Chapter 16

It was a good thing we’d had such a good time in Bristol. Otherwise I’d have never made it through the rest of October. Jamie was gone almost the entire month. He kept insisting things would get better, and I believed him, but the interim was killing me. Absentee boyfriends weren’t any fun.

I stayed busy at work, though the entire feeling of work had changed since Ida had left. She’d disappeared shortly after her initial conversation with Simon, flying out west to spend time with her family and to discuss, I assumed, the future of Thornton’s legacy. She’d stayed away longer than anyone had expected, leaving us all in an uncomfortable holding pattern. Only Simon’s semiregular appearance in the office gave us peace of mind. When Ida left, she’d temporarily turned over the monetary functions of the inn to him, authorizing him to take care of things while she was gone. As long as he was still showing up, we at least trusted we were going to keep getting paychecks. When I pressed him for details, Simon assured me he was no longer working for free and that Ida was compensating him nicely for stepping in when he already had a full workload. That part made me happy, but I was still nervous. He insisted his role was only temporary, which meant change was coming. I had no idea what that change was going to be.

Ida didn’t return until the end of October. It felt like an eternity had passed since I’d seen her last. The week before Halloween, I found her in the rose garden, sitting on the little wooden bench below the tree I’d spent so many summers climbing. The limbs were all but completely bare, the mud-brown leaves swirling and crackling at our feet.

“I don’t know why Carlos hasn’t gotten all these leaves up,” Ida said as I approached.

I sat beside her. “I like that he leaves them a few days. It makes it feel more like fall to have them blowing around everywhere.”

“I guess I like that part too,” she said. “You know, I used to sit out here when I was pregnant with the boys? I’d bring a book and sit for hours under this tree, making Thornton do all the work inside. It was my escape.”

“It was always one of my favorite places too. Except I’d read while sitting in the tree.”

She laughed. “How have things been, Lane? I hope you’ve managed okay without me.”

“We’re all happy to have you back, but it’s been all right. We have another wedding this weekend that’s pulling together nicely. That’s helped to keep everyone’s spirits up. Having something big to work on.”

“You’ve probably all been terrified you were losing your jobs.”

“Yeah, there’s been a lot of that,” I said. “But Simon coming around helped. He always seemed to have things under control.”

“That man is a godsend,” she said. “He’s been wonderful. When he told me where things stood, I thought for sure we were going to shut things down and give up, but he made a few simple recommendations that kept us at least turning enough profit to keep the doors open.”

I nodded. I’d seen Simon’s recommendations happening all over the hotel. The restaurant’s limited hours. The cutbacks with staff in every department.

“He’s the reason the inn’s still open. Everyone should know that. His wisdom is what saved us.”

“Does that mean you’re going to stay and keep the inn open?” I tried not to infuse too much hope into my voice, but I couldn’t hold it back completely.

She turned to me and sighed, then shook her head. “I can’t do it anymore. Not with the debt and all the problems Thornton left behind. I think I’ve decided I have to sell.”

I nodded. I’d seen enough clues to know it was coming, but it still hurt.

“I want you to know how hard it feels to say so,” she said. “I can’t stand the thought of ever letting this place go, but when I think about a little house in Colorado close to my grandchildren, that sure does sound easier than running this place into the ground.”

I took a deep breath. “I can’t fault you for feeling that way. It makes sense.”

“I don’t want you to feel like this is your loss, Lane. The inn was a sinking ship before you ever came on board. There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

“I do know that. I still wish there was something I could do now.”

“You keep right on doing what you’re doing. Whoever buys this place will see how vital you are. I can’t imagine them not wanting to keep you on staff.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Because I really don’t want to go anywhere else.”

The next afternoon, Ida’s youngest son flew in and spent three days wandering the property with a guy I could only assume was a commercial real estate agent and someone they only identified as a consultant. Thankfully, I spent the last half of the week prepping for Chloe’s Saturday reception, which provided just enough distraction to keep me from noticing all the assessing and appraising happening all over the inn. The following Monday, Ida made the announcement. The inn was officially up for sale, and she was actively pursuing interested buyers.

By Halloween, I was ready to escape the unknowns of my life. Work was the worst, not knowing who would buy and what they would do with the property. But the angst in my relationship with Jamie was only slightly better. I’d been waffling back and forth all month between feeling like things were great and thinking things were seconds away from crumbling. Jamie would show up with a novel he thought I might like—Ariana Franklin’s Mistress of the Art of Death was a pleasant surprise—and I would feel seen and heard and understood, but then he’d disappear to California and ignore me for a week, texting nothing but soccer stats and pictures of the ocean, and I’d be scratching my head again. California. That was the biggest source of angst. Was he moving? Not moving? For all my pressing, he would commit to nothing and avoided the subject whenever he could.

