Chapter 1

 

Six years away hadn’t improved the Avalon Inn any, Carrie realized, staring out her car window at the crumbling wreck of a building. The roof tiles still sat wonky, the terrace seemed to be sinking into the grass, and moss had crept so far up the building it appeared to have taken over the stonework.

In other words, it looked like home.

The place she’d spent endless childhood summers, reading by firelight or adventuring through overgrown gardens. The scene of her first kiss. Fourteen years old, dressed in Grandma Nancy’s second best silk gown, dancing on the terrace with one of the local boys. He’d sung along to the music, his breath warm against her ear as they’d hidden in the darkness, looking through the window at the women dancing, their long dresses swirling. And along the terrace, they could smell the smoke curling up from the cigars of the men in dinner jackets holding important conversations.

Just through the front door, Carrie knew, stood the ornate, curving main staircase, the site of her cousin Ruth’s many fictional weddings. And somewhere, shoved in the bottom of a cupboard, she’d probably find a dressing-up box holding the endless parade of secondhand bridesmaid’s dresses Ruth had dressed Carrie in for the occasions.

All so, so familiar.

She could almost see Grandma Nancy skipping down the front steps, if she tried. Carrie squinted for a second, before the twinge of guilt that always accompanied the thought of six years of absence caught up with her. So instead she turned her attention back to the sound of her boss’s voice coming through her hands-free kit. Because Grandma Nancy would never walk down those steps again, and Carrie had grown up into a professional businesswoman now, no longer an imaginative child.

“Well anyway,” Anna Yardley said, obviously coming to the end of a conversational ramble Carrie had been fortunate enough to miss. “I’m looking forward to seeing it. If it’s as magical as you described, it could be a real asset to the business.”

Carrie winced, looking out again at the faded grey stone building looming over the Welsh valley, trying to see it through Anna’s unsentimental eyes. Trying to see it as the jewel in the Wedding Wishes crown, the dream venue of every bride.

“It’ll need work, of course,” Carrie said, understating for all she was worth. A chill settled in her chest. Suddenly, her well-thought-out proposal seemed rash. Risky. But still the only way she could think of to keep both the Avalon and her job.

It was all very well, her gran leaving her the inn. But the money to fix it up would have been useful, too.

“Of course, of course.” Anna didn’t sound concerned. Probably because she couldn’t see the collapsing terrace, and didn’t know about the color-themed bedrooms with their chintzy curtains and pelmets. And Anna wasn’t the one who’d promised to make the inn not just habitable, but luxurious. “But such a fantastic location. Less than two hours from Manchester.”

Personally, Carrie had always thought the Welsh mountains in the distance and the view over the woods from the top bedrooms really made the location. But after five years of working for Anna Yardley, she knew only the practicalities mattered.

“It is convenient,” she agreed, staring harder at the inn, willing the blue window frames to stop peeling. Behind the window next to the front door, a curtain twitched. Carrie frowned. Was someone in there waiting for her? Watching her? She’d called ahead to let them know when she’d be arriving, but she’d assumed that, with no paying guests, the inn would be quiet. But it looked like someone was ready to welcome her home, after all.

“And if it’s too far gone to save, you can always sell it and cut your losses,” Anna chattered on, her voice breezy. “Invest the money.”

Carrie turned her glare onto the phone. Only way the Avalon would be sold was over her dead body. And even then, she’d leave it to Ruth. Her cousin loved the place almost as much as she did.

But Anna wouldn’t understand about the Avalon being home, so there was really no point in saying it out loud.

“What do I know about investments?” she joked instead.

“We-ell,” Anna said, drawing out the words. “I know we talked about you becoming a partner in the company in return for the use of the inn, but really, maybe we should talk about some financial options, instead. Selling the property could buy you a reasonable share, I imagine, and I’m not getting any younger. It might be nice to share the burden...”

Anna sounded quite taken with the idea, so Carrie jumped in to quash it. Fast. “I’d better get a proper look at the place first, don’t you think? Who knows what Gran did to it in the last six years.” She laughed, even though nothing felt very funny. “More importantly, are you sure you’ll be all right on your own this week? The temp... Her name’s Naomi, by the way. She’ll be there at nine tomorrow, and I’ve briefed her thoroughly.”

“I’ll be fine.” Anna brushed her concern away. “I did manage before I hired you, remember? And our next wedding’s not until New Year’s Eve.”

Carrie didn’t point out that times, and business, had changed in the five years since she’d started as an assistant at Wedding Wishes. Once she’d become vaguely competent at the wedding planning side of things, Anna had taken a back seat, dealing with the finances and contracts rather than handling distraught brides and double-checking dates on invitations before they went to the printers.

