“Let’s start with this side—it’s not under construction.” Molly beamed at Adam as he entered the foyer, her smile so warm and bright it could probably burn off the morning fog. He noticed a shallow dimple in her left cheek. “It’s my first tour, so you’ll have to be patient with me. Little warning: sometimes I talk too much.”
Adam hitched his laptop bag higher on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“I’ll show you the library first. The dining room won’t be of much use to you anyway. Where are you from, Mr. Bradford?”
“Adam, please. I’m from New York. I flew in early this morning, and I’ve been trying to find a vacancy ever since.”
“Well, your search is over. You’re a little ways from home.”
“Yes, I am.” He struggled for something else to say and came up empty.
Molly seemed awfully young to be running an inn. He followed her to the left of the stand and down a short hall. This part of the house seemed untouched by the construction. It featured the high ceilings of a bygone area, original mahogany woodwork, and squeaky wood floors.
“So what’s the history behind this place?” he asked.
“Well, as I said before, it was built in 1905,” she said over her shoulder. “Bluebell’s first inn. Early on it became a stagecoach stop, and it’s been many things over the years, including a saloon, if you can believe it. It was even a post office for a while. In the sixties—the lake’s real heyday—other hotels opened, but the Bluebell Inn remained the place to stay.
“Unfortunately, the area declined in popularity in the seventies, and the inn was purchased by the governor’s family and made into a summer home. They lived here until my parents bought it. My siblings and I grew up here.”
“If only the walls could talk,” he said. “I’ll bet they’d have some good stories.”
Her smile widened. “I know, right? The last innkeeper’s wife kept a journal, though, and we have it right here in our library. Fascinating stuff and as close to talking walls as we’re going to get, I’m afraid.”
Maybe he’d find a spark there. Although the sixties weren’t really his sweet spot.
Molly continued her tour. “The Bluebell Inn—we’ve kept the original name, by the way—has the distinction of being the only hotel that’s both downtown and on the lake. The best of both worlds.”
“Convenient for me, for certain. So your parents own the inn then?”
Her smile faltered just a split second before she bolstered it. “That was their plan for retirement . . . but I’m afraid they passed away last summer. My siblings and I are opening it on our own now.”
He stopped just shy of the room she’d entered, wishing he could call back his question. “I’m so sorry.” He wanted to say more. That he was impressed by her resolve and commitment. By her strength. But uncertainty made the words congeal in his throat.
“Thank you.” She gestured him inside the room.
It was about twelve by fifteen, had wall-to-wall shelves, a dark leather sofa and coffee table, and an old desk situated in front of a large picture window.
“I never asked what brought you to Bluebell,” she said. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business.” He smiled politely and began looking around, not really wanting to expound. It got tricky sometimes, protecting his anonymity.
“Oh, all right. Well, let me know if I can be of service in any way. I know most everyone around here, and sometimes connections are everything.”
“I’m not really . . . That is, my work is more solitary. I’ll be going to the library a lot.”
“Oh!” Her eyebrows popped as her lovely eyes lit up. “Are you researching the area? We have some really fascinating town history, and I could connect you to some people.”
“Yes, research. Exactly.” That much was true. He needed to find a plot somewhere, quickly, and that’s where it had always started before.
“I’ve read every book on the subject. If I can be of help, let me know. Speaking of which . . .” She gestured around the room they’d entered. “Our library. We actually have several good books on the area.”
He followed her to a shelf on the far side of the room, taking in the musty smell of old books. It was too warm in the room. Or perhaps he was only nervous. His damp palms were slippery on the handle of his bag.
She set her hand on the hardback spines of a few old tomes. “The downtown library doesn’t have all of these, and you’re more than welcome to help yourself. We have books on the town’s history and a few on the regional history. I’m not sure which you’re interested in.”
“All of it, actually. Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find these helpful.” He browsed the adjacent section. Desiring God, Mere Christianity, and Love Does, among others. “Good books.”
“You’ve read them?
“All but Anxious for Nothing.”
She dropped her hands to the pockets of her shorts. “Well, you’re welcome to them as well. And if you find yourself in need of a quiet space to work on-site, this would be your best bet. The construction is on the other side of the house. It’ll probably be quieter than your room. There’s the patio too, and it’s in the shade. But it can get pretty hot out there even in late May.”
He took in the view of the lake through the picture window. A shaded lawn stretched down to the grassy shore where a wooden pier jutted out into the water. A small metal boat, tied to the end, bobbed in the wake of a passing pontoon. He turned to take in the rest of the room. “I can’t imagine a better place to work or read.”