I had done so much pondering on both issues I was ready to forget all of it and party my way to Atlanta for a couple of days with Randi and my beloved BOYBAND 2.0. The plan was to drive down early Wednesday morning so we had two full days together before the concert on Thursday night. After that, I’d drive up to Raleigh in time for Dave and Katie’s rehearsal dinner on Friday and the wedding on Saturday.

In that regard, all the upheaval at the inn worked to my advantage. Ida and her sons had decided to keep bookings at a minimum until the transition—whatever that was going to be—was complete so my job responsibilities were scaled way back. It made taking several days in a row off really easy.

Wednesday morning before the concert, I was moments away from leaving, my vintage BOYBAND T-shirt safely packed in my overnight bag, when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Lane? Eres tú?”

I immediately switched into Spanish. “Abuela? Cómo estás? How are you?”

“I’m very well, thank you for asking. Your mother tells me you have a boyfriend.”

I put down my bags and sat on the couch. Of course. The boyfriend would be the first thing she mentioned.

“I do, Abuela. And I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. No more sending men to see me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you play coy with me. Someone named Jason showed up just last month. Told me you’d given him my name and number and the name of the inn where I work.”

“Jason.” She paused. “Oh, yes. Jason Middleton. He was a nice young man. And tall. Tall enough even for you.”

“I just turned twenty-six, Abuela. These boys you’re sending are barely twenty years old. No more, okay? I’m dating a really nice man now.”

“Tell me about him, then. Is he a member of the Church?”

“Of course he is. You know how important that is to me.”

She cleared her throat. “Did he serve a mission?”

I could almost see her sitting in her living room in Arecibo, a stubby pencil in her hand, marking check boxes down her list of “requirements for Lane’s husband.” I wasn’t necessarily down with the opinion that a mission was some sort of a guarantee. Like it was the only measuring stick for good character, but I respected Abuela too much to argue.

“Yep. He did.”

“And he’s a nice man? He has a good family?”

“He’s very nice. I’ve met all his family, and they’re wonderful too.”

“I can’t wait to meet him. You’ll bring him, won’t you? To Thanksgiving?”

“I don’t know, Abuela. He has family in Virginia. He might be going home. I’m not sure what his plans are.”

“Virginia is very close to North Carolina.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But Puerto Rico is very far away. Please, mija. Bring him for me. I am an old woman. Let me meet him and see for myself that he loves you.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to him. I’ll see what I can figure out.”

“Ahh, perfect. I’ll call your mother. I will cook!”

I smiled. My mother was a good cook and had raised us on a lot of the traditional Puerto Rican dishes she’d grown up with back in Arecibo. Arroz con gandules, mofongo, tostones. But she’d also been influenced over the years by my very Southern father, who loved corn bread and greens, fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, and sweet-potato pie. Mom had loved learning from Granny Grace how to make the food Granny had raised her family on, and Mom had become a sort of hybrid cook—pulling elements of the two cultures together into one very happy kitchen.

But Abuela in the kitchen meant a return to the heart of what I loved most about my Puerto Rican heritage. Time in the kitchen was as much about love as it was about the sofrito—the seasoning Abuela put in everything. Memories of her standing in her kitchen scooping the homemade sauce into ice cube trays so she could freeze it and pop out a cube whenever she needed one, filled my mind. She loved to cook for us. And I loved that she loved it. “Can we make pasteles?” I probably sounded nine years old blurting out the question like I did, but longing for home and nostalgia for the meat-filled pastries we’d made every time we’d visited Abuela washed over me with such strength it was almost painful.

“Of course we can. You’ll help. And John. And your boyfriend too. Even your father will help.”

“I can’t wait to see you, Abuela.”

“I can’t wait to meet your young man. I hope he’s worthy of you, Lane. You deserve the very best.”

“Thank you, Abuela. I promise he is. You’re going to love him.”

Simon: Had a meeting at the inn today and stopped by the kitchen. Lane loves crème brûlée.

Jamie: Got it. Thanks.

Simon: You know, YOU could do this research just as easily.

Jamie: Not from California. Long-distance relationships are terrible.

Simon: Yes, they are. I agree with you there.

Jamie: Give me a book to mention. What could I have read on the flight home?

Simon: If I give you a suggestion, are you going to read it?

Jamie: Probably.

Simon: I don’t like this game.

Jamie: Come on. Last time I ask for help.

Simon: It will not be the last time.

Jamie: Probably not. But you’ll help me anyway? What’s the last thing you read?

Simon: Cost Management: A Strategic Emphasis

Jamie: That’s not funny.

Simon: You asked what I read.

Jamie: Not helping.

Simon: Tell her you read Fountainhead. Ayn Rand.

Jamie: I’ve heard of that one. What’s it about?

Simon: On the surface, it’s about architecture. But it’s more about passion. Living for what you really believe in. I’m not sure if Lane has read it, but if she has, she loved it.

Jamie: You’re sure?

Simon: Yeah. I’m sure.