Which was probably why Anna wanted her to become a partner, Carrie thought. To keep herself away from the actual wedding part of wedding planning. Too much joyousness tended to annoy her.

“There’s the engagement party on November fifth, though,” Carrie reminded her boss. These days, betrothal celebrations were almost as fancy as the real thing. “I know it’s a month away, and I’ll be back long before then, but there’s still things that need doing this week. And there’s a couple of meetings with new clients...”

“I’ve got the diary,” Anna reminded her. “And your emails. And all the files.” She sounded insulted now, rather than reassuring. Bother. “I think I can handle it.”

“Yeah. Sure. Sorry.” Carrie tried to sound convinced, and mentally added, Remind Naomi to blind-copy me on all emails about the Hawkins-Butler engagement party to her To Do list.

“And I’ll be out there to see your inn a week on Monday,” Anna added, making Carrie wince again.

“Looking forward to it,” she lied, staring out at the Avalon and wondering how much she could reasonably expect to achieve in nine days.

Probably nowhere near enough to satisfy Anna.

* * * *

“I reckon this could be an opportunity,” Jacob said, straightening his pots and pans where they hung from the kitchen ceiling. Nate wondered how it was his cousin had gotten both the optimistic and compulsively tidy genes in the family, and still hadn’t inherited their grandmother’s horrendous cooking skills.

“How, exactly?” Nate boosted himself up to sit on Jacob’s clean-enough-for-surgical-work counter while his cousin’s back was turned.

“Well, she’ll be new at this, right? So we can show her how things are supposed to work. She’ll rely on us, and we’ll get to keep things the way we like them.” Jacob turned from rinsing a fork under the tap and glared at Nate’s seating choice.

Nate shuffled along a few inches to let Jacob access the silverware drawer. “She’s a wedding planner. She’s used to working with hotels. Actually, she’s used to expecting top service from hotels and their staff, without understanding the work required to get it.” Nate shuddered. “Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, to me.”

Jacob shoved him off the counter and reached for his microfiber cleaning cloth. “I don’t know what you’re worrying about. You’ve been running the place for, like, six months now. It’s not like she can do it without you.” When Nate didn’t answer, he sighed. “She’s Nancy’s granddaughter, Nate. How bad can it be?”

Clenching his jaw, Nate tried to dismiss the memories of his former boss. He didn’t have time to be distracted by grief today. Not when Carrie Archer would be arriving at any moment.

“Jake, I adored Nancy as much as anyone, but you have to admit, she wasn’t always easy.”

Jacob winced. “True.”

“Yeah, but that’s just because she was old.” Izzie appeared in the kitchen doorway, speaking with all the confidence of a just-turned-twenty-year-old.

There might only be ten years between them, Nate thought, but sometimes it felt like a hundred. Even Jacob, four years his junior, rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t let the Seniors hear you saying such things.”

Izzie’s eyes widened, and she glanced around her to check she hadn’t been overheard. Nate couldn’t help but smile. The Seniors were a force to be reckoned with. Even if he sometimes felt older than Nancy’s friends too.

“Where are they, anyway?” he asked.

“Waiting for her in the lobby.” Izzie bounced on her toes. “That’s what I came to tell you. Her car just came up the drive.”

No point wasting time questioning why that information hadn’t been the first thing out of Izzie’s mouth on arrival. Izzie’s priorities were never the same as anyone else’s. Nate gritted his teeth. “Then let’s go.” He headed down the passage to reception, glancing back just long enough to see Jacob straighten his cloth on the draining board and follow him.

“Bet the Seniors are excited,” Jacob called from behind.

“I’m sure they are,” Nate murmured. He just hoped they weren’t setting themselves up for a disappointment.

The Seniors were lined up inside the lobby, each wearing their brightest smiles and their Sunday best, hands shaking with excitement rather than just the usual old age. Nate sighed. He wished he had their confidence about how the morning would go.

“I remember her from when she was a girl, you know.” Cyb patted the pillbox hat on her head. Nate hoped she’d remembered their visitor wasn’t actually the Queen. Cyb’s memory quite often provided accounts of more interesting past incidents than had truly occurred. Perhaps she was working forward now, too. “She used to climb the trees in the woods and run in to breakfast with grass stains on her knees.”

“Nancy was always very fond of her,” Nate’s grandmother said, with a cool sort of detachment Nate hoped meant she was reserving judgment for the time being. One of them had to be cautious. “I wonder what she has planned for the Avalon.”

Cyb looked blank. “It’s an inn. Whatever else could she have planned?”

Beside her, Stan straightened his tie. “Well, if she knows anything about anything, she won’t mess with the tried and tested. Nancy knew what this place needed.”

