I stifled a gasp. Only yesterday, someone I knew had unexpectedly died. Surely it wasn’t about to be two for two!
“Harry, what happened? Are you okay?” I choked out, dropping to my knees beside him and shaking his shoulder when he didn’t immediately reply. “Harry, open your eyes and talk to me. Do I need to call an ambulance?”
He blinked a few times and squinted his baby blues open, then gave me a lopsided grin. “Nope, don’t need no amblua—ambula—whatever you said. I’m just having…a little trouble…with your door.”
His grin broadened as he held up his key, narrowly missing stabbing me in the eye with it.
I snatched the key from his hand, my fear evaporating as I sank back onto my heels and fixed him with a stern look. Sounding like every clichéd housewife from every ancient sitcom I’d ever seen, I demanded, “Harry Westcott, are you drunk?”
“As a skunk, Nina Fleet, as a skunk,” he cheerfully agreed. He floundered a moment like a turtle flipped over on its shell, then subsided and stuck out a hand again. “Be a lamb and help me up, won’t you?”
I muttered a few choice words beneath my breath as I grabbed his arm and sharply tugged him up into a seated position. He sat there a moment, presumably to regain whatever equilibrium he had left.
“Please tell me that Dr. Garvin wasn’t this snockered when she drove you home,” I said, when it looked like he’d recovered his bearings somewhat.
He shook his head, the gesture sending him swaying where he sat.
“Snockered?” he echoed with a sloppy grin, though he drew out the word so that it sounded more like schnockered. “Really, Nina, you need to…update your slang. And don’t worry…I took an Uber.”
So at least he hadn’t pickled every single brain cell. “You think you can stand now?” I sourly asked him, getting to my own feet. “I’m not about to let you lie out here for the whole neighborhood to see.”
“I can stand just fine,” he assured me, and then promptly proved himself wrong when he tried but miserably failed to rise.
Still muttering, I grabbed his arm again. After a great deal of pushing and pulling, Harry was finally upright.
“Told you,” he said with a triumphant grin, only to have to grab the porch railing to keep his balance.
I frowned back. I could tell he’d definitely had a drink…or five or six. And not just because he wouldn’t pass one of those side-of-the-highway sobriety tests that required walking in a straight line. As an actor, he had long since modulated his native Georgia accent to more neutral midwestern tones. But under the influence, he had reverted to his original speech pattern, far softer and drawlier than my own East Texas twang. Which was too bad for him, since the accent reminded me of my ex-husband when he’d tied one on.
Meaning I wasn’t predisposed to be sympathetic.
“All right, get inside,” I told him, holding open the door. “You’d better go sit in the parlor, because you’ll break your neck if you try the stairs.”
I referred, of course, to the main staircase. I didn’t even want to imagine him attempting to climb the ladderlike steps going up to the tower room. For sure I’d be calling the EMTs then!
Fortunately, he was amenable to my suggestion. With me holding him steady on one side and a curious Gus and Mattie following after us, he obediently made his way to the parlor. That room was, as the name implied, the formal space where visitors sat a spell, as the old-timers put it. As far as B&B guests were concerned, the parlor and dining room were the designated public areas in addition to the lawn and gardens outside.
The parlor lay behind a pair of chestnut pocket doors, which fortunately were already slid open, revealing the working fireplace with an intricately carved mahogany surround that was the centerpiece of the room. Harry collapsed on one of two antique blue velvet sofas that had been there even before his great-aunt’s time. I settled on one of the matching slipper chairs—low-slung, armless seats upon which well-bred nineteenth-century ladies had situated themselves to pull on their shoes. These days, they made for a comfy perch for those of us more vertically challenged.
“All right, Harry,” I told him as he slumped sideways against the sofa arm, pretty well melting into the threadbare fabric, “you’re stuck here in the parlor until I’m convinced it’s safe for you to try the stairs. Understood?”
“’Stood,” he agreed, using his hands at either temple to manually shake his head in the affirmative.
With anyone else, I might have been tempted to laugh; that, or else simply leave them to sleep off the booze. Instead, my original pique was fading, replaced by concern. For in all the months I’d known him, I’d rarely seen Harry drink anything stronger than his rooibos tea. And I’d certainly never pegged him as a day drinker, particularly not while on the job—which he had technically been while at the party. Something must have happened to send him off on such a spree.
“Stay right there,” I told him, though there was likely little chance he could leave the room under his own steam. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He lifted his arm in an exaggerated pantomime of checking a nonexistent watch. “I’ll…time you.”
