“Now you…” She glanced in the direction of the garden. “And she…oh, it’s all gone so badly.” She pulled a rumpled handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it to her lips.
“What’s gone badly?” he asked.
She swiped at her nose then pushed the kerchief back into her apron pocket. As she lifted her gaze to meet his, she looked as though she was trying to recapture her poise. “I’m sorry for my behavior, Mr. Johnson.”
“It’s Jerric,” he said, beginning to wonder if the woman would ever get his name right. “Roth Jerric.”
“Yes, yes.” She nodded. Looking distracted, she patted her hair, still not quite reclaiming her “hostess” aplomb. “Forgive me. I’m an old lady who had a lovely flight of fancy—a hope you might say—to enhance two deserving young people’s lives. And—well—because of you, all my effort has been smashed on the rocks of mischance.” She attempted a smile. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” he asked. Good Lord, he’d somehow smashed this woman’s hopes for something important enough to drive her to the brink of tears. How was that possible simply by speaking with Hannah Hudson? The experience hadn’t been any great thrill for him, that was certain.
“You didn’t know—about the blue moon, and about…” She shook her head. Her eyes, a faded dust-brown behind wire-rimmed spectacles, expressed a mournfulness she couldn’t mask with apologetic murmurings. “I trust you found her delightful,” she said.
That remark surprised him. He thought about saying, though he found her attractive, her disposition left a great deal to be desired. Instead he asked, “Why?”
“Because you must,” she said sadly. “Fate has spoken, dear boy.”
He had no idea what she meant and started to ask, but she wasn’t through speaking.
“When the sheriff comes, would you mind telling him he’s too late?”
“Sheriff?” He felt like he’d stepped into the twilight zone. Fate? Sheriff? “Too late for what?”
“For them.” She made a weak effort at a pleasant expression. “He should have been here an hour ago. When he comes, ask him why he was late. Deacon Vance is his name. A darling man. Widower, you know, and only thirty-five.” She turned away, heaving a ragged sigh. “So sad. But who am I to question Madam Fate?” Her back to Roth, she shuffled off down a dimly lit hallway toward the back of the house. “Come along, Missy Mis,” she said unnecessarily, since the dog trailed close behind her. “Good night, Mr. Johnson.”
He started to correct her mistake but decided it didn’t matter. Other problems loomed larger. Had he heard her right? She’d spoken more to herself than to him. What had she said about questioning Madam Fate? And the sheriff was too late? For what? And what had he ruined by simply speaking to the stormy Miss Hudson?
“What in Hades just happened here?” he muttered.
After a moment a distant door slammed. Apparently his hostess was now ensconced in her quarters.
A bell pealed nearby, jarring him. He shook his head at himself. It was only a damn phone. Clearly his nerves were shot, and so far his stay at the inn hadn’t helped his mental state. Facing the fact that he’d been put in charge, he walked to the reservation desk, outfitted in what was once a hallway closet. He grabbed the receiver. “Jerric here.”
“What?” the male voice on the other end of the line asked.
Roth felt like an idiot. “I mean, Blue Moon Inn.”
“Who is this?”
Roth didn’t enjoy this kind of phone call. “Who is this?” he asked.
“This is Sheriff Deacon Vance. I ask again, who is this?”
“Oh, Sheriff. This is Roth Jerric, a guest at the inn. Mrs. Peterson went to bed. She asked me to tell you you’re too late. I’m guessing you don’t need to come out.”
“Too late?”
Roth was relieved to hear the sheriff’s confusion. “That’s what she said, along with other things—something about Madam Fate and hopes crashing on rocks. To tell the truth…” He had a thought that seemed worth exploring. “Does the woman have a drinking problem?”
Hearty laughter exploded on the other end of the line. “What she has is a meddling problem. Tell me, Jerric, is a young, attractive female staying at the inn?”
He thought about Hannah Hudson, her lithe, slender frame and free-falling blond hair. He recalled stunning, gray-green eyes and remembered the first time he noticed them. He and Hannah happened to be on the same elevator when their glances chanced to meet. He was so struck by the rare beauty of those eyes he’d lost his train of thought. That never happened to him, so the moment stuck in his mind. And her smile. He recalled that, too—singularly sweet. Every time he saw it he had the feeling it reached clear to her soul.
Tonight she hadn’t smiled. Quite the contrary. But to answer the sheriff’s question, she was damn attractive, even with the attitude. “Yes, there’s an attractive woman staying here.”
“Ah-ha.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Joan Peterson is up to her matchmaking tricks,” he said. “She called me insisting a prowler was roaming the grounds. Wanted me there pronto. On the way I got sidetracked rescuing a teenage couple from their overturned pickup. When will young lovers learn that French kissing while traveling sixty miles an hour on a country road isn’t very bright? They were lucky they wore their seat belts and the streambed they ended up in wasn’t deep.” There was silence on the line for a few seconds. “Look, apologize to her for me,” he said. “Tell her duty called and I’m sorry about the blue moon.”
“Right.” Roth didn’t quite catch the last thing Deacon said. “What about a blue—”
Too late. The sheriff had hung up. What did he mean he was sorry about the blue moon? “Is everybody crazy around here?” he asked the empty lobby.
Turning away from the registration desk, he stared down the hallway where he had last seen Joan Peterson. At a loss, he began to get angry. He’d come to the blasted inn hoping to conjure up a new burst of optimism and clarity. So far all he’d managed to conjure up was a bucket load of female outrage.
CHAPTER TWO
HANNAH’S vow to keep her distance from the annoying Roth Jerric wasn’t as easy to keep as she hoped, considering they shared a bathroom. That afternoon when she arrived, the idea of sharing it with strangers hadn’t seemed alarming. She’d pictured some sweet elderly couple that would retire early, or newlyweds oblivious to anyone but each other, or some health nut who would hike or canoe all day.
In her worst nightmare she never imagined her bath-mate would be her belittling ex-boss, or so—well, so conspicuously male. Her problems began when she returned from her midnight sojourn in the garden, worn-out and ready for a long soak in the tub. When she started to open the door, she heard the shower running. Darn the man. Why couldn’t he have showered in the