“And hopefully her granddaughter will, too,” Nate finished quietly.

“Exactly.” Stan gave him a sharp look. “Worried about your job, boy?”

With a half smile, Nate shook his head. At least Stan understood what was at stake. “I’m sure I’ll manage, one way or another.”

It was true, to a point. If Carrie Archer decided to sell the inn or turn it into flats, or any other inconceivable idea, he’d get by. He’d work for the new owners, if they wanted him, or he’d get a new job. He still got offers often enough. People who wanted to be able to show off their new garden and say, ‘Oh, yes. We got that chap who used to be on the telly to sort it for us. You know, the Singing Gardener.’ At least, the ones who didn’t mind the fact that he hadn’t had a programme in almost two years. He’d manage well enough, he supposed.

Only he didn’t want to ‘manage.’ The Avalon Inn had become home, from the moment he’d pitched up on Nancy’s doorstep and said, “Remember me?” Nancy had let him in, made him hot chocolate and sent Izzie to make him up a bed in the summerhouse. That was two years ago too. He’d headed straight to Wales from the meeting with the producers, the meeting where he’d said, ‘No, no more. Enough. I want to do it my way.’ He hadn’t really expected them to decide his way wasn’t good enough.

He didn’t want to leave the Avalon Inn, even if it felt strange every single morning, heading up to the house and not finding Nancy drinking coffee in her office or berating Jacob in the kitchen. But he didn’t want it to change, either. It was comfortable. It was home. And Nate liked it just the way it was.

Who knew how Carrie Archer would want things to be? It wasn’t as if she’d spent a lot of time there in the last decade or so. She hadn’t even spoken to them at the funeral.

Nate just hoped Nancy’s faith in her wasn’t misplaced.

Over at the front door, Izzie dropped the curtain, turning away from the window and back to the group.

“What’s she doing out there?” Stan asked, his gruff voice impatient. “Should we go help her with her bags?”

“She’s just sitting in her car, still.” Izzie’s face scrunched up. “It looks like she’s talking to herself.”

A worried murmur vibrated through the lobby, until Nate pointed out the obvious. “She’s probably on the phone, Iz. Hands-free.” That settled the others, but left Nate wondering who his new boss could be talking to. Estate agent? Lawyer? Boyfriend who wanted her to sell up and come home immediately?

Izzie peeked through the window again. “Hang on, she’s getting out.” The curtain swayed as it fell from her hand. Izzie ran back to stand beside the Seniors at the bottom of the stairs, a perfect welcoming committee. Even Jacob stopped sending angry texts to his ex-girlfriend and moved to lean against the banister next to them. Nate shrugged, and slotted into formation.

Moments later, the front door rattled and creaked open. “Show time,” Nate whispered, and only Jacob gave a snort of laughter. Everyone else was too busy focusing on Carrie Archer as she stepped into reception.

* * * *

The heavy, dark-wood front door, with its stained glass panel showering colored light onto the stone floor of the reception area, felt like another old friend to Carrie. She remembered being too small to even open it on her own; sitting on the step outside waiting for Nancy to come back from the garden to help her, or for a kindly passing guest to let her in. Today, Carrie’s hand hovered above the wood, suddenly reluctant to enter. What if it wasn’t as she remembered? Who was waiting inside?

Carrie sucked in a breath and shoved. The door fell open under her hand, easier than she’d remembered, and she stumbled before finding her feet.

Her favorite tapestry still hung above the reception desk and the sparkling silver threads of the unicorn’s horn caught her eye immediately. Her gaze moved lower. A line of senior citizens spanned the width of the hall, all standing straight backed and staring ahead, like the staff of a 1930s stately home, welcoming their master back from a long trip.

Exactly who had Nancy been hiring lately?

They looked faintly familiar from the funeral, but Carrie knew she’d been too upset that day to really take anything in. Plus, she’d spent most of the day arguing with Dad. Nothing much else had registered. Now she wished she’d paid more attention.

After a long moment of staring at each other, a younger man at the end of the line stepped forward out of the shadows. Even at a six-foot distance, she had to tilt her chin up to take in his cropped brown hair, accentuating a strong jaw. She let her gaze drop enough to linger on the wide, muscled shoulders that looked like he spent his days slinging oxen around, or something equally rural.

“Shall I do the introductions?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Carrie blinked. He wasn’t just gorgeous, he felt...familiar, somehow.

And despite his welcome, he didn’t look too pleased to see her.

Carrie managed a nod, expecting him to start with himself. Instead, he motioned to the elderly gentleman at the front of the line, and Carrie scrambled to pay attention. “This is Stan Baker.” Stan gripped her hand hard enough to burn, and Carrie focused on the light reflecting off the row of military medals pinned to his knitted waistcoat.