“I know. My brother wanted to turn it into a guest room. Can you imagine? He’s all dollars and cents.”
“I’m glad you kept it as it is. I may use it a bit tomorrow, if I won’t be in your way.”
“Not at all. That’s what it’s here for.”
“Do you live on the premises?” he asked. Muse or no, she might be a little distracting.
“Yes, all three of us do. My sister and I share a room, and my brother took the maid’s room off the kitchen.”
He stopped by a wall of shelves that housed a generous fiction section.
“As you can see, we’re well-stocked in fiction, too, if you enjoy reading novels.”
“I do.” His eyes scanned the shelves, finding everything from the classics—Austen, Dickens, Twain, Brontë—to the contemporary genres of mystery, thriller, sci-fi, and romance.
“My dad liked to read a bit of everything, but I primarily read women’s fiction and romance—you probably don’t read those genres.”
“I sometimes do. Actually, men account for 19 percent of those who read romance novels.”
“You don’t say.”
“Of course science fiction is the most popular genre for men at 69 percent, followed by crime and thriller at 62.”
She blinked at him.
And still his mouth kept moving. “Overall about 47 percent of Americans read fiction. It was on the rise from 2002 to 2008, but it’s been dropping slowly ever since. Men are more likely to read nonfiction than women though.” Shut up, Adam. He pressed his lips together.
Her head tilted, studying him as if maybe he was an alien from one of those sci-fi novels. “Interesting.”
Not to normal people.
His eyes suddenly fell on a series of familiar spines. On the name spanning their lengths. His throat tightened uncomfortably, constricting his airway.
He hitched his bag on his shoulder and moved away from the shelves, distancing himself from the books. He made a beeline toward the door, hoping all his blood hadn’t rushed into his face.
She stopped talking suddenly—his first clue she’d been speaking at all. And he’d rudely walked away. Smooth, Bradford.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out before he could figure out what to say. “Here you are, lugging around your heavy bag while I rattle on about books. Let me show you up to your room.”
He hated that he’d made her feel bad but couldn’t think of a thing to say that didn’t involve random statistics or irrelevant details. So he just followed her back down the hall, around the check-in desk, and up the staircase, while she filled the silence with her lovely chatter.
He found her gift of gab charming and was envious of her easy way with people. She’d do well as an innkeeper, despite her youth. She wasn’t that young, and though he’d barely reached thirty himself, he’d always felt older than he actually was.
At the top of the steps they took a left, and he followed her down the hallway. The faint smell of new carpet welcomed him. Wall sconces shed golden light on the space and made copper highlights sparkle in Molly’s dark hair. Her white top billowed behind her, reaching just past the waistline of her shorts.
Whoever her parents were, they would be proud of her, he thought with sudden sentimentality. He of all people knew how important that was. He hoped he might find the opportunity, and the words, to tell her that before they parted ways.
“Here we are,” she said as they turned a corner. The white five-panel door bore many coats of paint and featured the old-style glass knobs. The skeleton keyhole was still in place, but a deadbolt had been installed above it.
She stepped aside so he could unlock the door.
“It’s all made up,” she said. “But you’ll have to adjust the air. I’ll be making up the room each day whenever you slip out.”
He blinked at her, the idea of her entering his personal space both disconcerting and pleasant.
“Molly . . .” A male voice shouted from down the hall as Adam carried his bags inside. “Where are you?”
“Be right there.” Her voice was rushed as she backed away. “If you need anything, please let me know.”
Before he could respond a man rounded the corner. He was a few inches taller than Adam with the build of a wide receiver, rugged in paint-stained jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. He looked like someone Adam might cast as a hero in one of his novels—tall, dark, and handsome. Intelligence—and disapproval—sparkled in his clear blue eyes.
“Hey, Levi,” Molly said, her hands searching for a place to land. “What do you need?”
Levi’s gaze moved between them, his brows drawing together as they landed on Adam’s suitcase. “Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Um, Adam,” Molly said, “this is my brother, Levi. Levi . . . this is our first guest, Adam Bradford.” Her injected enthusiasm fooled no one.
Levi’s gaze swung back to his sister, and Adam would’ve had to be clueless to miss the instant thread of tension drawing tight between them.
“Adam’s in the area doing research,” Molly said, obviously trying to fill the awkward silence. “He’ll be staying until Monday.”
Levi gave Adam a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Is everything all right?”
“Absolutely,” Molly said enthusiastically. “Fine and dandy.”
Levi’s pointed gaze swung back to his sister. “Molly . . . might I have a word with you downstairs?”