just a part-time massage therapist job, too. The truth is, we’re hoping you’ll accept a position that’s a little more important than that.”
Tess folded her hands in her lap. Her heart had begun thrumming again. “What position is that?”
“Well...” Rowena took a breath. Then she handed over the papers. “Spa director.”
Tess wasn’t sure how to react. She accepted the papers automatically, but her brain was still processing those two words. Spa director. That was a full-time position. It would undoubtedly come with a contract, a good salary and possibly upgraded living quarters. It was about fifty steps up from the job she’d applied for.
And that brought with it all kinds of complications. When she’d decided to come here, she’d imagined spending a few months in Silverdell, at the most. The pay was good, and all full-time Bell River jobs also offered on-site housing, dormitory style, which would make it easier for her to rebuild her bank balance.
She hadn’t expected to be more than a run-of-the-mill employee—the kind of massage therapist who could stay a short while, do a good job, but not leave a big hole in the operation when she left. She certainly didn’t want to cause Bell River any harm while she satisfied her curiosity about her birth father.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a minute, “but I have to ask. Why me?”
“Like I just said, we’re desperate.”
Bree groaned. “Ro, sometimes you’re just too tactless, you know that?”
“What? We are desperate.”
Shaking her head, Bree turned toward Tess. “What she meant to say is that we’re well aware you weren’t necessarily looking for this much responsibility or this big a commitment. We understand that you hardly know us—and we hardly know you—and therefore this is undoubtedly quite a surprise. But we’ve had an unexpected vacancy, and your references and experience are so stellar that we hoped maybe you’d consider helping us out.”
Rowena laughed. “Yeah. That’s absolutely what I meant to say. See? That’s why Bree is the sweet-talking social director, and I’m the blunt-force sledgehammer who gets things done.” She leaned forward. “And honestly, Tess, we are desperate. Our director is gone. Like already. Tonight, right now, just plain gone. We think you might be able to save our skins here, if you say yes.”
Her self-effacing manner was so warm and engaging that Tess couldn’t help smiling. “It’s a very flattering offer. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but there’s something I probably should ask.”
Rowena sat back, obviously encouraged that Tess hadn’t rejected the idea outright. “Anything,” she said. “It’s all there. Salary, accommodations, bonuses, hours. You’d get the same contract Chelsea had.”
“It’s not that. I mean, those details would come later, but before I’d even consider it, I’d need to know...” Tess considered her words carefully. “It’s unusual for a director to bolt like that. Was there anything...?”
“She fell in love.” Bree stated the fact baldly. “With a guest. He left for Greece tonight, and she went, too. We had no idea. We have a strict policy against dating the guests, so obviously she didn’t mention it to anyone. He was here only a week.”
“Yeah, but he was dreamy,” Rowena said. “So a week was probably plenty.”
“Hey!” Dallas’s protest was gruff, but he didn’t exactly look threatened.
“Anyhow,” Rowena went on, as if he hadn’t interrupted, “the bottom line is that Chelsea didn’t leave because conditions were oppressive, or because of any mistreatment. We’re still in our first year of operation, so I won’t pretend we don’t have to budget carefully, or that sometimes things aren’t pretty lean, but I think we can promise you at least a year’s employment. Of course, we’re hoping all goes well, and the job could be permanent.”
A year. Tess definitely hadn’t imagined staying at Bell River that long. She was deeply curious about the Wright sisters, and she wanted to know more about her biological father, but could she really afford to invest that much time?
She needed to return to a real city soon, somewhere she could put down roots and build a clientele. With any kind of luck, eventually she’d save enough to open her own practice and create a life for herself.
Repeat clients, a steady income, a home base. Independence and security. Those were her only goals, now that both her mother and ex-husband, Craig, were gone.
And yet, she remembered how she’d felt after the working massage. She remembered that inner tug, that feeling that she wanted to take the job, no matter what.
The tug was stronger than ever now. And there was something else, too. Something that felt like excitement. She smothered it instinctively. Excitement was dangerous. It made you do stupid things, things you hadn’t thought through....
“You don’t have to answer tonight,” Bree said gently, as if she sensed Tess’s inner conflict. “Why don’t you take the contract home and look it over? Then tomorrow we can meet again to answer any questions.”
“That’s a good idea.” Tess grasped the chance to escape. All these strangers watching her, all these hopes hanging on her answer, felt like a hot, heavy cloak thrown over her shoulders.
And they were strangers, she thought on an unexpected wave of vertigo. Complete strangers. She didn’t look like these women—not even a whisper of kinship showed in their faces. She didn’t think like them, or live like them.
Merely being here, in this fancy home where everyone belonged but her, was depressing. She felt an overwhelming exhaustion, realizing that she’d spent a lifetime trying to find a connection with someone, anyone...and failing.
Even with her own husband.
The parlor was big, but there wasn’t enough air in it. Cinnamon and pine were thick in the air, and she feared she might be sick. She wished she hadn’t eaten so much at Donovan’s. It had tasted great, and Marianne had been so welcoming....
But now, the food began to roil oddly in her stomach.
When Tess didn’t speak, Rowena looked disappointed. She opened her mouth, but then she exchanged a look with Bree. Something must have passed between them, because Rowena closed her lips.
Eager to leave, Tess was trying to stuff the papers into her purse—which was far too small to hold them—when a commotion in the doorway made her look up. A boy, maybe eleven or twelve, stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips.
“There’s a big problem,” he announced dramatically. “But it’s not my fault, honest!”
“Of course it’s your fault.” With a sigh, Mitch rose, shaking his head. “When was it ever not your fault?”
“You don’t even know what it is!” The boy tucked his head back, indignant.
“I still know it’s your fault.” Mitch smiled at Dallas as he passed. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Not you, Uncle Mitch!” The boy held out his hands. “It’s Isamar—and she wants Ro. She says the ghost is on the stairs again,
