Chapter 11

I’d always been certain my parents had the fastest courtship and engagement of any couple I’d ever heard of. Dad had fallen for Mom and proposed three weeks after they met. She’d said no, of course. He’d had to ask three more times before she’d finally agreed, but the fact that he’d been so sure after such a short amount of time blew me away. Still, it was nothing compared to the speed of Chloe’s whirlwind engagement. It hadn’t been three full months since she’d kidnapped me on that fateful Saturday morning and taken me to my first Hamilton brothers’ soccer game, oohing and aahing over the “untouchable brothers” everyone dreamed of dating.

And now she was engaged. To some new guy—Chad something or other—who was days away from starting pharmacy school at UNC and probably hadn’t even finished unpacking his apartment before he and Chloe had been shopping for wedding rings.

Which was why I found myself on the longest Tuesday morning of my life working through the details of Chloe and Chad’s wedding reception. Because the gardens at Winding Way were perfect for Chloe’s wedding photos. And the ballroom at Winding Way was perfect for the dance party she wanted her reception to be. And the terrace at Winding Way was perfect for her bouquet toss, and the food was perfect, and the main staircase was perfect, and by eleven thirty, I was pretty sure if I heard the word perfect one more time I was going to quit my job and move to Tahiti.

At least I wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by Chloe’s enthusiasm. Her mom hugged me on their way out the door, giving my shoulders an extra squeeze. “Thank you for being so patient,” she said softly. “Hopefully she’ll mellow out a little by October.”

I smiled. She probably wouldn’t. But it’s not like I could complain. She loved everything about the inn. That made my job really easy. After seeing Chloe and her mom out the door, I headed to the kitchen in search of lunch but was waylaid by a call from my mother. I hesitated before answering. I hadn’t talked to Mom in . . . days? Weeks, maybe? Granny Grace’s words flashed through my brain. Maybe it was time to finally fess up a few details. I answered the call.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Well, bless me, the daughter I thought was lost to me has finally answered the phone.”

“Very funny. How are you?”

“Busy. Have you talked to John lately? He’s not answering my calls either.”

“Not since last week. I’m sure he’ll call you when he’s got some free time.” John was in the throes of a pediatric surgical residency. Which generally made his “I’m busy” excuses much more convincing than mine.

“I hope he does. I want him to come home for Thanksgiving this year.”

“Have you heard from Abuela? Is she going to come?”

“She’s coming. I bought her plane ticket this morning.”

Thanksgiving with Abuela. It had been too long since we’d been together. At the same time, thinking about Abuela made a knot form in my chest. Her presence at Thanksgiving meant pressure. It meant questions about why I wasn’t married and when I was going to get married and had I heard from Elder Hansen whom she’d met and given my number to? My mother had no trouble reading my prolonged silence.

“Lane. You know her concern is out of love.”

I did know. And I understood. My grandmother was one of seven daughters. All lived in her hometown of Arecibo. All had multiple children and grandchildren, and most even had great-grandchildren. But my grandmother only had Mom. And it had nearly killed her. Emergency surgery after she delivered her first and only child saved her life but ended any hope of more children. Then Mom moved far away and only had two kids, both of whom persisted into adulthood so far unmarried and without children.

“You mean her love for great-grandchildren.”

“I can’t say I blame her there. It might be nice to have a few grandbabies of my own.”

“I’ll get right on it, Mom. Should I go now? Find the first available man?”

“Don’t be smart with me. You are dating someone, aren’t you? You told me you were.”

“Yes. I’m dating someone. Haven’t quite gotten to the how-many-kids-we’ll-have conversation, but dating, yes.”

“Have you gotten to the bring-him-home-for-Thanksgiving conversation? Because bringing a boyfriend to meet your abuela . . . Oh, Lane, she would be so happy.”

Maybe. But was I ready for that? “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. And if you talk to John before I do, will you tell him about Thanksgiving? It would be so nice to have us all together.”

“I will, Mom. Listen, I’m at work. I need to run.”

“Love you, dear. Your father says hello.”

April was already leaning into the staff fridge looking for leftovers when I finally made it to the kitchen. “What did Gaspard leave for us today?” I asked.

