When I text Brian to let him know I’m coming to Virginia, I offer to Uber from the train station in Roanoke, but he insists on sending a car to pick me up. My train arrives an hour late, and at nearly eleven o’clock at night, there are few people in the station. I’m relieved to see my driver, bearing a placard with my name, waiting for me by the exit. He’s an older gentleman. In his seventies, if I had to guess. Pleasant but quiet. Which is fine by me. I’m not in the mood to talk. During the hour-long drive to Hope Springs, I stare out the window into the black night, pondering the drastic detour my life has taken in the past thirty-six hours.
As my train was departing Penn Station earlier, I sent Hannah and Marnie a group text. I’m on my way to Virginia to manage the inn my father left me in his will. Thanks to you, I’ll never have the chance to know him.
In response, my parents blew up my phone with texts and calls until I finally block their numbers. I will deal with them when I’m ready.
When we pass the city limit sign for Hope Springs, I press my face against the glass, but it’s too dark to see much of anything. We make our way up a long driveway, and the inn appears in front of us, much larger and more charming in person than in the picture Brian showed me. The combination of stone facades and wide verandas is so cozy and inviting.
Parking under the portico, the driver helps me with my one suitcase. I shipped the rest of my wardrobe in boxes, which are scheduled to arrive on Monday. I wait for the driver to speed away before entering the building. There’s no one in sight, not a guest service agent or a single hotel guest. A wide entryway leads to a reception area. An envelope bearing my name in chicken scratch is waiting for me on the marble-topped desk. Inside the envelope is a key attached to an oval-shaped brass key ring, etched with the number 310.
The lobby branches off in opposite directions from the reception area, but I’m too exhausted to explore tonight. I drag my suitcase down the hallway to my right to a bank of elevators. The elevator cart smells of stale cigar smoke, and I brace myself against the wall as it jerks and rattles me to the third floor. Stained wallpaper and filthy carpet greet me when the doors part. My mothers are old movie buffs. The 80s horror film The Shining comes to mind and goose pimples crawl across my skin as I hurry down the dimly lit hallway toward my corner room. I imagine eyes watching me as I fumble with the key. Brian neglected to tell me the inn was haunted.
Locking the door behind me, I lean against it until my breathing steadies. What have I gotten myself into?
But I’m pleased to see that my room is actually a suite with bedroom and sitting area. While spacious, the bathroom is nothing special—tub, toilet and counter. The fabrics are worn, and the carpet soiled, but the building itself has nice bones. The Inn at Hope Springs Farm needs a face-lift and an exorcism. And I’m not sure I’m the right person to oversee either.
I have trouble falling asleep, and when I finally drift off, I dream of phantoms chasing me down dark tunnels. Surprisingly, I wake feeling refreshed. Regardless of whether or not I stay in Hope Springs, the view from my hotel room at dawn is worth the trip to Virginia. The sun turns the sky pink, then purple, and finally yellow as it rises above the mountain range. The landscape is washed in the bright green of new spring foliage. A red brick sidewalk stretches down to a large lake at the foot of the mountains. Buildings of various sizes with the same wooden stone architecture as the inn are situated on either side of the sidewalk.
I stand at the window for hours, wondering how I made it through nearly thirty years without ever visiting the mountains. Or the Grand Canyon. Or the white sandy beaches of the Caribbean. When I was a child, Marnie took me to California once to visit her family, but that turned out badly. Other than that trip and annual trips to Cape May with Hannah and Marnie every summer, we never went anywhere else. When I got old enough to travel on my own, I was too busy working or studying. Besides, I always found plenty to explore in the city.
Around nine o’clock, the need for caffeine drives me out of my reverie. Taking my toiletry bag into the bathroom, I turn on the shower faucet, but I’m unable to get any hot water. I consider not showering but change my mind when I catch my reflection in the mirror—greasy hair matted to head and mascara smudged under my eyes. I feel grimy from the train trip, and before I chicken out, I strip off my pajamas and step under the cold stream of water. I stay in long enough to shampoo my hair and wash my body with the tiny bar of soap. My lips are blue and teeth chattering when I emerge from the shower. I dress in cropped jeans and a black crew-neck sweater, and when I can’t find a hair dryer, I towel my wet corkscrews into a frizzy mess.
If I were a paying guest, I would totally complain. I venture down to the lobby where I discover an elderly couple venting a litany of grievances to the stunning woman at the front desk. Their list is long, and the agent comps them their room with an apologetic smile. But when the couple steps away and the woman turns her attention to me, her lips turn downward.
“I’m Stella Boor. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” she says in a clipped tone. “I hope you don’t have a complaint. Your suite is the last remaining fully functioning room we have.”
I hold my tongue about the icy shower.
Naomi, according to her name tag, is Whitney Houston gorgeous. She wears her hair in a sassy cut, short with long bangs that dip over sultry eyes. While I have so many questions for her and I could really use an ally, she is throwing out some serious back-off vibes. But I’m a New Yorker who can cop an attitude with the best of them. “I need coffee. I gather Starbucks is outta the question.” I mean it as a dig, since I know from my Google search the nearest Starbucks is thirty miles away.
