from her lips with an embroidered napkin. “We never meant for this house to become a burden when we gave it to you. Did we, sister?” Ivy shook her head.
“Don’t be silly. I love this house. But it takes time to grow a business. There were repairs and alterations that needed to be done before we could open as an inn. This relic is a century old, after all.”
Iris still didn’t look convinced and Beth patted her hand reassuringly. “You’ll never know how grateful I am that you and Aunt Ivy chose to share your home with me. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t made the offer. You’ve always been there for me.” Their generous gift had been a godsend to Beth, whose life had fallen apart after finding out that her husband of three years had been having an affair with one of his coworkers.
Greg was the athletic director for Mediocrity High School and head coach of the Miners football team. Penelope Miller, his paramour, was a physical-education teacher who coached girl’s basketball and soccer.
Beth supposed their pairing had been inevitable. She’d never shared her husband’s enthusiasm for sports, while her husband’s lover fit his fantasy image of a female jock to a tee: big boobs, long legs and no brains, or at least none Beth could discern.
What seemed disastrous at the time had actually turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to her. Greg’s nasty moods and the venom that spewed forth from his mouth were now Penelope’s problem to deal with. They deserved each other, as far as Beth was concerned.
Unwilling to turn tail and run after her husband’s affair had become public knowledge, Beth had focused all of her energies on opening the inn, which had given her a chance to regain her self-worth and sanity, and a reason to get her life back in order, which hadn’t been easy on many levels. But she was determined to succeed.
“This house was just too much for a couple of old ladies to manage,” Ivy admitted. “And you love this Victorian as much as we do, so it seemed only fitting that you should have it. We wanted the house to remain in the family, and you’re the only family we have left, aside from your mother, who is quite content with her life in California.”
Thank God for that! Beth loved her mother, but she didn’t like her very much and had no intention of living any closer to the woman than three thousand miles.
Margaret Shaw had a nasty disposition and made everyone around her miserable. Beth had thirty-four years of good reasons to dread her visits, which fortunately were few and far between. They argued over the most trivial things whenever they were together. Margaret took great delight in telling Beth in excruciating detail every little thing that was wrong with her. And she had a very long list!
“This house was the best part of my childhood and holds so many wonderful memories.”
“You mean like the time you tried to help Elmer Forrest paint the front porch and ended up dumping a whole gallon of paint on his boots?” Ivy laughed and Beth smiled.
“Mr. Forrest wouldn’t talk to me for months after that.”
“Elmer felt badly about his behavior after we explained about your parents’ divorce.”
Thinking back to the heartache her parents’ divorce had caused, Beth sighed. She’d often wondered if she’d been the cause of their breakup, but her aunts had assured her that Margaret and Melvin Shaw’s failed marriage had been due to her father’s wandering eye. She hadn’t fully understood what that meant until the day her mother had explained in graphic, horrifying detail just what her father had done, shattering her childish illusions about a man she had worshipped and adored.
“My dear, are you all right?” Iris asked, her brow creased with worry. “You look positively glum.”
Forcing a smile, Beth nodded, picking up the thread of their conversation. “Once I get the loan I’ll be able to finish the landscaping and pay off the bulk of the debt I’ve accumulated trying to bring the inn up to code, which is why I intend to bribe Mr. Pickens with a jar of your damson plum jam. Mrs. Pickens is wild about it.”
Ivy pursed her lips. “Humph! If you ask me, Finnola Pickens thinks too highly of herself. She was a very poor student—didn’t know a verb from a preposition, as I recall.”
Neither did Beth, but she wasn’t about to admit that to the former schoolteachers. English, and grammar in particular, had never been her forte, though she adored reading, especially romantic novels. At least relationships in romance novels always worked out; they were required to have happy endings.
Too bad real life wasn’t like that.
“We don’t think you should show Mr. Pickens the cellar, dear. It’s so cold and musty down there. We think it would be best if you just ignored it completely. Don’t we, Ivy?” Iris appeared uneasy as she glanced at her sister, twisting her napkin into a tight knot.
“It’s so damp down there,” Ivy agreed. “And you know how much you dislike it.”
Dislike wasn’t quite the word Beth would have used. Hated. Despised. Abhorred. Those words fit so much better. “True. But I’m desperate. Don’t worry. I’m taking Buster with me for moral support.”
Aunt Ivy tsked, and then shook her head. “But you’re terrified of the cellar, and that dog is useless as a watchdog. Why, he practically licks Mr. Jessup to death every time he brings the mail.”
Buster was no Lassie, that was certain, but the black Labrador was the only good thing she’d gotten out of her divorce settlement with Greg, and Beth loved him. He’d given her unconditional love, something she’d never received from her ex—or any other man, for that matter.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be just fine. I’ll be back up later this afternoon to let you know how my meeting with Mr. Pickens went. Until then, try to stay out of trouble.”
The two old ladies glanced at each other before breaking into a fit of giggles.
HER RIGHT HAND TREMBLING over the rusty handles of the root cellar’s wide double doors, Beth felt her heartbeat crashing against the walls of her chest like a wild hummingbird and nausea rise in her stomach. Fearing eruption was imminent, she breathed deeply several times to calm herself.
No way did she subscribe to that whole “when the going gets tough” scenario. She’d never gotten over her fear of the dark, dank, spooky place. Not after accidentally being locked in the cellar at the age of six by her aunts’ cleaning lady.
But dammit! Mr. Pickens would be arriving at any moment to make his inspection and she needed that jam!
Beth might be chicken, but she wasn’t stupid.
At Buster’s morose whine, she inhaled deeply, and then swallowed with some difficulty. “We’re going, we’re going. Just be patient.” But she couldn’t get her feet uprooted. Her legs were shaking so badly the soles of her tennis shoes had attached themselves to the lawn like Mrs. Abernathy’s ugly pink flamingos next door.
“I can do this!” A familiar feeling of panic started setting in. “Just pull the doors open,” she told herself. “You haven’t got all day.”
Buster barked, apparently agreeing with her.
“Oh, shut up! Who asked you?”
Clasping sweaty fingers around the