“Pleasure, I’m sure,” Stan said, his words clipped and sharp. “I was very fond of your grandmother, girl. I know she’d want you to do right here.”

Carrie smiled and nodded, adding find out what Stan means by ‘do right,’ to her mental to do list, before moving on to the lady with the pillbox hat.

“Mrs. Cybella Charles,” her guide murmured, and the woman in question added, “Widowed, of course. Almost everybody is these days, it seems. But we’re just so excited to have you here with us. Do you play Bridge?”

Carrie blinked at the onslaught of words. She vaguely recalled a New Year’s Eve at the inn, ten or so years ago, when Nancy had tried to teach her over too much whiskey. “Um, badly, I think.”

Mrs. Charles gave a wide, still-toothy smile and clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”

“And I’m Moira Green,” the next lady said, her voice reassuringly gentle.

Carrie smiled, and let her gaze move to the under seventies.

“And here we have your staff.” The man motioned to the last two people, both a good forty years younger than the previous three. Carrie hoped this meant Stan, Cybella and Moira were just well-wishers, rather than a fundamental part of the Avalon Inn. They seemed nice enough, but they didn’t exactly scream new, upcoming, luxury wedding venue.

“I’m Izzie,” said a perky blonde from the foot of the stairs. “I do, you know, reception. And the rooms. And stuff.”

“That’s...good to know,” Carrie said.

“And this is Jacob,” Izzie went on, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she indicated the other guy, who was apparently surgically attached to his mobile phone.

“And Jacob is...?”

“Your chef,” Jacob said, shoving his phone into his pocket, where it proceeded to beep out a staccato rhythm.

Carrie turned her attention to the one person she hadn’t been introduced to yet. He smiled, not entirely warmly, and said, “And I’m Nathanial Green. Nate.”

Carrie blinked. “You, I’ve heard of,” she said, reaching out a hand. Last Christmas, she remembered. Nancy had been dragged away from her inn at the behest of her son, Carrie’s father, to join them for a family Christmas at their home in Hertfordshire, during which both her parents had put considerable efforts into persuading Nancy to give up the inn and grow older with a little more grace. Nancy, Carrie recalled, had spent much of the time on the phone to somebody called Nate. Carrie’s mum had joked about her new boyfriend, which had thrown her dad into a mood, and everyone had gone to bed grumpy. Just like most Christmases.

That had been less than ten months ago. Nancy had seemed perfectly well then.

Nate took her hand, and Carrie felt tingles up her arm at the scratch of his calloused skin on her fingers. She swallowed, and kept her voice even. “Although Nancy never really said what it is you do around here.”

Nate shrugged, and Carrie could make out the lines of his muscles shifting under his white polo shirt. At least she could see why Nancy hired him.

“Gardening, mostly.” Nate flashed her a small, sharp smile. “And pretty much anything else Nancy could cook up for me.”

“My Nate has been holding this place together with string and brown paper,” Moira said, and even if Carrie hadn’t put together the identical surname thing, the relationship between them would have been clear. Moira was every inch the proud grandmother.

There was another awkward silence as Carrie tried to figure out why the gardener had been left in charge of her inn. A worrying sign suggesting there was no one better available.

“Well, I guess you’re the guy to give me the tour, then?” she said. “It’s been a while since I was last here.”

Nate nodded, and stepped forward from the stairs. “Of course. Where do you want to start?”

* * * *

They started in the dining room.

“I’d forgotten about this carpet,” Carrie said, staring down at the green and purple monstrosity, her face sour.

Involuntarily, Nate glanced down too. “You don’t notice it after a while,” he lied, moving quickly toward the kitchen.

“Denial won’t fly with most clients.” Carrie pulled a notebook out of her handbag and started scribbling. “You only get one chance to make a first impression.”

Nate wondered how much she’d paid for the all-cliche business course to teach her that one. Curious, he stepped closer to see what she was writing.

The list, headed up ‘Renovations,’ read:

–Replace dining room carpet

–And probably chairs, tables and crockery

–Definitely replace curtains

“At least you’re leaving the walls intact,” he muttered, and Carrie glanced up in surprise, as if she hadn’t realized he was there. “Come on, you can mentally tear down the kitchen, next.”

Actually, he thought as Carrie trotted after him, it was possible the kitchen might prove a saving grace. Not the room itself, although it was at least hyper-hygienic, thanks to Jacob’s obsessive nature, but what it stood for. The Avalon had always been famous locally for its food. Nancy liked to put on a good spread for any occasion, and hired the best chefs to make it happen.

