her mind as well as her physical attributes.
Who are harder to find than they should be, I thought.
I forced an image of my late husband from my mind. Even though it had been three years, I still had a hard time believing Brent was gone forever.
And I still have no interest in dating someone new, I thought, as Scott Kepler walked around the corner of the holly hedge that separated the carriage house from the rest of the backyard. Julie had urged me to consider Scott as more than a friend, but I knew it was impossible for two reasons. First, because I was still in love with my late husband. And second, because although she hadn’t noticed it yet, Scott was way more interested in Julie than in me.
I thought it was a perfect match. A booklover and an author: what could be better? Not to mention that Scott seemed like a kind and intelligent man. While he lived in Asheville, North Carolina, which was around six hours away, he visited Beaufort often to conduct research for his books.
“Hello, ladies,” Scott said, giving me a nod before his gaze swung back to Julie.
“Hi there.” Julie slipped off her apron, revealing her curve-hugging pink T-shirt and denim shorts.
Scott’s expression brightened as he looked at her. “Helping Charlotte out with the party prep?”
“Yeah, she always has so much to do, getting ready for these things.”
“I’m sure,” Scott said, with a swift glance at me. “Anything I can do?”
“No, we’re pretty much done,” I said. “I just need to get these roses into some vases, and that will be it. For the decorating, anyway.”
Julie flicked her dark-brown braid behind one shoulder. “Are you coming to the costume party, Scott?”
“Sadly, no. I have another engagement. Will you be there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Julie said. “I actually have a costume I’m just dying to wear, although I’m afraid it may be a little warm for it this evening. But it’s so flattering, I think I’m willing to suffer. It’s velvet, and about the color of those roses,” she added, pointing toward my bucket.
“I’m sure that will look quite lovely on you.” Scott’s eyes were bright, but his voice held a note of disappointment.
I bet he wishes he were coming now, I thought, before clearing my throat. “Well, I’d better get these flowers inside before they totally wilt.”
Of course, since the buckets were filled with water, that wasn’t likely, but neither Scott nor Julie seemed to notice my little deception. I grabbed both buckets and headed for the door that led into Chapters’ kitchen, leaving Scott and Julie chatting in the garden.
I felt no shame in playing matchmaker, especially because I’d been worried about Julie lately. She’d told me in confidence that her latest boyfriend—a “mystery man” she refused to name—was married. “But separated and getting a divorce any minute now,” she’d told me. “I’ll introduce you to him as soon as that happens, I swear.”
Biting my tongue, I’d avoided making any negative comments about this situation, even though it concerned me. I didn’t want to see my friend caught up in some messy domestic drama.
Especially since there was Scott—long divorced and currently single, as he’d told me. Hoping I’d share that information with Julie, I bet, I thought, a little smile curving my lips.
As I was about to head into the kitchen, a series of sharp yips diverted my attention. I set the buckets on the steps that led up to the back stoop and turned to my neighbor’s home—a three-story Victorian whose cream-colored siding was enlivened by turquoise-and-maroon-painted gingerbread trim.
The house’s owner, Ellen Montgomery, was a seventy-five-year-old former location scout who’d spent years traveling for film and television companies before moving to Beaufort. Ellen was also the executor of Isabella Harrington’s estate and manager of the trust Isabella had established to assist with the maintenance of the bed-and-breakfast.
Like the rest of my family, I’d been perplexed when this codicil to Isabella’s will had been announced by the lawyers. I liked Ellen, but having to ask a virtual stranger for funds when the B and B’s expenses outweighed profits was embarrassing.
Another thorn, I thought, cradling my pierced finger in my opposite palm as the volume of the yips increased.
“Hey there, Shandy.” I crossed to the gate that led into Ellen’s lush backyard. A small black-and-tan dog, with hair that veiled his black eyes, leapt up at the inside of the gate.
“Oh, be quiet, you.” Ellen Montgomery picked up the Yorkshire terrier and held him against her breast before shoving back the battered straw hat shading her face. Sunlight glinted off her snow-white bob, which was streaked with deep-purple and cerulean-blue highlights. “And hello, Charlotte.”
“Looks like you’re doing a little gardening too.” I ran my fingers through my own hair. Emerald might look good in mine, I thought, before shaking such a silly thought from my head. I was an innkeeper who hosted literary events. Given the wide variety of guests who visited Chapters, it was best if I kept my appearance, like my manner, gracious and unassuming. No matter how boring and confining that sometimes felt.
“Just trying to fight some of the weeds. Seems like they can take over if you let things go even a few days, especially at this time of year.”
“Absolutely, and it’s probably the best time to do it today, even though it’s hot. Most of the tourists are over at Morehead City right now.” I made a face. “I don’t know about you, but I always hate it when I look up from weeding and find visitors staring at me over my back fence.”
Ellen stroked the long fur on the Yorkie’s back. “Yes, the streets will definitely get busier in the evening. But perhaps I should’ve left Shandy inside. I don’t want him to bother your guests with all his yapping.” She grinned. “I don’t call him the ‘holy terrier’ for nothing.”
“It’s fine. Chapters’ walls are thick enough to block out most outside noise, even a yippy dog.” I leaned over the gate to pat Shandy’s head, earning a sloppy lick across my hand in return.
Ellen fixed me with her intense, and somewhat disconcerting, gaze. “You have a full house for the week, I hope?”
“No, unfortunately we aren’t completely booked.”
“You should’ve rented out any extra rooms to the fishing folk. Lord knows they’re always looking for places to stay in the area. I had someone knock on my door just the other day, hoping I’d rent a room during the tournament. Which I won’t.”
