you,” Amelia said. “I’ll get it. I promise.”
She disconnected the call and breathed a sigh of relief.
Her boss was right. The bed wasn’t an important piece. It was not as if it had been designed especially for George Washington or that it had resided at Mount Vernon. It was just an old bed that Washington had slept in on occasion.
She frowned, remembering Sam Blackstone’s accusation that she was attracted to him. Was she simply looking for a reason to extend her stay? She could go back to Boston and let the lawyers deal with it.
No, that man had picked a fight and Amelia wouldn’t back down. There was too much riding on this job. Her future, her security; the chance to make her own choices in life.
She hadn’t always possessed such an independent streak. As the only child of a notable Boston Brahmin family, she’d been carefully groomed to be sweet and compliant, the kind of girl who would grow up to marry well and transfer the family fortune to an equally wealthy family who would preserve it for future generations.
She’d host luncheons and cocktail parties, she’d bear clever and handsome children, she’d serve on the boards of at least three charitable foundations and she’d see her children married well, too. It had taken her nearly twenty-two years to realize that she wasn’t really a person at all, but a prize.
She’d had the traditional education for a girl of her station: a private, all-girls day school, four years at Miss Porter’s, then an art history degree from Sarah Lawrence. Though it had been a good education, it had also been a case study in maintaining the chastity of a naïve young girl. The first time she’d even touched a boy she’d been thirteen and taking dance lessons for her tea dance at the club.
She’d led such a silly life as a teenager, paraded around in a white gown and gloves, her hair sprayed until it barely moved, a smile pasted on her face to indicate she was having fun. Inside she’d felt as though she was on display for all the mothers to judge: Amelia Gardner Sheffield, heiress in search of a husband. Only blue bloods need apply.
And she’d followed her parents’ plan almost all the way to the altar before she’d realized she was capable of making her own decisions.
Since she’d walked out on her engagement, she’d been determined to make a success of herself without her family’s intervention. She’d managed to get the job at the museum without any promises besides hard work and dedication. It was only after she’d been hired that she’d mentioned her family connections.
And until this crazy bed situation had come along, she’d delivered on every project she’d taken on. Now that she’d set her sights on the George Washington bed, she wouldn’t leave town until it was tucked safely in the museum’s trailer.
But there were some roadblocks along the way. For one thing, she didn’t know anything about her opponent. She’d be much more effective against him if she learned something of his motivations. Millhaven was a small town. Certainly someone in town would be willing to talk about Sam Blackstone.
He wanted that bed as much as she did, maybe even more. Unfortunately he wasn’t aware of just how stubborn and single-minded Amelia Gardner Sheffield could be.
Amelia opened the door of the Lexus and got in behind the wheel. She’d made the three-hour drive to Millhaven from Boston that morning and had had the presence of mind to pack an overnight bag in case the weather or the acquisition suddenly went bad.
But a bag was only part of the equation; she’d need to find someplace close to spend the night. Millhaven was a quaint little village set in the beauty of the Hudson Valley. There had to be a motel somewhere in town.
As she drove away from the Farnsworth house, she saw a signpost and slowed to read it. It listed three restaurants and one inn.
“The Blackstone Inn.” She remembered the bed’s provenance mentioning the Blackstone Inn, but it had never occurred to her that the inn would still be in existence. Could Sam Blackstone be connected to the Blackstone Inn? She smiled to herself. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
The road followed the river and she found the inn about a half mile from the edge of town, set high on a bluff overlooking the Hudson. As Amelia drove up to the front door, she marveled at the view. It was an idyllic spot and more than romantic.
“‘Established 1769,’” she read on the sign. Her gaze dropped to a scroll along the bottom of the sign with the words George Washington slept here.
“No wonder he wants the bed back,” she murmured.
The central structure was made of a type of red brick common throughout the area. The inn was three stories high, the façade featuring three Federal columns flanking each side of the front door and supporting a third-story gallery. It looked as though the two wings on either side of the central structure had been added at a later date, as the bricks were a slightly different color. Black shutters adorned the first-story windows, while window boxes filled with winter greenery marked each second-story window.
Amelia loved it on sight. She quickly got out of the SUV, anxious to see if the interior was as meticulously preserved as the exterior. She admired people who worked so hard to protect historical buildings. Their work was as important as the work she and the rest of the staff did at the Mapother.
Amelia stepped through the front door into a wide Colonial keeping room. On one side a hearth dominated the entire wall, with period chairs and sofas arranged neatly in front of the fire. On the other side a wood-paneled bar ran the depth of the room, the bottles and glassware sparkling beneath the flickering light of four kerosene lamps.
She walked to the front desk and rang the bell that sat on the scarred wooden counter. A few seconds later a young woman emerged from behind a door. There was something very familiar about her pale blue eyes and dark hair. She smiled and Amelia had the uneasy feeling that they’d met before.
“Good afternoon,” the other woman said with a warm smile. “May I help—”
“You will not believe what is going on down at Abigail’s place.” A familiar voice filled the room and Amelia’s spine stiffened. “That crazy old lady promised the bed to someone else. Some uptight, snooty museum lady from Boston. Amelia Sheffield. La-di-da. Man, what a piece of work.”
Amelia slowly turned and faced him. “Hello again.”
The woman behind the desk cleared her throat. “This is my brother, Sam Blackstone.” She laughed softly. “And I’d bet you’re Amelia Sheffield.”
Amelia held out her hand to Sam. “Hello. Piece. Piece of Work. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blackstone.”
He at least had the grace to show some embarrassment. His face flushed beneath his deep tan and scruffy beard. He really wasn’t the type she was usually attracted to but there was something about him that piqued her curiosity.
Maybe it was the fact that he seemed so intent on obtaining a historical piece of furniture that he’d be rude to a complete stranger to get it. It was exactly the way she felt about important furniture: obsessed.
“So, you own this place?” she asked.
“My sister and I do,” he said, nodding to the woman standing at the desk. “My sister, Sarah Blackstone.”
Amelia
