over it, Dad.
Considering the example his parents set for matrimony, it’s a wonder he’d ever garnered the courage to ask Corrine to marry him. Then again, she had her own baggage to deal with and her own reasons for accepting his proposal.
Her own reasons for publicly dumping him, as well.
But he wasn’t going to think about that now.
He’d just stepped out of the car when his phone vibrated. As he paced the sidewalk in front of the inn, his assistant, Betsy, filled him in on what had transpired at the office since his departure. His stepbrother, Vic—brand-new VP of operations—had stopped by looking for him. He’d loitered awhile in Denny’s office with the door closed, then left.
Not good.
With an uneasy feeling, he wrapped up the call, tucked his phone away and then stepped up on the porch just as the front door opened. There stood a plump, silver-haired older woman dressed in a dark green paisley-print dress. Considering what his mother had shared about Miss Everett’s health issues, he’d expected a more fragile-seeming woman than the one before him.
She smiled. And although they were likely close to five decades apart, he could see a faint family resemblance to Lillian in that smile.
“Miss Everett, I’m Denny Hunter, Charlotte’s son.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she nodded knowingly. “I remember you.”
Remembered him? Perhaps the downturn in health wasn’t solely a physical one?
Lillian appeared behind her aunt, more casually dressed today in a denim skirt and a scoop-neck blue top. She was every bit as pretty as the day before. “Aunt Viola tells me you were in her Toddler Twos class at Sunday school.”
His mother had taken him to church? He had no recollection of that. To his knowledge, he’d only set foot in a church for weddings and funerals.
“My, my, yes,” the older woman continued as she studied him. Was she looking for similarities between him and his mother? His father? “You were a cute little guy. Chubby. All serious. But you loved the puppet stories. Especially David and Goliath.”
He shook his head. “I wish I shared those memories.”
“I’ll see if I can find photos. I always took pictures of my classes.”
“Let’s not leave Denny standing out here on the porch, Aunt Viola.”
Lillian offered him a slightly warmer smile than the one he’d departed with yesterday. It had been obvious she hadn’t taken his visit well, but she seemed to have recovered her poise and had no doubt by now enlightened her aunt as to the purpose of his trip to Hunter Ridge. Hopefully that had given the older woman an opportunity to absorb it. Come to terms with the possibilities.
“Please come in,” Lillian added. “What do you want us to show you first?”
He’d much rather be left to poke around on his own, but this was Viola’s home as well as an inn his mother owned, and he should respect that.
“Lillian tells me,” Viola said, as they moved through the entryway and into the parlor, “that after reviewing our recommendations, Charlotte has concerns about investing in upgrades to the property. That she may choose instead to permanently close the inn.”
“That’s certainly an option on the table, yes.” One that he’d do his best to get his mother to see the wisdom of. He’d perused the accounting ledger of income and expenses before his trip, and the operation here wasn’t much more than a break-even proposition. He was surprised his stepfather hadn’t discouraged her from throwing away more money on it. Then again, Elden Gyles adored Denny’s mother. Doted on her. Indulged her. Which, according to Denny’s father, had played a part in the breakup of his parents’ marriage.
But while he’d come to the conclusion from afar that the inn was a losing proposition, it didn’t seem like it would be easy now to push for a permanent closing in light of meeting Miss Everett face-to-face. The Sunday-school teacher who’d thought him cute would be forced to find a new home and a job elsewhere.
He logged on to his phone and pulled up a list of concerns that he’d gleaned from Viola’s emails to his mother. “For starters, why don’t you direct me to the items you emailed about? I saw the water stain on the ceiling in this room yesterday. Has the source of the leak been addressed?”
“A toilet upstairs overflowed last spring.” Viola shook her head. “We got a plumber in here to fix that, but not before it did damage down here.”
“I noticed the crack in the windowpane, too.”
“That’s a more recent addition.” She rolled her eyes. “Teenagers were throwing a football around in the street during the wee hours of the morning last weekend, and it got away from them.”
Teenagers. Chicken Man?
Lillian moved to the window and pulled back one of the heavy drapes. “Because the house is old, the window frame has become warped. The repairman suggested it be reframed when he replaces the pane, but that’s a greater expense than a single piece of glass, and we’d want the frame to match the other windows, not be a glaring modernism.”
He keyed a few notes into his phone, aware that Lillian was watching him closely. No doubt she saw him as a harbinger of doom, swooping into her aunt’s quiet, secure world. He was known for his good business sense, decisiveness and an unsentimental eagle eye on the bottom line. That was what people—including his stepfather—counted on him for. Respected him for. But for some reason, it bothered him that those highly regarded traits would be less than admirable to Ms. Keene in this current situation.
“Anything else in here?”
Viola looked to Lillian, who nodded for her to continue. “The electrical outlet on that far wall is dead. There’s a buckled floorboard behind the sofa. Wallpaper’s pulling loose in places. I keep gluing it, but it won’t stay down.”
“And the fireplace.” Lillian darted a look at him, as if sensing that evidence for closing the inn was mounting. “The flue is cleaned regularly, but it needs serious work both inside and out for safety’s sake. When we had it inspected, recommendations were made that we need to follow if we intend to use it this coming autumn.”
“Folks do love sitting by a crackling fire on a chilly evening,” Viola added. “It lends a homey touch and an excuse for guests to gather around and get to know each other.”
He knew that to be true. “Do the guest rooms have fireplaces?”
“A few. But they’ve long been sealed up.”
A mixed bag. He continued to take notes as the issues in this room alone rapidly tallied up. It was more of the same as they progressed through the downstairs. A cozy library. Small office. Spacious dining room. Laundry and storage rooms. Assessing a kitchen featuring weary-looking appliances, cracked floor tile and a chipped sink led to an enjoyable chat in the adjoining breakfast nook with an elderly couple who were finishing up a morning break of fresh fruit and pastries. Viola pointed out the entrance to her apartment, but didn’t mention work to be done there or invite him to take a look.
Overall,
