Taylor handed her aunt the envelope, then hopped up on the porch and disappeared inside the building.
But even without the child’s listening ears, he didn’t intend to conduct business where passersby might be privy to his mother’s and the inn manager’s affairs. One young couple had already paused to give his silver Porsche an admiring once-over. He should have driven something less conspicuous, but too late now.
He motioned to the inn. “Perhaps we should step inside?”
“Yes, please come in.” Delivering another smile that ramped his heart rate up a notch, she turned to the inn and tilted her head in invitation for him to follow. “My aunt will want to meet you, and I know you’re tired from the drive and could use some refreshment. I’m grateful Mrs. Gyles sent someone in response to our inquiries.”
Interesting way of putting it. Constant complaints was more like it. Demands for plumbing fixes, gutter and downspout repairs, appliance and flooring replacements. Window treatments, furnishings and other upgrades. His mother, dealing with grueling postaccident physical-therapy challenges, had persuaded him to personally address the situation. No doubt she thought a son who’d spent the last decade directing renovation and management of properties for his stepfather’s boutique hotel enterprise, GylesStyle Inns, could best evaluate the complaints.
She wanted him to determine the level of attention the inn realistically required—superficial only, a moderate renovation or an investment in “the works.” Or, considering the possibility of Miss Everett’s deteriorating health—which he was also asked to report back on—was it best to shut down the inn and be done with it?
Denny was all for the latter.
But as he stepped onto the porch where Lillian Keene awaited him, he couldn’t help but notice that the paint on the white railing and wooden door was chipped and the porch’s floorboards were in need of resealing. Maybe those complaints were legitimate?
He frowned. “Ms. Keene, what—?”
“Lillian, please.” She opened the door and entered the shadowy interior. He followed, noting the welcoming creak of a hardwood floor and the faint scent of furniture oil.
“I’m especially grateful,” she continued, “that Mrs. Gyles is willing to see to the repairs before my aunt’s contract renews. We’ve been concerned as to the inn’s long-term sustainability in its current condition. Thanks in part to your mother’s efforts to draw an artisan dynamic to the town, guest expectations are rising. No criticism intended—tastes do change over time—but who knows when the most recent interior-design decisions were made? Obviously sometime after the structure was built by my great-great-grandfather in 1927, so it’s long overdue for a freshening up in multiple respects. And do you think there’s something your mother can do about those boarded-up buildings next door? Such an eyesore.”
Staring at her, Denny felt a muscle in his stomach tighten. Had his mother forgotten to call ahead as she’d promised? She was supposed to pave the way for his visit.
A quick glance around the entryway and into the spacious front parlor confirmed they were alone, but he lowered his voice.
“Actually, Ms. Keene... Lillian...” His mother had been clear about his marching orders. “I was asked to come here for what, depending on my findings, may result in something else altogether.”
“And what would that be?”
He shouldn’t be discussing his mother’s business with anyone other than Viola Everett, but no doubt the condition of the building, her aunt’s health and subsequent ability to perform her job well were fair topics for this niece who was evidently so involved with the inn.
“I’m here to let your aunt know,” he said as gently as he could, “that depending on my evaluation of the property, her managerial contract may not be renewed. The inn may be closed.”
* * *
Please, God, this can’t be happening.
But it was. And it was her fault.
Heart pounding, Lillian took in Hayden Hunter’s somewhat road-weary sea-blue eyes and dark brown, neatly styled hair. He was solidly built—a navy golf shirt emphasized broad shoulders, and charcoal Dockers showed off slim hips. A scar nicked the corner of his mouth, and the firm jaw was in need of a shave this late in the day. But now she couldn’t believe she’d thought him story-worthy handsome when she’d first spied him talking to Taylor.
With an agenda like his, he was no storybook hero.
“Charlotte is considering closing the Pinewood Inn?” Her words came out more sharply than intended. “Why? Because my aunt spoke up for her own best interests and those of your mother? Tried to persuade her that much-needed upgrades to the property are overdue?”
A flicker of surprise, followed by a slight narrowing of his eyes, confirmed Denny had been taken aback by her heated response. And didn’t like it.
“What is your connection to the inn? Other than that it’s managed by Viola Everett, who happens to be your great-aunt. Are you employed here?”
“No, I’m not an employee. I’m...”
What was she? A Phoenix librarian by profession. Then when her single aunt had faced serious medical obstacles in January with a fall that broke a hip, she’d taken a leave of absence to care for her. After a series of personal setbacks of her own, she’d ended up staying on, assuming the day-to-day management of the inn around part-time library clerk employment. A position that, God willing, might soon open up to a full-time one.
Hunter Ridge not only was her aunt’s lifelong home, but was more conducive to meeting the needs of Lillian’s troubled niece—for however long Taylor remained with her this time. Both great-aunt and niece, however, would have to pack up and go with her to Phoenix if she was unable to support them here. Unfortunately, relating those personal details to Denny Hunter wouldn’t prove her validity to speak on her aunt’s behalf that he was seeking.
“I believe, Ms. Keene—” A faint smile touched his lips. No more Lillian. “—that I should speak directly with your aunt regarding business matters going forward.”
“But I’m—” Don’t go there. Don’t further sink your aunt’s ship by implying she’s no longer capable of running the operation on her own. “My aunt would be entirely comfortable with my participation in conversations regarding her role and the future of the inn.”
He shrugged. “If she’s agreeable, I’ll continue this conversation with both of you.”
“Then I’ll let her know you’re here.” Lillian’s smile evaporated as she headed to the rear of the inn.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
Knowing what she did from Aunt Viola about Charlotte Gyles and her history of animosity toward Hunter Ridge, why had she encouraged her aunt to email her employer with what might be interpreted as demands? In fact, her aunt had balked at emailing the requests, but Lillian had been persistent, naively placing confidence in the fact that Mrs. Gyles—formerly Mrs. Douglas Hunter of Hunter Ridge—held her aunt in high regard. Hadn’t she, in many respects, indulged Aunt Viola in allowing her to manage the inn when she’d retired from her librarian position?
Lillian hadn’t expected a backlash.
The