I rolled my eyes but made no comment as, leaving Gus and Mattie to stand guard, I headed to the kitchen. I had some experience sobering up intoxicated men after being married to Cam. Unfortunately, I knew that the usual advice of coffee and a cold shower did nothing more than leave one tending to a wide-awake, chilly drunk. But I did have a couple of tricks up my sleeve that always seemed to work.
I returned to the parlor a few minutes later hauling a tray filled with a small pitcher of cool water and a cup—both plastic, since I didn’t trust Harry with glassware in his current state—along with a couple of sports drinks and a bottle of aspirin. Setting down the tray on the delicate wooden coffee table between the two sofas, I poured the water and handed it to him.
“Drink that,” I directed. “The water will help flush the alcohol out of your system a bit faster and counteract your being dehydrated. And that’s velvet—try not to soak the sofa while you’re at it!” I hurriedly added as he sloshed a good portion of the liquid while two-handedly aiming for his mouth.
Once he’d finished the glass, I poured him seconds, which he managed to finish with only a few drops spilled that time.
“Good,” I told him. “Give that a few minutes to settle, and then start drinking the sports drinks to get some electrolytes back in your system. That and taking a couple of aspirin will help with the hangover you’re going to have.”
“You are a true…Florence Nightingale,” he replied, struggling with the childproof cap on the aspirin bottle. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to master that particular challenge, I took it from him, opened the top, and shook out two pills.
“Stick with the liquids for now,” I instructed. “I’ll be fixing supper in another hour or so. I’ll make you a toasted PB&J sandwich. Simple protein and carbs. It’ll help with the hangover.”
“Sounds delish. Maybe after a little nap.” He swallowed the aspirins, leaned back against the sofa, and shut his eyes. A moment later he was snoring.
So much for finding out what had happened at the party. “C’mon, pups,” I told the dogs, who’d been watching the whole episode with interest. “We’ll let Harry sleep it off for a while. You can help me write up a welcome newsletter to email to all the women who signed up at the expo yesterday.”
But barely was I back at my laptop starting on that project when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the incoming phone number; however, as my cell phone was also my business line, I answered in my best professional innkeeper’s voice.
“Fleet House Bed and Breakfast. This is Nina Fleet; how may I help you?”
“Uh, yeah, hi,” came a man’s voice. “My name’s Ryan. My fiancée was at that bridal thing yesterday, and she, uh, picked up your brochure?”
He sounded young and tentative. I smiled a little.
“Hi, Ryan. Are you interested in booking a weekend honeymoon stay, or would you like to talk about holding a rehearsal dinner here, or maybe even your wedding?”
“Yeah. I mean, maybe. She really liked your place. I thought maybe I could come by and take a look in person. You know, to see if I like it too.”
“Of course. Are you free tomorrow morning? Say, around ten?”
He was silent a moment and then replied. “Yeah, that would be good. Can you tell me your address?”
I told him, then added, “If you give me your email address, I can send you some rate sheets and additional information so you have a better idea of the services we can provide.”
We being me and Mattie, though he didn’t have to know that.
“No, no email!”
I frowned a bit at this sudden vehemence, but then he quickly added, “I mean, she might see it on my computer, and I kind of want this to be a surprise. My fiancée thinks I hate the idea of a B&B.”
“Got it,” I replied, smiling again. “So I’ll see you tomorrow at ten, Ryan. Thanks so much. Oh,” I hurriedly added, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your last name.”
But Ryan had already hung up.
I shrugged. Hopefully this wouldn’t be an exercise in futility. While I hadn’t been in the wedding venue biz for long, I knew in general that grooms—especially young ones—rarely had much input in any wedding arrangements. But since Ryan’s fiancée had specifically mentioned my B&B to him, things might work out favorably for me.
Setting down the phone, I finished composing my Thanks for visiting Fleet House B&B’s booth at the Bridal Expo email and forwarded it to my new listings. With that checked off the business to-do list, I shut down my email for the day.
But rather than immediately logging off, I hesitated as my gaze inexorably settled on the taped-together Save the Date card I had tacked to my bulletin board over my desk. Then, knowing I’d regret it, I pulled up the Google search engine and typed in Cameron Fleet Rue McFadden engagement.
I’d expected to get several hits, but what came up in my search were pages and pages of Cam and Rue. From Twitter comments to magazine profiles to YouTube clips of interviews, everything I wanted to know about this latest sports power couple was there for the viewing. Of course, there were the inevitable paparazzi shots of the pair kissing at this exclusive restaurant, holding hands in that stadium box, flashing Rue’s boulder-sized ring in front of those people.
