The Inn (7 page)

“T
here you are,” Zeke rasped, out of breath, as he spotted Cordelia, huffing nearly as much as he, coming down the stairs.

The old woman fixed him with an icy glare. “You're incompetent,” she snarled.

“I did not leave the door unlocked, if that's what you're thinking,” Zeke replied.

Cordelia glanced around. She could hear Annabel in the living room. She lowered her voice.

“Well, I certainly didn't leave it unlocked,” she whispered angrily. “You were the last in there.”

Zeke's old eyes looked as if they might burst into tears. “I was certain I locked the door! I always check, every time I leave.”

“Well,” Cordelia muttered, “it's all taken care of now.”

He grabbed her bony wrist. “Are you sure? Everything is safe?”

Cordelia yanked away from him and moved toward the kitchen. “For now. But you better take care, you old fool. Jack has got to know soon. Don't let anything happen in the meantime.”

A
t the little police station at the end of the one-block Main Street of Woodfield, Chief Richard Carlson was going over the day's schedule with his deputy, Adam Burrell. Carlson was drinking a cup of coffee and eating a cinnamon cruller he'd picked up at Deb's Diner. His fingers were sticky and sugary as he turned over the schedule's pages.

“Might be a bit of a traffic tie-up at the Route 7A intersection today,” the chief told his deputy. “They're putting up a new light around noon.”

“I'll be there,” Burrell assured him.

“And tonight there's that meeting in the public works room at town hall. Can you be there as well?”

“Sure thing, chief.”

Carlson smiled. “Thanks, Adam. Just not sure I can handle another one of those.”

“Small town politics getting you down?”

Carlson sighed. “It seems everyone's got an agenda against everyone else. The town manager hates the board of selectmen, the board of selectmen hate the school superintendent, the school superintendent hates the town manager . . . it's a vicious circle.”

Burrell smiled. He was a young man, redheaded and freckled. “Yeah, but everybody loves the chief of police.”

Carlson knocked on the wood of his desk. “So far,” he laughed.

“Hey, you've been chief for a decade and no one's tried to get you fired. That's a good run.”

Carlson finished the last of his cruller. “I guess it is,” he said.

Burrell left the office to start his morning's rounds. The chief sat back in his chair, sipping his coffee. Deb made it good and strong, the way he liked it. He drank it black. In the old days, when Amy had still been around, he'd taken cream and sugar in his coffee. But ever since Amy had died, Carlson had needed something stronger in the morning. Something to jolt him awake and keep him alert and concentrating all day.

The people of Woodfield had never known Amy. His wife had died two years before Carlson had come to this little town. He was the “new bachelor chief of police” and had attracted a great deal of feminine attention during his first few years here. Every single lady, and a couple married ones, too, had seemed to try to date him. He'd gone out on one date in his whole time here, just one, and it had been a disaster. Cora Coakley. Poor Cora. She'd seemed nice enough when she'd come into his office, bringing him homemade jams and apple pies. But when they went out to dinner, she'd sat across from him blushing so hard Carlson had started blushing in return, and every attempt at conversation had faded off to a few mumbled sentences. Now when Carlson saw Cora around town he just tipped his hat to her. He didn't want to say something to her and risk those cheeks of hers turning bright apple-red again.

The fact was he didn't want to date anyone. He had loved one woman. One woman only. Amy had been everything to him. He could never replace her. Even twelve years after her death, Carlson could not imagine loving another woman.

His phone buzzed.

It was Betty, his secretary, in the front office.

“Rich,” she said, “Tammy Morelli is on the line. I tried to give her Adam's voice mail, but she insisted she wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay, put her through,” he told Betty.

Poor Tammy. She worked at Deb's Diner. Poor kid didn't have it easy, raising that little girl, Jessica, all by herself, with no help from that good-for-nothing boyfriend of hers, Roger Askew. Carlson had noticed that Tammy wasn't at the diner this morning. When he'd asked about her, Deb had just shook her head in exasperation.

“Hey, Tammy,” he said when Betty switched over the line.

“Chief, I know what you're going to say, but I've got to tell you anyway,” she said.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Roger didn't come home last night.”

“And what did you think I was going to say about that?”

“Well,” Tammy said, “first I figured you'd say, ‘Good. It would be better for you if he never came home.' Then I figured you'd say, ‘Well, there's no cause for alarm. He's probably off somewhere sleeping off a hangover.'”

Carlson smiled. “You know, Tammy, you're psychic.”

“And you're right on all counts,” she replied. “The only thing is, this morning, he had a court date up in Great Barrington, and I know he really wanted to go because he hoped to get some charges dismissed against him. . . .”

“Failure to pay child support, wasn't it?” Carlson asked.

“Yes, he was agreeing to give up all parental rights to his kid in order not to have to pay another single cent to her,” Tammy told him.

“What a great dad.”

“Believe me, I think that little girl will be better off without him in her life.”

“Maybe you ought to think the same about your own little girl,” the chief told her.

