Half an hour later as she descended the stairs from her room, Lorraine knew there was no reason to ask Mr. Parker if she could try something else. No matter how much he owed Mike, the innkeeper could not afford to have her disrupt his operation again. Jonah was right. At least as far as Lilac Hall was concerned, she was a useless ornament. The thought was more painful than her blisters. Perhaps she had been spoiled. Perhaps it was only because she had attempted easier tasks in the past, but Lorraine was not accustomed to failure. And fail she had. Twice. When Mike returned, she would have nothing to tell him other than that she had tried and failed.
In the meantime, she had almost four weeks with nothing to do. She’d picked up the book that had seemed so fascinating when she’d started reading it on the train. Today she found herself unable to concentrate on the story. With nothing else to do in her room, she had headed downstairs. Perhaps there would be someone to talk to. But the rooms where guests normally gathered were empty.
As Lorraine wandered through the parlor, she remembered a piano practically hidden by a large potted palm. She slid onto the bench and opened the fall board, equally thankful that there was no one to care if she played and that her instructors had insisted she memorize her favorite pieces, for she’d found no music inside the bench. Seconds later, as she struck the first notes of Chopin’s “Raindrop” prelude, Lorraine felt her spirits lighten. Congreve was right when he wrote, “Musick has Charms to soothe a savage Breast, / To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.” Though she would not have described herself as savage, Lorraine found herself smiling by the time the last chords had died, signaling the end of the rainstorm.
“Bravo, my dear.” Soft applause accompanied the words.
Lorraine turned, startled by the realization that she had not been alone. If she’d known she had an audience, she might have muted her playing. As it was, when she’d reached the thunderous chords that Chopin used to depict the height of the storm, she’d poured every ounce of her frustration into them, releasing her emotions as her fingers pounded the keys. And Mrs. Ferguson had heard her. Lorraine had been introduced to the heavyset gray-haired woman when she and her husband had arrived at the inn the previous day.
“That is just what this place needs,” Mrs. Ferguson continued, “a little music.”
Lorraine rose and took the few steps needed to reach the other guest’s side. “Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson. I didn’t know anyone was listening. Most people spend their mornings outside.”
Mrs. Ferguson perched on the edge of a long padded bench, gesturing to the seat next to her. “It’s a bit vexing. I thought I was going to enjoy it here, but the other guests don’t appear too friendly, and there’s not a lot to do. Harold doesn’t want to play croquet, and we don’t know how to play tennis.”
“Would you like to learn?” Though she hadn’t brought a racquet, Lorraine suspected Mr. Parker had a supply for the guests.
Mrs. Ferguson shook her head. “I don’t think so, my dear. Harold and I came here to rest.”
Only now she was bored, just as Lorraine had been. As a glimmer of an idea planted itself in her mind, Lorraine began to smile. Mrs. Ferguson was the answer to her prayer. No wonder she’d been frustrated. She’d been traveling the wrong path, trying to put herself in first Mike’s, then Betty’s role, when all the while she should have been finding her own. She had been measuring herself against Mike and Betty and even Jonah, when she should have been using the talents God had given her, the ones that made her unique.
Lorraine might not be able to cook or to do laundry, but she could play the piano. More than that, she could bring the guests together. It was one of the talents that even Uncle Ambrose recognized, admitting that Lorraine was skilled at organizing both people and events.
Mike had brought new ideas to Lilac Hall, infusing it with more than money. Though Lorraine could not offer her inheritance, there were things she could do to make Mike’s dream even better and, in doing that, perhaps make a place for herself. It might not be a permanent role—Lorraine wasn’t certain she wanted to live here year-round, and she still needed to find a way to keep Cousin Alan from squandering her inheritance—but while she was here, she could provide activities that would make guests’ holidays at Lilac Hall memorable.
“Do you play bridge, Mrs. Ferguson?”
The older woman’s blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Yes. I love it. Why?”
Resolving to see if she could interest the other wives in an occasional game of bridge, Lorraine countered Mrs. Ferguson’s question with another of her own. “Do you and your husband like to hike?”
“Oh, no, dear. That sounds awfully strenuous.”
No hiking. At least not unless the other guests expressed a desire for it.
Mrs. Ferguson frowned. “Of course, Harold and I do walk around the arboretum at home. We enjoy seeing the different trees and plants there.”
Not hikes, but guided walks. Those would be simpler to arrange and might appeal to guests of all ages and physical abilities. “There are many different trees here too,” Lorraine said as she made another mental note. Though lilacs predominated close to the buildings, there were woods on all sides, and she had spotted at least a dozen different varieties of shrubs.
“Mr. Parker didn’t mention that.”
“There’s also a pond that’s big enough for rowboats.”
Mrs. Ferguson’s voice was wistful as she said, “I haven’t been in a rowboat since I was a child.”
“If I can find one, you and Harold can go for a row this afternoon. Would you like that?”
The older woman’s smile was all the answer Lorraine needed. “We’ll talk more at noon,” Lorraine promised.
She had a plan. Now came the hard part: convincing Mr. Parker.