She pulled out a container and lifted the lid, sniffing the contents. Her eyes went wide. “It’s bisque.” She turned around, holding the container like it held liquid gold. “He actually left us some bisque.”

I was already reaching for bowls. “Is there enough for all of us?”

April glanced around. “There’s enough for two of us. Please don’t say we have to share it.”

I jerked my head toward the door. “Let’s eat in my office. You warm it up, I’ll sneak us some fresh bread, and we’ll meet there in five.”

“You’re my best food friend, Lane,” April said, her face solemn. “May the bread gods be ever in your favor.”

Gaspard’s crunchy french bread was his pride and joy and one of his most acclaimed specialties. I didn’t believe it at first. Bread? Most acclaimed? But then I’d had some. And vowed I would never doubt Gaspard’s abilities again.

It was not, however, easy to get my hands on a fresh loaf. Generally, employees were swatted away like pesky children. And rightly so, really, seeing as how customers paid for it and all. But that bread dipped in the best crab bisque I’d ever tasted in all my very foodie life was worth a little schmoozing.

“Hi, Gaspard.” I leaned onto the stainless-steel surface of his workstation adjacent to the stove. He hovered over a pot of simmering tomato sauce.

“Ahh, no.” He slid a clean spatula under my elbows and lifted them up, then tossed the spatula into a bin behind him. “This space is for food. Not your germ-covered arms.”

I wrinkled my forehead. “I do not have germ-covered arms.”

“No? Then maybe you should go out into the dining room and let people use them as plates. If they are so clean that they can clutter up my workspace, they must be clean enough for our guests.”

I took a step back and rolled my eyes. “Fine. My arms are nowhere near your food or your countertops or you. Happy?”

He gave me a dry look. “Immensely.”

Mission Bread Retrieval was off to a roaring start. Time to pull out my power weapon. I’d been saving it for a while—well over a week—but I really wanted that bread. “So. Gaspard. You busy next Sunday?”

He paused. “What do you want from me?”

“What makes you think I want something? I’m just curious.”

He leaned forward, wafting the steam over the pot toward his nose, then breathing in deeply. “More garlic,” he said. “I don’t believe you. You have never been curious about my Sunday plans. Why start now?”

Good grief. He was not going to let me be diplomatic. “Fine. You want it straight? I have two tickets to see Francesca Maren next Sunday night in Raleigh. I don’t love Francesca Maren. But word on the street is you do.”

He froze midstir. “How did you get tickets to that show? It’s been sold out for months.”

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’d like to give the tickets to you. Tenth row. Pretty great seats for a sold-out concert. What do you say? You want them?” I folded my arms across my chest. I could tell I had him just where I wanted him.

“Plates up,” a voice sounded behind him.

He turned, giving a final glance over an order on its way out to the dining room. He adjusted the garnish on one plate, then added additional sauce to another before waving them away. When he turned back to me, his face was stern. “What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing. I want to give you the tickets.”

He shook his head. “No. There is fire in your eyes, Lane. You’re after something.”

I stuck out my chin. “Fine. You get the tickets, I get fresh bread whenever I want it for three months.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Two months and not a day longer. Leave the tickets on my desk.”

I rolled my eyes. “You didn’t even give me a chance to counter.”

He dropped a loaf of bread into my arms. “My bread. My terms.”

I huffed. “Isn’t it technically Rodrigo’s bread? He’s the one who makes it now anyway. Maybe I ought to give the tickets to him.”

Rodrigo breezed past, a tray of fresh loaves ready for the oven in hand. “Hey, thanks, Lane,” he said with a grin. “I’d love the tickets. I’ll slip you some bread whenever you want.”

Gaspard stalked off after Rodrigo, muttering something I couldn’t understand. Probably something French. I chuckled on my way out, the booty of my conquest wrapped safely in my arms. My first couple of months at Winding Way I’d been terrified of Gaspard, but really, when you got through all the bluster, he had a pretty decent heart. Not a generous heart. But a decent one nonetheless.

* * *

“How on earth did you wind up with tickets to Francesca Maren?” April dipped a huge chunk of bread in her soup before taking a bite.