I clicked through a few more images, recalling as I did so how my picture had been taken with Cam at various charity events over the years. Back then he’d still been an up-and-comer with only a couple of major wins, and so the coverage had never been as…overwhelming as this media blitz. Too, I’d been a lowly civilian without a penchant for dresses cut up to here and down to there.
Rue, on the other hand, was a nationally known broadcaster whose outfits invariably looked a few sizes too small for her—and not in a bad way. Of course, it made sense that the sports and entertainment media were all over their engagement. It didn’t hurt that they were a perfectly matched pair appearance-wise, both being equally blond and beautiful.
A real-life Ken and Barbie, I thought sourly. I wonder if Vegas is already making book on how long the marriage will last and which one of them will get stuck paying alimony when they split.
Before I could sink deeper into snarkiness—or, worse, give way to temptation and do a second Google search for Cameron Fleet’s ex-wife just to see if anyone had mentioned me—I wisely shut down the computer. I followed that by pulling down the accidental invite from my bulletin board and sticking it in the trash can beneath my desk.
So much for exposure therapy, I decided. With that one bit of online surfing, I’d reached my limit.
Needing a distraction, I spent the next hour lounging on my bed catching up on a sitcom I had DVR’d for future binge watching. By the time I had watched a couple of episodes, it was almost six PM, meaning suppertime. Feeling slightly less stressed, I got up off the bed and headed to the kitchen. I paused first at the parlor door, however, to check in on Harry.
He was still snoozing—or was still passed out, depending on how you defined his current state of unconsciousness. In complete defiance of the “no dogs on any furniture except my bed” rule, Mattie lay sprawled beside him with her head across his lap, sound asleep herself. The Goldendoodle lay twisted in a half circle, all four paws skyward as he snored away too.
I smiled a little at the tableau and took a quick picture with my cell phone, mentally titling the shot A Boy and His Dogs—and then, with a muffled snort, changing it to Let Sleeping Dogs Lie. Given how Harry always claimed not to be much of a pet person, I’d use the photo to later to give him a hard time.
Then, temporarily leaving the trio of sleeping beauties to their dreams, I went to rustle up food for both humans and critters.
Of course, within 2.5 seconds of when I opened the dog food bag and started pouring, the pups magically appeared at my feet, their supersonic canine hearing having picked up the familiar rustling even in their sleep.
“Hold your horses,” I admonished them with a smile as they bounced and circled in anticipation. “Let me get you fresh water, and then you can chow down.”
Once the dogs were happily scarfing their kibble, I pulled out the ingredients for Harry’s PB&J and then returned to the parlor. This time the actor was awake, though he was huddled with elbows on knees and face in hands and looking more than a little like something the proverbial cat had hauled inside.
“So you’ve decided to rejoin the living?” I coolly asked from the doorway.
He looked up at me through bleary eyes. “Maybe. I haven’t quite decided yet. I think I’ll go splash some cold water on my face.”
“You do that. I’ll go put together that sandwich for you.”
I returned a few minutes later, plate in hand, to find him back on the sofa, though this time sitting upright as he cradled a half-empty bottle of water. He looked a bit more bright-eyed now, if not exactly bushy-tailed.
“Looks like you’ll pull through,” I told him as I marched toward him.
He shuddered. “That’s still up for debate. Do me a favor, Nina…don’t ever let me do that again.”
“Sorry, that’s all on you. I’m not my Harry’s keeper,” I sternly told him, then immediately contradicted myself by handing him the plate. “Now, eat.”
He doubtfully eyed the toasted sandwich—Harry being the sort to go all healthy and organic in his food choices—but obediently took a bite, and then another.
“Thanks, I think this helps,” he admitted, sounding more like his old self again. “Where did you learn that cure?”
“Trial and error. And much as I’d like to trash-talk Cameron Fleet, we’re talking about you now,” I told him. “So what happened? I thought you were supposed to be earning a big fat paycheck pretending to be Dr. Garvin’s boyfriend. Were they serving super-potent Jell-O shots with the barbecue or something?”
“I don’t do Jell-O shots or barbecue,” he informed me, and I recalled that gelatin was technically ground-up cow bones and thus something vegetarian Harry didn’t eat. “We were drinking celebratory champagne. The bottles kept coming, and it seemed rude to refuse.”
“Celebratory?” I echoed in confusion while he paused to take another bite of PB&J. “Weren’t you at a family reunion? What was everyone celebrating?”
“Oh, didn’t I already tell you?” He set down his sandwich and raised the half-empty bottle of water in a mock-toasting gesture. “Apparently, congratulations are in order. As of this afternoon, Dr. Meredith Garvin and I are officially engaged.”