Opal is at the forefront of my mind as I walk back to the main building for my purse. Growing up, I would’ve given anything for a grandmother like her. A hip and energetic older woman to take me on trips to the zoo and spoil my dinner by buying me ice cream cones. To invite me for sleepovers and cook me stacks of blueberry pancakes for breakfast the following morning. To share Christmases and birthdays and all the other holidays.
When I was eight, Marnie took me out to California to visit her family. In addition to my grandparents, I was to meet my aunts and uncles and cousins. But Marnie picked a fight with her mother our first night in San Diego, and we had to cut our trip short. We left the next morning, before I even got to go to the zoo.
All my life, I’ve pestered Hannah to tell me about her family, but she refused to talk about them except to say she doesn’t have any siblings. And she only shared this information to commiserate with me when I complained about being an only child. I was the kid who had no siblings or grandparents, two mothers but no father. In today’s world, same-sex parents are widely accepted, but back then, my classmates thought I was a freak.
When I enter the building, I hear music. Have new guests arrived? I follow the sound to an octagonal-shaped glass room at the end of the hallway. Beams of sunlight stream down from the ceiling, glistening off the streams of water spewing from a trio of bronze cherubs in the center of the room. A little girl in full ballet garb leaps and pirouettes across the black-and-white checkered marble floor to the music from Swan Lake. Naomi—the child’s mother, I assume—stands off to the side, wearing an expression I can’t read.
When the music ends, I clap loudly and call out, “Bravo!”
Realizing she has an audience, the child performs a delicate curtsy. Perfectly poised, with head high and spine ramrod straight, she glides on her toes toward me. Her glossy dark hair is fastened in a high bun, and she’s dressed all in white—leotard, chiffon skirt, and tights—with the exception of the blush-colored ankle wrap ballet shoes. Her complexion is lighter than her mother’s—butter pecan versus Naomi’s milk chocolate—with eyes the color of cognac. The child is so positively scrumptious, I want to eat her alive.
When she stops in front of me, I say, “I’m Stella. What’s your name?”
“Jazz. It’s short for Jasmine.”
“A pretty name for a pretty girl. How old are you, Jazz?”
“I turned six in March.”
“In that case, happy belated birthday. I’m a big fan of ballet. I’ve seen the New York City Ballet perform many times. I think you’re very good for someone your age.”
Jazz flashes me a snaggletoothed grin. “Really?”
“Really,” I say with a vigorous nod.
From behind her daughter, Naomi shakes her head and mouths, “Don’t encourage her.”
My eyes narrow in confusion. What the heck? Her daughter obviously has talent.
Placing her hand on Jazz’s back, Naomi gives the child a nudge toward the door. "Run get your things, Jazz. Your father is waiting to take us to dinner.”
Naomi watches her daughter leave the room. “A year ago this past Christmas, her father and I took Jazz to see the Richmond Ballet’s presentation of The Nutcracker. When she begged for ballet lessons, I thought it would be a good way for her to make new friends. I never dreamed she’d become so obsessed. Or that she’d have such natural talent.”
“Isn’t that a parent’s dream come true? For their child to be passionate about something they do well?”
“I’d rather Jazz be dissecting frogs. Her time is better spent studying biology to become a doctor. To choose a career in entertainment is to choose a pathway to heartache.”
Her face is stone. Nothing I say will change her mind. And since I’m not a parent, who am I to argue?
“On a different note, I’ve decided to close the inn for renovations.”
Her brown eyes pop. “You’ve decided?”
Opal’s voice echoes in my mind. Speak with the voice of authority. “With Brian Powers’s blessing. As of today, the doors are locked. All future bookings will be canceled.”
Her eyes fall to the floor. “I can’t do this?”
“Do what, Naomi? I thought you’d be excited. Your position here won’t change. We’ll work together to prepare for the renovations, and once construction is underway, we’ll start planning for the grand reopening.”
Her nostrils flare, and a vein in her neck pulses. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
No words come out of Naomi’s mouth, but she pins me with a stare so full of hatred my knees go weak. She views me as a threat, and I don’t blame her. I came along out of the blue. But I won’t apologize for something that has been imposed upon me. Until two days ago, I’d never heard of Hope Springs Farm and Billy Jameson was the lead singer in a rock band, not my father. I’m terrified here. Brian is expecting a lot of me. I need an ally, not an enemy.