“I booked the library for a bridal shower. The mother of the bride is the station manager for WKIX in Raleigh. There was an issue with dates and availability, but I managed to shuffle stuff around and get her the date she wanted, so she sent the tickets over as a thank-you.”

“Wow. Some thank-you.”

“Maybe if I liked Francesca Maren.”

“Does anyone like Francesca Maren? Besides Gaspard?”

“I have no idea. They’ve been giving tickets away on the radio for months, so someone must.”

“Or no one does,” April said. “And that’s why they’re giving away all the tickets.”

I reached for the bread and tore off a chunk. “Don’t you dare say that out loud. I just secured our bread source. You really want to risk it now?”

My cell phone rang from inside my desk drawer, the ringtone faint but not faint enough that April couldn’t hear it. My cheeks flamed red, and I lunged for my desk, grabbing the phone and silencing the call.

April held up her finger and pointed at me, shaking her head. “No way are you getting off without an explanation.”

I dropped the phone back into the drawer and slammed it shut. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You have a BOYBAND 2.0 ringtone on your cell phone. You! A working professional. An adult. A classy, put-together woman has a ringtone that plays ‘You’ll Get Me Back’ by BOYBAND 2.0.”

“Maybe we need to talk about the fact that you, also a working professional woman, recognized ‘You’ll Get Me Back’ in less than five seconds.”

She paused. “Maybe so, but it’s not my ringtone.”

I dropped back onto the sofa across from her. “It isn’t generally my ringtone either. Only when Randi calls.”

“An old friend from high school?”

“College. My freshman roommate. We didn’t know each other, but then we discovered we had all this random stuff in common, including an intense and deep-seated love for all things BOYBAND 2.0.”

She shook her head and laughed. “This is seriously the best thing I’ve ever heard. Did you ever see them in concert?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“More than once?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Twice? Three times?”

I shook my head and bit my lip, holding up my hand, fingers spread.

April’s eyes went wide. “You saw them in concert five times? What, did you follow them all over the country?”

“No! More like . . . all over the Eastern Seaboard.”

“Oh, this is so awesome. I mean, I liked their music. I even had a few of their albums, I think, but you . . . This is 2.0 dedication I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. Do you know the dance? What am I asking—of course you know the dance.”

I scoffed. “What do you take me for? I don’t just know the dance. I stood on stage inside Philips Arena in Atlanta, Georgia, and did the dance. With the band.”

“You did not.”

“Oh, I did. They pulled me out of the second row and brought me on stage—Dustin on one side and Jeremy on the other.” I sighed. “I high-fived them both. It’s probably still on YouTube somewhere.”

April messed with her phone for a second, then set it down on the table, the opening bars of “You’ll Get Me Back” emanating from the tiny speaker. She kicked off her shoes and moved to the middle of my office, motioning for me to join her. It was totally ridiculous, doing this in the middle of my office, in the middle of a workday, years after I’d even thought about the cheesy dance steps that went along with BOYBAND 2.0’s biggest hit. But that song was such a huge part of my teenage experience. I couldn’t not dance.

So I did.

In my conservative black skirt, tapered jacket, and business hair. I kicked off my low-profile business-y shoes and danced like I was a sophomore in high school, the flame of love for Dustin and Jeremy and the rest of 2.0 burning bright.

I’d just completed the most difficult of the crisscross leg jumps followed by a spin and semi-inappropriate hip thrust when I turned and saw Simon standing in the doorway of my office, a bemused expression on his face. Never had I wanted to crawl under the floorboards and hide quite so intensely as I did right then. Of all the people I could have embarrassed myself in front of, why did it have to be Simon? With his professional demeanor and grown-up mortgage and reasonable car.

Simon stood there watching while I scrambled to put my shoes back on and smooth the flyaways back into my bun.

“Sorry,” he finally said once I was mostly put back together. “Your door was open. Should I come back another time?”

I ushered him into the office. “This is fine. April and I were just finishing lunch. Just give me one quick second.”

April looked like she was going to cry from the effort of holding in her laughter. I shot her a scolding look, then ushered her out the door, the remnants of our shared lunch gathered in her hands. I followed her into the hallway, closing the door behind me. “I am so not sharing my bread with you ever again,” I muttered under my breath.