Yes, ten minutes chatting about roast lamb and sticky toffee pudding with Jacob should have Carrie falling in love with the inn, he reckoned. Especially if Jake provided samples.

Unfortunately, when they entered the kitchen, it became clear Jacob had other priorities.

“I know that, Sally. But she promised...” Jacob stopped shouting into his mobile and ran a hand through his disordered hair. “Look, I’m at work. Can’t you just–” Looking up, Jacob spotted them in the doorway and abruptly fell silent.

“Don’t mind us,” Nate said, finally regaining control of the situation and shuffling Carrie into the hallway. “We’ll come back later.”

“Who’s Sally?” Carrie asked, her pen poised on her notebook, looking like a teacher about to write up a detention note for Jacob.

Nate considered how much to tell her while guiding her back to reception. It was Jacob’s business, not hers. But he wouldn’t want her thinking Jake made a habit of slacking off.

“Childminder,” he said eventually, wondering where Gran had got to and if she’d be free to step in. Except Jacob was already feeling guilty about the number of hours of unpaid care Moira put it. Felt, he’d confessed over several beers the previous weekend, he should be able to take care of Georgia himself. That it was failing, somehow, to have to rely on Gran. “Sounds like Jacob’s ex wasn’t able to pick Georgia up today, after all.” Because she’s a self-centered bitch who’s probably too busy off playing with her new, rich boyfriend, he added in his head. The woman was only supposed to have her daughter two afternoons a week. Not exactly hard to arrange.

“Happens a lot, does it,” Carrie asked, stepping into the lobby, her tone disapproving. Nate cursed silently. He shouldn’t have mentioned the ex.

“God, all the time,” Izzie said from behind the reception desk. “She’s such a...”

“Did you bring in Miss Archer’s bags, Iz?” Nate interrupted, and Izzie jumped up.

“Was I supposed to? You didn’t say...” Nate raised his eyebrows at her. “I’ll just go and...”

“Great.” Nate shepherded Carrie in the direction of the stairs. “I’m not sure how well you know the inn,” he said, desperate to change the subject,

Carrie made a noise that was almost a snort. “I practically grew up here.”

Which didn’t explain why she hadn’t been back since he’d arrived, Nate thought. Didn’t explain why she hadn’t been there when Nancy got sick.

He pushed the thoughts away. He had to work with this woman–for now, anyway.

“Then you’ll know we’ve got twelve bedrooms here, each individually decorated. Shall we start at the eastern-most end?”

The bedrooms didn’t meet with Carrie’s approval, either. By the time they reached number twelve, the largest of the rooms, her renovations list stretched onto its sixth page, and Nate could feel a serious headache building behind his eyes,

“It’s not what you were expecting,” he said, watching Carrie add bridal suite–total makeover! to her list.

Carrie sighed. “It’s just there’s such a lot to do.”

Nate thought, not for the first time that afternoon, it might be better for all of them if Carrie Archer just sold up and left. Why bother keeping the inn if she planned to destroy everything that made it Nancy’s Avalon?

Which led him to the last stop on their tour. “Let’s go see if Izzie’s brought your bags up yet.”

The rickety stairs up to Nancy’s bedroom gave out ominous creaks under their feet, but for once Carrie didn’t comment. Didn’t say anything at all until they were enclosed in the stuffy attic room, the autumn sunlight creeping through the window and making the dust motes glow.

“I haven’t been up here in years,” Carrie said, touching each of Nancy’s trinkets and treasures in turn as she moved around the cluttered room. When she reached the bed and spotted her bag in the middle of it, she stopped and looked over at the window and the dressing table instead.

It felt strange to see another woman in Nancy’s space, Nate realized. He’d never expected, when he arrived at the Avalon, that he’d spend much time in the cramped attic Nancy had chosen for herself. Quite aside from the fact that he had to duck his head just to stand in there, he’d never felt very comfortable in such a personal space. Still, toward the end, Nancy had grown more and more tired in the afternoons, but remained too stubborn to succumb to the idea of afternoon naps. Instead, she’d called work meetings in her room, lounging on top of the jewel-colored patchwork bedspread while Nate folded himself into the white wicker chair at her dressing table, taking notes on all the things she wanted done around the inn.

And her family hadn’t noticed she was ill. Not even her beloved granddaughter.

“I don’t imagine it’s changed much,” he said, staring at the string of silver bells hanging from the window frame.

Carrie’s head jerked up at his words, but Nate could tell she didn’t really see him. Her attention flicked away again, drawn to a photo on Nancy’s dressing table, a picture of a child in a summer meadow. Carrie, he assumed.

“She loved that photo,” Nate said, feeling something catch at the back of his throat.