She spins on her heels and leaves me gaping at her back. I’m standing in the same spot minutes later when she returns with a set of keys. She tosses them at me. “This headache is all yours. Have fun!”
I’m on her heels as she hurries back toward reception. “At least think about it for a few days, Naomi. We can work through our issues.”
Jazz is waiting for her by the check-in counter. Naomi takes her by the hand, nearly jerking her little arm out of its socket, and drags her toward the entrance. She bursts through the double doors with enough force to knock them off their hinges.
Tears sting my eyes as I lock the doors behind her. What was it Powers said about her? Naomi’s been through a lot. Give her the benefit of the doubt until you can prove otherwise. Whatever she’s been through has nothing to do with me. I only met the woman yesterday. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, and she walked out on me. I would prefer to have her on my team. I know virtually nothing about the way this inn works. But I draw the line at begging.
I return to the solarium where I spend an hour contemplating the many possible uses for the space. This is one of the few rooms that doesn’t need renovating. The retro vibe works here. I’ve watched all the classic greats with Hannah and Marnie, and I expect to see Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire waltzing across the floor. Left empty, the solarium would be the ideal place to host cocktail receptions. Furnished with wicker furniture and floral print fabrics, it becomes an inside garden for special occasion breakfasts and afternoon teas.
I create a new file on the Notes app on my phone and record my ideas before moving on the wood-paneled library next door. Aside from the stench of cigarette smoke permanently permeated in the carpet and drapes, I find this room old-world handsome with its stone fireplace and leather upholstery. Two walls of bookshelves showcase first edition copies of classic novels as well as more contemporary romances and mysteries written and signed by authors who were previous guests at the inn. A whole section is dedicated to oversized hardcover books with glossy photographs—coffee table books—documenting the life and times at Hope Springs Farm. I set several of the more intriguing ones aside to study later tonight at the cottage.
The cabinets beneath the shelves are full of photo albums chronicling events held at the inn, dating from the twenties until a few years ago. Seated with my legs crossed on the floor, I study the albums, reliving the inn’s history through the ages. At its prime, the inn was a hotspot for famous politicians and movie stars. The albums from the late eighties and nineties sport pages of photographs of Billy Jameson performing in the lounge. I add those albums to my stack of glossy books for the cottage.
From what I can tell, conditions at the farm began to deteriorate around the turn of the century. And Powers expects me to restore it to its glory. A tall order for a girl from New York who can’t hold down a job.
Around seven o’clock, my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten since the stale muffin I had for breakfast. I got so distracted that I never went to the market. Since it’s too late to go now, I order a veggie pizza from Domino’s and summon the nerve to go to my room for my suitcase. Being alone in this hotel freaks me out. I imagine an ax-wielding Jack Nicholson waiting for me when the elevator doors part on the third floor, and the spooky twins in blue dresses watching me hurry down the long hallway to my room.
I waste no time in throwing my belongings in my suitcase and hightailing it back down to the lobby. I wait for the pizza deliveryman out front, under the portico. After he leaves, I manage to transport my pizza, suitcase, and the stack of books from the lobby to the cottage in a single trip.
With doors locked and lights on, I feel safer in the cramped quarters of my new home. Rolling my suitcase into Billy’s room, I unpack the few clothes I brought with me in the antique chest and small closet. Changing into my pajamas, I return to the living room. Clicking on the gas logs in the small fireplace, I curl up at one end of the sofa with the pizza box and stack of books on the coffee table beside me.
I activate my debit card, and after confirming the balance of five thousand dollars, I spend a few minutes researching laptops before purchasing a basic, thirteen-inch MacBook Air. My dinosaur Dell PC went to its final resting place at the electronics recycling center months ago. Almost instantly, I get an email notifying me of my new computer’s arrival tomorrow. And not a moment too soon, considering the amount of research I need to conduct.
I spend hours studying the photographs in the glossy books and making lists and notes on my phone. When I finally turn out the light and go to bed, I have the strangest feeling I’m not alone. There’s not a soul on this seventy-acre farm except me, but instead of being afraid, I’m oddly comforted by Billy’s prized memorabilia. I’m at home in this small cottage. Billy wanted me here. Even though he didn’t know me, he trusted me with this monumental task, and I will do everything in my power not to let him down.