She smirked. “Oh, I’m pretty sure the look on your face when you saw him standing there is well worth the sacrifice.”

“I have no idea why I agreed to be your friend.”

“Who is he?”

“Jamie’s older brother, Simon. He’s the accountant who’s reviewing the inn’s financials.”

“Oh! I can see the family resemblance. You were not wrong about Hamilton family genetics. You’re sure he’s not single?”

“Nope. Happily taken.”

“Hmm. That’s too bad.”

“Okay. I’m going to go talk to him now.”

She nodded while backing away. “Good luck.”

“You’re not going to tell anyone about my BOYBAND history, right?”

She paused. “Oh, no. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll tell everyone.”

Ha. Funny.

Back in the office, Simon had taken a seat under the bay window. A sheet of paper lay on the table in front of him—a list of some sort.

I sat across from him. “Sorry about that.”

He looked up from his phone and turned it off, setting it facedown on the table. “It’s no trouble. I know I wasn’t expected.”

I’d gotten to know Simon well enough to know that if I didn’t mention the dancing, he wouldn’t either. But I couldn’t let it go. “It was an impromptu thing,” I said. “I don’t generally turn my office into a dance club.”

His lip twitched. “Perhaps you should. You seemed . . . enthusiastic.”

It was official. I’d never been quite so embarrassed. Why I felt like further explanation was going to help my cause, I had no idea. “It was just this cheesy boy band I liked growing up. They had this dance that went along with one of their songs, and April didn’t believe I knew the entire thing, and then she started playing it, and I . . . I am so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” Simon said. “If it makes you feel better, I went through this phase in high school where all I listened to was Francesca Maren. I haven’t heard any of her songs in years, but if one came on the radio right now, I’d probably have a hard time not singing along.”

My jaw dropped. “For real?” Admitting to a Francesca obsession for anyone other than sixty-year-old French chefs was brave.

Simon held up his finger. “Don’t mock. You have no room to talk.”

“Oh, whatever. I’m like you. I haven’t listened to BOYBAND 2.0 in years.”

“Years, huh? So if I were to steal your keys and go out to your car, I wouldn’t find a single 2.0 CD?”

I shifted in my seat and reached for the sheet of paper on the coffee table. “Tell me why you’re here again?”

“Oh, no.” He pulled the paper out of my grasp. “I’m not letting you off that easy.”

I crossed my arms. “Fine. Yes. But only their greatest hits. And I don’t listen to it all that often, and why am I telling you any of this?”

“I have no idea, but I’m so glad you did.” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, the light catching the blue of his eyes. They were so different from Jamie’s dark brown—almost a translucent blue with a little rim of yellow-gold right around the edges. We were two beats past awkward when I realized I was staring. I leaned back, giving my head a little shake. “You, uh . . . were saying . . . about the inn.”

“I wasn’t saying. Not yet. But I guess I should.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got another appointment in half an hour, but there’re a few things I need from you. Since I live so close, I thought it would be easier to bring over the list in person.”

“That’s right. I forgot you live close.”

“I could walk if I wanted,” Simon said. “There’s a gate at the end of my property that cuts through to the gardens.”

“I could walk too,” I said. “I keep telling myself I will once the weather cools down.”

“If the weather ever cools down,” he added. “I hate September because it feels like it should be fall already, but it never really is. It’s still hot.”

“I hear you there, but I love September anyway. It’s my birthday month, which means it has to be my favorite.”

“Yeah? You got any big plans?”

“All I know is Jamie has made me promise to take the entire day off. He won’t tell me why or where we’re going.”

A split second of awareness flashed across Simon’s expression. He knew!

“You know where he’s taking me, don’t you?”

He cleared his throat. “I think we need to talk about the inn.”

“Oh, come on. One little hint?”

“Never,” he said. He held out the sheet he’d stolen from me moments before. “Come on. I’ve got somewhere I need to be. You need to look at this.”

I snatched the paper back with a huff. “Fine.”

“There are a few more things I’d like to look over if you can help me gather them. Three more years of tax returns—I only have two years, and I’d like to go back a little further than that—and an employee history, if Ida has one.”

“What does an employee history entail?”