Her arm shoots out, finger aimed at the large lounge area to her right. “Dining room’s that way.”
Thanking her, I move from reception into the lounge where comfortable seating areas are arranged in front of floor-to-ceiling windows to take advantage of the stunning view of the mountains. Oriental rugs in muted colors adorn worn wooden floors. And while the upholstery is shabby, most of the furnishings appear to be high-quality antiques. Meandering my way through the lounge, I admire the artwork hanging on the walls. I’ve visited most of New York’s major museums many times, and these are some of the most unusual paintings I’ve ever seen. The soft colors are pleasing to the eye. All are nature scenes—stands of tall trees, a shimmering lake with the mountains in the background, a tranquil stream of water bordered by lush greenery. The signature in the bottom corner of each painting bears the same name. Opal. No last name.
As I pass by the bar, I notice thick layers of dust coating the liquor bottles on the glass shelves on the wall. How long has it been since anyone had a drink in here? The lounge dead-ends into the dining room. The wall of windows continues in here where streams of sunlight highlight outdated lattice wallpaper on the ceiling and faded green carpet on the floors.
Tables and chairs are scattered about the room in no particular order. Only two tables by the window are draped in linen and set with flatware, drinking glasses, and coffee mugs. The elderly couple I encountered earlier in the reception hall is seated at one. I take my place at the other and stare out the window, across the veranda to the grounds. While I’m eager to explore, I’m nervous of what I might discover.
Naomi appears within minutes, dropping a chipped plate bearing a sad-looking muffin on the table in front of me.
“Don’t you have someone that can help you serve?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says as she fills my mug with thick, dark coffee. “I’m a one-woman show around here. Server, reservations manager, housekeeping. The rest of the staff quit, except for Bernard, the groundskeeper. And he can barely keep the grass mowed.”
The elderly couple signals for Naomi, but before she can escape my table, I ask, “Would it be too much to ask for a tour of the property?”
Naomi hunches a shoulder in a why-not gesture. “Come find me after breakfast.”
Gulping the muffin down with stale coffee, I beat Naomi back to the reception desk.
In a disgruntled voice, she says, “All right then. But I warn you, I can’t be away from the front desk for long.”
I think back to when I arrived last night. The door was unlocked and the front desk unsecured.
I follow her out the back of the building, across the wide veranda, to a semicircular stone patio with a fountain in the center that has ceased to spew water. She turns to face the inn. “There are thirty rooms and ten suites in the main building. In addition to the bar, lounge, and dining room, which you saw, we have a library, a solarium, and a wine cellar in the basement.” Doing an about-face, she points to the three closest outbuildings. “There’s the barn, the carriage house, the caretaker’s cottage, and the lake.”
“Does the lake have a name?”
“Not a very original one,” Naomi says. “Clear Bottom Lake. The water is so clear you can see all the way to the bottom.”
“And what’s that down by the lake?” I ask of the plain-looking low-slung building.
“The summer house, a glorified porch used for bingo nights and dances back in the day.”
I know little about building maintenance, but it doesn’t take an expert to see all four are in need of major repairs. Shutters hang askew. Paint is either faded or peeling off the sides. Shingles are missing from roofs. A gutter has fallen off the carriage house. “Are these buildings in use?”
Naomi’s lips are thin and her jaw tight as she explains. “Bernard houses all the lawn equipment in the barn. The carriage house is divided into two suites that haven’t been rented in years. And the ceiling is caving in on the summer house.”
“And the caretaker’s cottage?” I ask, thinking the cottage might make a nice home for me. Anything is better than the creepy inn.
“Billy lived there. You’re welcome to it, if you can get through the door. He was a bit of a hoarder.”
“Oh,” I say, imagining stacks of newspapers and magazines and black plastic bags of trash barring the door. “How bad is business?”
She stares past me, her gaze fixed on an object behind me. “We average two or three bookings a week. We have 50 percent occupancy for the upcoming college’s graduation, but I have no idea where we’re going to put the guests. As I mentioned earlier, most of the rooms are uninhabitable.”
“How did things get into such bad shape?”
“Billy’s heart wasn’t into running the inn. He made sure everything was maintained in good working order, but when he got sick, he lacked the strength to even do that. I guess he was waiting to die, to hand this mess over to you.” Her brown eyes are full of sadness. She obviously cared about him. Was their relationship strictly professional? Were they friends? Or something more?
“Where was Billy’s heart, if not here?”
She huffs out her irritation. “Ask someone else. There are plenty of people around here who would love to tell you what made Billy Jameson tick.”
I stare with mouth wide open as she reenters the building. Why does she dislike me so? Does she consider me a threat? She’s technically my employee. I should fire her for being so rude. But, in her own words, she’s a one-woman show. At the moment, she’s all I’ve got.