“It was the most perfect day.” Carrie’s voice sounded very far away. “We chased butterflies through the field and had ice cream on the terrace. Just me and her. She even let me use the cut glass cocktail glasses for ice cream bowls.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Nate realized he might have something in common with Carrie Archer after all. She missed her grandmother. Maybe even as much as he did.

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. He stepped closer to her automatically, though he stopped himself from reaching out to touch her.

But then, he didn’t move away, either.

“Why didn’t you call us?” Carrie’s question was abrupt, and Nate could hear real pain in her voice, this time. “When she got sick. We could have...”

“She didn’t want anyone to know.” Nate’s jaw felt tight, making him force the words out. “She didn’t want...pity, I suppose. She wanted to face it alone.”

“She let you help,” Carrie said, sounding bitter.

Nate shrugged. “I’m paid staff. It’s different.” He sighed, and tried to find the right words to explain. “You know what she was like. She didn’t want to interrupt your lives with her problems.”

“You should have told us anyway.”

The accusation in Carrie’s voice broke Nate’s reserve. She could not, would not blame him for this. “If you’d visited–hell, if you’d even paid attention when you called–you’d have known. It was blindingly obvious to anyone who loved her.”

Stark silence followed. Carrie flicked her gaze to the photo and it stayed there, as if she were living in some half-forgotten yesterday. “She sounded tired.” Her voice sounded very small, now. “But I thought... She was old, Nate. I just thought it was age. I saw her at Christmas and she seemed fine. And I thought if something was really wrong that she’d tell me...”

“She was a stubborn old thing,” Nate said fondly. Carrie huffed a laugh and put the photo on the dressing table. But when she looked up and met his eyes, she still seemed to be watching something very far away in time.

“Do I know you?” she asked, her voice faint.

Nate blinked, and was just considering the best way to deal with what appeared to be some sort of weird stress-related amnesia, when Carrie shook her head, her cheeks pink, and went on, “I’m sorry, I mean, have we met before? You just look familiar, somehow.”

Letting out a breath of relief, Nate grinned. “You know, a lot of people say that to me.”

Carrie smiled back, faintly. “Guess you’ve got one of those faces. What about the people downstairs? Stan, and Moira and...”

“Cyb,” Nate finished for her. “The Seniors... They’re old friends of Nancy’s, like they said.”

Carrie nodded slowly. “Ye-es, but what are they doing here?”

Nate resisted the urge to wince, while he tried to think of the best way to put it. Perhaps best to start out softly, he decided. “Well, they’re all very attached to the inn, and they live locally. And I know they were all very excited to meet you. I guess they couldn’t wait.”

All of which was scrupulously true, if slightly misleading. Nate liked to avoid outright lies whenever possible. But he wasn’t above a bit of misdirection.

Carrie seemed to be buying it, anyway. She ran a hand down her skirt to straighten it, and Nate could almost see her packing away her feelings and getting back to the task in hand. “Right, then. I’ll have plenty of time for this later. What do you want to show me next?”

It was too late, though, he thought. He’d seen that she cared. There had to be a way he could use her emotional attachment to preserve Nancy’s Inn.

“Why don’t we head down to the drawing room,” he suggested. “Nancy left some papers and things to be given to you. Might as well make a start sooner as later.”

And if words from beyond the grave didn’t guilt Carrie into doing the right thing by the Avalon, he’d just have to find something else that would.

* * * *

It was only once they started touring the rooms that Carrie realized how inaccurate her original impression had been. Not only had the Avalon Inn changed, it hadn’t been for the better.

She’d remembered the bedrooms as cozy and charming, but the ones Nate showed her were just shabby. The dining room looked tired, and no one would want to hold their wedding reception on a carpet so hideously patterned. Even the drawing room and library were filled with lumpy chairs and paperback novels missing pages or covers.

Anna would hate every inch of the place.

And, if that wasn’t enough, Carrie’s bag sat in Nancy’s bedroom, not the tiny box room she’d made her own in childhood. Nothing was as it should be.

Carrie had arrived expecting a dream wedding venue. What she’d gotten instead was fast approaching a nightmare. And apparently the decor was only a part of it.

“There’s a lot to be done,” Nate said, dropping into the leather wingback chair opposite hers, framed by the bay window of the front drawing room. The Seniors appeared to have scampered off to wherever they came from, probably for tea and a nap, much to Carrie’s relief. She looked up from the notebook where she’d been creating her Avalon Inn To Do List as their tour threw up new problems and jobs.

“So I can see,” she said, adding, patch drawing room chairs when her left hand found a hole in the leather of her seat.

“More than just the cosmetic,” Nate clarified. He pulled open the file drawer in the desk beside him, and handed her a thick wodge of paper. “This is a survey of the inn your gran had done last year.”