“How many employees does the inn currently have? How much is each employee paid? Records of hires, terminations, that sort of thing. Hopefully Thornton kept a human resources file that kept track of the details. If not, we can pull records from payroll and piece things together as best we can.”

“I can do that. This afternoon, even. I’ll see what I can find in his office.”

“That’d be great. The only other thing I need is a little more sensitive in nature. And it’s going to have to come straight from Ida.”

“Okay. What do you need?” I said.

He cleared his throat. “In putting together the whole puzzle of the inn’s financial situation, I’m finding gaps. Chunks of money that are coming from somewhere but not any of the business accounts Ida turned over in the original info I was given. My hunch is that Thornton probably had some personal accounts involved in the running of the inn—which happens sometimes in owner/operator businesses—but without access to those personal accounts, I can’t really get a clear picture of what’s happening.”

“Do you mean like a personal checking account?”

“Sure. Or personal credit cards he might have used for business expenses.”

“Oh! That reminds me. Ida brought this file by and asked that I give it to you.” I hurried over to my desk and picked up a heavy file with a large yellow rubber band wrapped around it. “I haven’t had a chance to look through it, but it might be exactly what you’re looking for. She said it looked like account statements of some sort.” I handed him the file.

He looked through the first few sheets, then nodded his head slowly, his eyebrows drawn together. “These are definitely helpful.”

“Your face looks like it isn’t good news. What do they say?”

“I need to pull back and factor this into the big picture. But initially, it’s confirmation of what I suspected.”

“What do you suspect? We’re not talking anything criminal, are we?”

He hesitated. “No. Not criminal. More . . . negligent. Like Thornton was in over his head, but instead of asking for a life preserver, he kept treading water, hoping he could build a boat with one hand while keeping the business afloat with the other.”

I sank back into my chair. “Thanks for the visual.”

“I don’t want you to completely lose hope. But you might want to prepare yourself for potentially bad news. The sum total of everything I’m discovering doesn’t look good.”

If he wasn’t so well-intentioned and also working for free, I might have been annoyed by his pessimism. Winding Way was a thriving business. It was busy. Active. Beloved by so many people. There was no way it could fail. “Thanks for all you’re doing, Simon. I really appreciate your help.”

He stood. “It’s not a problem. So I’ll wait to hear from you, then?”

“Of course. I’ll talk to Ida this afternoon and look into the employee history as well. I’m sure she’ll help with whatever you need.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Lane.” He walked to the door but paused before leaving, turning back to face me. “Jamie says you’re coming up to Bristol for Cooper’s farewell.”

“Oh yeah. I guess I am.”

“I’m glad you’re coming. It’s crazy—all of us together at home—but it’s fun too.”

The warmth and sincerity in his voice was a little disconcerting. Awesome. But disconcerting. “Is, um, Karen going to be there?”

The light dropped from his eyes the second I said her name. The change was so visible I immediately wished I could take it back. He shook his head. “No. She’s still overseas.”

“Oh. Sorry. That must be hard.”

“Yeah. We’ve gotten to talk on the phone a couple times this week, but I haven’t seen her since April.”

“That’s really tough.”

Any further response he might have given hardly mattered the second “You’ll Get Me Back” started playing from inside my desk drawer. Curse Randi and her incessant calling. Twice she was going to embarrass me in one day? Also, why hadn’t I silenced my entire phone instead of just the one call?

Simon’s lip twitched into a tiny hint of a smile. “You better get that.”

“I swear that’s not my regular ringtone. It’s my college roommate. The band . . . It was kind of our thing.” For Randi to call instead of text was weird. To call twice in a thirty-minute period? Far outside of the ordinary.

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Simon said.

I shooed him out the door. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

He grinned. “Bye, Lane.”

I answered my phone just in time. “Seriously? Are you trying to make sure every person I work with knows of my BOYBAND 2.0 obsession?”

“You’re the one who set the ringtone. You can only blame yourself for that one. Plus, if you’d answer your phone, I’d only have to call once.”

“It’s a Tuesday afternoon. I’m working.”

“Working, schmerking. A ring on my finger is worth the interruption, don’t you think?”

“What? Are you serious?”

“As a caramel cream puff.”