“I thought that would be disruptive to my other guests.” I frowned. “I guess if I’d lived here longer, I would’ve known not to schedule this author celebration for the same week as the Big Rock tournament. But I had no idea how many visitors it brought to the area.”
“It’s one of the largest fishing events in the world, but cut yourself some slack, Charlotte—people who don’t live here don’t realize just how huge it is. You might want to remember it for next year, though. Isabella used to forgo her literary events and rent out to the fishing crowd for top dollar.”
“Next year, sure.” I mentally chided myself. I could’ve used the extra money. Although Chapters did pay for itself, I had little in the way of extra funds and was reluctant to ask Ellen for too much from the trust. “But I’d already planned this Tey event when I realized the conflict.”
“Live and learn,” Ellen said. “At least, as you told me yesterday, you have some local people paying to participate in the events even though they aren’t staying with you, right?”
“Fortunately.” I curled my injured finger in to touch my palm. I really could’ve used the lodging fees. Next year I’d know better.
Ellen shook her head. “You aren’t as ruthless as Isabella. She had a firm rule that anyone who wanted to participate in the literary events had to stay at the house, at least for a night. Even if they were local.”
“Really?” I fanned my flushed face with one hand. What an idiot I am. Not even as savvy as Isabella, a woman fifty years my senior. “I’ll definitely know better next year. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work. There’s a lot to do before tonight’s party.”
“Of course,” Ellen said. “Come on, Shandy. Let’s grab ourselves some water and a snack, shall we?” She gave me a little wave before heading toward her back door, the Yorkie trotting at her heels.
I cast one glance toward the garden. After noting that Scott and Julie were still engaged in what looked like a lively conversation, I grabbed the flower buckets and carried them into the kitchen.
Alicia spared me one glance before turning her focus back to her vigorous scrubbing of the counters. “Call for you. I didn’t pick up because I was elbow deep in cleaning. Anyway, they left a message.”
I set the buckets in one side of our deep double sink. “Oh? Well, maybe I better check that before I do anything with these flowers. Just in case it’s someone wanting a future reservation. You don’t need to mess with the roses, by the way. I’ll collect some vases and deal with them as soon as I check that phone message.”
“Don’t worry, I’m always happy to leave the floral arranging to someone else,” Alicia said, as I headed into the pantry.
Since we needed to provide phones in our guest rooms, we still had a landline. I punched the playback button on the answering machine connected to the phone.
The caller announced herself as Claire Stevenson. My mother.
I shook my head. I should have figured. Mom always called the landline number rather than my cell phone, and left her full name. She’d told me that she’d been trained to do so when she’d called her aunt in the past, so that Alicia would know to leave the message for Isabella rather than answer it herself.
Mom’s message was a request that I return her call, which I did after checking my watch. Mom had left Dad to care for their menagerie of rescue dogs and cats so she could visit my older sister, Sophie, and her family for a few weeks. Since Sophie lived in California, I always checked the time, aware of the three-hour time difference. I’d once accidentally phoned Sophie at eight, which was five in the morning her time. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“Oh hi, Charlotte, thanks for getting back to me. I have some great news I couldn’t wait to share.” Mom’s effervescent tone sparkled over the phone. I smiled. While both my sisters had inherited Mom’s bubbly personality, I was more reserved, like my dad.
“Sophie is pregnant again?” I asked, since that was one of the few things that could inspire my mom to call me in the middle of the day.
“Heavens no, she’s forty-five now, you know. And while it’s certainly possible, I don’t think either Sophie or Bill want more than the three they’ve already got.” Mom’s bright laugh rang in my ear. “I mean, little Jaden is such a handful, I think they said enough is enough a while ago.”
“Yeah, he’s something else. Wait, did you hear something from Mel?” I held my breath, hoping this was true. My younger sister, Melinda, a costume designer, lived in New York City. She had just turned forty a few months ago, a milestone the family had celebrated at my parents’ home in Charlottesville, Virginia. Mel had married her longtime partner, Beatrice, two years before, in a ceremony made bittersweet for me by the combination of Mel’s joy and Brent’s absence.
“Yes!” my mom said in a triumphant tone. “The procedure worked. Bea is pregnant!”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, my chest tightening. Brent and I hadn’t been able to have any children. We’d been discussing adoption right before he died.
I shook off my foolish pang of envy and told Mom I’d call Mel as soon as I could. There was no point in allowing my own sadness to cloud my sister’s, or my mother’s, happiness. Besides, Mel and Bea’s baby just meant another niece or nephew for me to spoil.
Not that I got to see the ones I already had as much as I liked. I coughed to hide a bit of rawness in my voice and asked after Sophie, Bill, and the kids before telling Mom I had to go and deal with some more bed-and-breakfast chores.
“Sometimes I think all you do is work. I hope you manage to squeeze in a little fun and adventure now and then,” my mom said, before telling me good-bye.
As I hung up the phone, I shook my head over the reply I’d given her.
“Of course I do,” I’d said, even though it wasn’t exactly true. Except for Julie and a few members of Chapters’ book club, I scarcely talked to anyone other than Alicia, Damian, or our guests.
Grabbing some pewter vases off one of the pantry shelves, I had to admit that while running the bed-and-breakfast was challenging and interesting, it wasn’t often what I’d call fun or exciting. I really wouldn’t mind a little adventure, I thought as I arranged the roses.
Which, as it turned out, was one of those instances that proved the old adage Be careful what you wish for.