“You’ve seen this?” Carrie asked Nate, leafing through the pages.

Nate nodded, his face sympathetic. And not without cause, Carrie thought. It looked like the surveyor hadn’t found a single part of the inn that didn’t need something done to it.

“New windows, rotting terrace... Possible roof issues?” Carrie sighed. “Well, this is going to be fun.”

Nate winced. “Yeah. Looks like your redecorating might have to wait.”

Carrie couldn’t quite decide if he sounded pleased. “It all needs doing, sooner or later.” Nate might not like the idea of updating the inn, but if Carrie managed to convince Anna to pay for the structural work, she would definitely want to redecorate, too.

“There are some other papers, too,” Nate said, his voice softer. He held a small pile of letters out before him, and Carrie reached across, feeling some resistance when she tugged them out of his hands.

On the top sat an envelope marked ‘Carrie.’ She’d have recognized the handwriting anywhere in the world. But here at the Avalon, there was only ever one person it could be from.

Carrie swallowed around the lump that had taken up residence in her throat and wondered how long it would take her to work up the courage to open it.

Nate braced his hands against the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. Carrie glanced up. He looked even more absurdly tall when he was the only one standing.

“Well, you don’t need me here for this,” he said, just as Izzie stuck her head around the door from the bar, saying, “Nate? Jacob’s got some kind of childcare crisis, and he’s supposed to be giving me a lift home. Can we...”

“Yeah, sure,” Nate said, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll walk you out. I need to talk to Jacob about menus for next week, anyway.” He stopped by the door and turned back to where Carrie waited patiently for him to realize his mistake. “If that’s okay with Carrie. I mean, Miss Archer.”

It was fun to see a grown man truly flustered, Carrie decided. And it took her mind off what they needed menus for next week. She’d find out soon enough. “Fine. I’ll see you both tomorrow, Izzie.”

The receptionist disappeared into the bar, but Nate still hovered in the doorway. “I don’t know if Nancy mentioned, but I live on-site,” he said, with such a meaningful look that for a moment she wondered if he was hitting on her. “I’ve got the summerhouse, down by the woods. So I’ll be around later if you want to discuss anything.”

Carrie glanced at her papers as he left. Apparently there was more bad news still to come.

* * * *

Cyb wasn’t sure she liked the Red Lion very much. She’d never had cause to go there before. Why would she, when the Avalon Inn was so friendly? Even when her Harry was alive, they’d gone away to hotels, or nice restaurants, and to the theatre. Never to a sticky pub on the High Street. And didn’t it used to be a hardware store? Surely she remembered Harry buying a new broom there, once. He wouldn’t recognize it now. Of course, he’d been gone a very long time. He might not recognize her either.

No, Coed-y-Capel had changed in fifty years, and Cyb wasn’t all that interested in living in it now. Much better to remember how things were, and recreate them as best as possible at the Avalon.

“Now, then,” Stan said, getting to his feet on the beer-stained floorboards. What kind of a place couldn’t even afford a nice carpet? Cyb tried to pay attention to Stan, as she always did, but really, with all the flashing lights and the pounding music, who could stay focused? “I call to order the first official meeting of the Avalon Inn Avengers.”

Across the table, Moira raised her hand just enough to get Stan’s attention and said, “Can I just be very clear on one point? The Avalon Inn Avengers is a stupid name.”

Stan’s face reddened, but he had good manners so he didn’t shout. Cyb liked that about Stan. He always looked like he might bellow, but he never did. A good quality in a man. “Your opinion is noted, Moira,” he said instead. “But until such time as we have a better suggestion, or until the group is no longer necessary, we will stick with what we have. Yes?”

Moira nodded but Cyb thought she might have been smiling, just a little bit. Moira didn’t really appreciate Stan. Not the way she did.

“It is clear to me,” Stan said, leaning his hands against the table, “that our way of life, our inn, is being threatened. I’d hoped Nancy’s granddaughter would have better sense than to change what has worked for decades. But from what I saw today...”

“What exactly did you see today?” Moira asked. “I noticed you’d sloped off when Cyb and I headed home earlier.”

Stan bristled. “I thought somebody should take responsibility for keeping an eye on what was going on at the inn.”

“You mean you followed Carrie and Nate around on their tour.”

“Not exactly.” Stan’s gaze darted away. “But I can report that she didn’t look happy with what she saw.”

Of course, Stan wasn’t perfect. He did get worked up about things, sometimes, when it really wasn’t necessary. A sign of a passionate nature, though, she supposed.

“Carrie seemed perfectly darling to me,” Cyb said, without really thinking, and felt her cheeks getting warm as Stan turned his stern gaze on her. “Of course, we only just met...”