“Oh, I’m so happy for you, Ran.” She’d been serious with her boyfriend long enough that it was more a question of when they were getting engaged than if. But it was still exciting. “Have you picked a date yet?”

“Probably not until next summer. We’re thinking a destination wedding. On a beach somewhere, maybe. And I’m already planning my wedding cake. Simple white cake, a lavender honey glaze . . . I can see it in my head. Taste it, even.”

“I want you to tell me all about it.”

“That you would even say so when I know you’re working is a testament to how much I know you love me.”

“I do love you.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in your tone. Are you about to say ‘but’?”

I sighed. “Maybe?”

“I know, I know. Work hours.”

“I just have this really tedious event résumé I have to work through and price. It was supposed to be finished yesterday, so I’m already behind, and now I have to gather all these financial documents for our accountant, and then there’s this anniversary party in the ballroom this weekend . . .”

“I get it. You gotta work. When’s your meet-the-boyfriend’s-family trip?”

“Not till after my birthday. And I’m just meeting the parents. I already know everyone else.”

“You nervous?”

“Not really. I mean, I want them to like me, but Jamie says his parents are great, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“How are things with Jamie?”

I hesitated a fraction of a second before saying, “Good. They’re good.”

“Uh, no. You hesitated. Why did you hesitate?”

I sighed and sank into my desk chair. “I don’t know. Jamie is amazing. Literally. In every sense of the word.”

“But?”

“But I guess sometimes I feel like our relationship is a little one dimensional. We both love soccer, so we talk about it a lot. And he’s so easy to talk to. But there’s more to me, you know?”

“And you don’t think he sees that?”

“That’s just it. I’ll start to think that, and then he’ll do something that totally contradicts that impression. He brought up poetry at dinner the other night. Mentioned Billy Collins by name and everything.”

“You love Billy Collins. That sounds awesome.”

“Right? It is. At least it should be.”

“So maybe you need a little more time to get to know that side of him.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Don’t rush it,” Randi said. “You Mormons always like to rush into relationships, but sometimes they take time. You don’t have to be perfectly convinced right from the very start. This guy sounds great for you, Lane. I think you need to stick with it and see where it goes. Focus on the good stuff.”

“Yeah. I’m trying. I hope you get to meet him sometime soon.”

“Me too. Okay. Go work. But I want an update after your birthday next week. Full details. Which means we’re talking, not texting. I give you the wedding cake scoop, and you give me the birthday surprise scoop.”

“You got it. Tell Victor I said congrats on the engagement. I’m happy for you guys.” I hung up the phone and pulled my chair up to my desk, opening the offending event résumé on my computer screen. Another friend married. Or at least on the way there. For once in a really long time, I was in a relationship that had the potential to land me in the same space. I should feel good about that. I did feel good about that. Didn’t I?

Simon: Did you know your girlfriend has a long-standing obsession with BOYBAND 2.0?

Jamie: She what?

Simon: BOYBAND 2.0. They were big when we were in high school.

Jamie: Oh, right. I think I saw their CD in her car. Annoying.

Simon: Why is it annoying?

Jamie: There’s a lot of good music in this world. Why waste airspace?

Simon: If she likes it, it isn’t a waste of her airspace.

Jamie: Simon the diplomat.

Simon: They’re doing a reunion tour.

Jamie: Who?

Simon: BOYBAND 2.0

Jamie: So?

Simon: You asked for help, dude. This is a good idea.

Jamie: No. Not taking Lane to a BOYBAND 2.0 concert.

Simon: She’s got other friends. Old roommates maybe?

Jamie: But if I get her tickets, she might want me to go.

Simon: You’d go if she wanted you to. You’re not a jerk.

Jamie: If I don’t get her the tickets, there’s no risk.

Simon: Whatever. I’m not invested either way. You said you wanted my advice. I’m giving it.

Jamie: I’ll think about it.

Jamie: How did you know there was a reunion tour?

Simon: The radio.

Jamie: How did you know Lane liked them?

Simon: Saw her at the inn today. Work related.

Jamie: How’s that all looking?

Simon: Nightmarish. Old-school owner. Scattered paper trails. Almost finished though.

Jamie: Don’t dash my girl’s hopes. She loves that inn.

Simon: Noted. But it might not matter.