“Exactly. Who is to say that tomorrow she won’t close the inn and start making it all...froofy.” Stan waved a hand on the last word, as if to say you know what I mean. Cyb thought she did, anyway.

She usually did–even when Stan was blustering and fussing, she knew it was all for show.

Moira, however, obviously felt the need to question. As usual. “Froofy?”

Stan sat down with a sigh and turned his full attention to the dissenter. “Tell me, Moira. Do you want to lose your Bridge nights? Or our dances? Or your garden patch?” Cyb sucked in a breath at that. Stan really was bringing out the big guns if he was threatening Moira’s garden. But he wasn’t done. “Do you want your grandsons to lose their jobs and for Nate to go back to London?”

“Nancy said she’d take care of all those things,” Moira said, but even she looked doubtful now. “She said she’d make sure we’d all get to stay.”

“Nancy said,” Stan echoed. “And I’m sure she did her best. But the inn is Carrie’s now. How much do you think she’ll respect her grandmother’s wishes?”

“Sorry I’m late,” Izzie said, slipping into an empty chair at the table. Cyb hadn’t even noticed her enter the pub. She, at least, looked like she belonged there, with her blue jeans low on her hips and her blond hair swinging across her shoulders. Cyb had looked like that once. Without the jeans, though, of course. “Jacob had to get home so the childminder could leave, so I just got him to drop me off by the park and walked in from there.”

Moira jerked half out of her chair at her grandson’s name. “Does he need me to...”

Izzie shook her head. “He’s fine. Just worried about leaving a bad impression with Miss Archer.”

“Why didn’t he call me?” Moira asked. “He knows I would have gone and got Georgia.”

Looking awkward, Izzie shrugged. “He just didn’t want to bother you again, I think.”

Something else new, that. A single father raising a little girl, and on a chef’s wage. Nancy couldn’t have been paying him much. If Moira didn’t have Georgia three days a week, he probably couldn’t even afford the childminder for the other two.

It wouldn’t have been like that in the old days.

“Never mind that, Izzie-girl.” Stan leaned far enough across the table to make the poor girl actually move her chair back a little. Stan forgot sometimes how intimidating he could be to people who didn’t know him like Cyb did. “Tell us what’s going on up there.”

“I thought Nate was coming with you,” Moira said, wrinkling her forehead. Cyb really should remind her to stop that. It wasn’t as if they didn’t all have enough wrinkles already without willfully making things worse.

Izzie gave a secretive grin. Or, rather, the sort of grin Cyb knew meant she was about to share a good secret. “He was. He walked us to the gate, but then he said he had to get back and do some job or another urgently.” The grin got wider. “And I heard him tell Miss Archer he’d be around later. If she wanted to talk. Even told her where his room is.”

The table fell silent. Cyb tried to imagine good, honest, Nate ‘putting the moves’ on anybody, and failed. Of course, Harry always said she hadn’t much of an imagination. It wasn’t that Nate wasn’t good looking, of course, although far too tall really, which couldn’t be helped. No, the issue was, he really only cared about three things: his garden, his grandmother, and Nancy. Cyb knew Izzie had been excited when he’d first arrived, but he hadn’t shown any interest at all. And Izzie, with her blond hair and big blue eyes was far prettier than Carrie Archer. Unless...

“He must have a thing about redheads,” Cyb said absently, and Stan glared at her. Not a lot of time for romance, Stan. Which was a shame, really.

“We’re not here to discuss Nathanial’s courting habits,” he said, his tone curt. “Now, what was Carrie doing?”

Izzie shrugged. “Looking through papers in the drawing room. I think they’re the ones Nancy left.” She paused. “She didn’t look very happy with them.”

Silence again. Even Cyb knew what those papers said.

Moira let out a loud sigh. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Perhaps there were other papers, too. Financial ones. Not just the ones about us.”

“I’m not sure that’s any better,” Stan said, his voice ominous. “No, Moira, I don’t like it. We need a battle plan. And for a battle plan to work, we need to have better intelligence.” He turned to Izzie. “Izzie-girl. You’re our eyes and ears backstage at the inn. I need you to watch everything, listen to everything, and report everything back to me. Everything. You got that?”

Izzie’s blue eyes were wider than ever as she nodded. Cyb wondered if Stan had really thought this through. Even she could see he’d probably get more reports about Nate’s possible attempts to seduce Carrie than anything else.

“Good. Then, with that sorted, I call to a close this meeting of the Avalon Inn Avengers.” Stan banged his empty pint glass on the wooden table, and Cyb sighed. Perhaps Moira was right. They really should have spent some of the meeting trying to come up with a better name.