Tammy started to cry. “I know, I know. I'm going to leave him. Really, I am. I just . . . right now . . . like this morning. I know Roger's a waste of a human being. But at least he can take Jessica to school for me. I pick her up in the afternoons when I get out of the diner, but Deb's got me working the breakfast shift, and so I can't take Jessica and she's scared of the bus. So Roger comes in handy once in a while.”

“That's why you weren't at the diner this morning,” Carlson said. “But even though you didn't call asking for my advice, Tammy, I'm going to say anyway that Roger's occasional chauffeur assistance really doesn't outweigh his drinking, his temper, his violent flareups.. . .”

“I know, I know! And believe me, if you find that he's dead in a ditch out there, I'm not going to cry one single freaking tear over him.” She grew quiet. “But I thought I should at least report that he didn't come home. I'll let you take it from there.”

“Okay, Tammy, I'll mark it down,” Carlson told her.

“You're not going out looking for him?”

“Has he been missing for forty-eight hours?”

“No, just since last night, when he went out to get cigarettes at Millie's store.”

“Okay, well, then, you just keep us posted on whether he comes home, or not.”

“All right, chief.”

“Take care of yourself, Tammy.”

She promised she would, but Carlson doubted it.

“Y
ou've got to talk to her,” Annabel said, alone at last with Jack in their room. “You've got to tell your grandmother that in asking us to take over the place, she has to give her consent to some modernizations.”

“I'll talk to her, babe,” Jack promised. “Gran's just sentimental. She's run this place a long time. She's attached to the way she and my grandfather used to do things. And then my dad and mom . . .”

Jack's voice trailed off.

“What about your dad and mom?” Annabel asked.

“Well, Dad took over after Granddad died. And I remember he wanted to make some changes to the place, too, but . . .”

Once again his voice trailed off. He walked over to the window and looked out into the tangled arms of trees.

“What is it, Jack?” Annabel asked, her voice becoming compassionate. “Has coming back here made you think of your parents' deaths?”

He nodded, still looking out the window, away from her. “This was the last place I ever saw my mother. She was here one day, absolutely fine. Next thing I knew, she was gone, off to the hospital in Boston. I never even knew she had cancer until she was gone.”

Annabel walked up behind him and placed her hand on his back. Jack so rarely spoke of his parents, especially his mother. She died when he was in his teens of breast cancer. Now that Annabel knew he had lost a little sister as well, she felt tremendously sad for her husband. His childhood had been filled with tragedy.

“I hadn't realized you had been visiting here when your mom was taken away to the hospital,” she said softly.

He turned back around to look at her. “We had come up here to start the process of helping Gran after Granddad died. Mom had been pretty excited about the idea. She had lots of ideas, just like you.” His voice thickened and he couldn't go on for a moment. “But it wasn't meant to be. Within a week of us getting here, she suddenly got sick and Dad took her to Boston. I never even had a chance to say good-bye. I just came downstairs one morning and Mom and Dad were gone. Dad came back late that night and told me Mom was in the hospital. She died a few days after that.”

“I hadn't realized she died so quickly,” Annabel said. “I mean, to seem so completely healthy one day, and then be rushed to the hospital and die a few days later . . . breast cancer is usually a far more lingering illness.”

Jack's face darkened. “Well, that's what Dad told me she died from.”

“You think it might have been something else?”

“I don't know. But it always did seem so fast and strange. The last time I saw Mom, she was happy and singing and down there in the parlor supervising some workers who'd come to do renovations. She was excited to have a project. She had so many ideas about fixing the place up. And then she was gone.”

“Obviously, your father didn't want to continue with her renovation plans after she died,” Annabel said.

Jack shook his head. “He was too distraught, I guess. Cindy disappeared not long after that, too. So Dad was never the same.” His face showed the sadness he carried. “That's when I was sent off to boarding school in Connecticut. Dad died a few years later himself.”

Annabel took his hands in hers. “Jack, was coming back here a bad idea?”

His eyes met hers. “No. This is our chance to start over. To finally make something of our lives. To become successful.”

“Well,” Annabel said, “to do that, we'll need to honor your mother's wishes and redo this place like she wanted to do.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “That would be a nice tribute to Mom.” He smiled weakly. “Though, as I recall, Gran wasn't keen on her changing things, either.”

“The only way to turn this old dump into a moneymaker is to renovate it,” Annabel told him. “That's the only way we can become successful here.”

Jack nodded again. “You're right, babe. I'll speak to Gran and tell her she's got to let us do what we need to do.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Annabel said, reaching up and kissing him lightly on the lips.

The little kiss led to another, and then several more. In moments, they were kissing deeply, the first time in a long time. Annabel had feared this moment, had dreaded the idea of being intimate with Jack again, but now that the moment had arrived, she didn't push it away. She wanted things to be right between her and Jack. They'd embarked on this journey together. They needed to be united, committed. They were starting over.

She kissed Jack hard, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

He cupped her breasts with his hands.

In moments, they had tumbled backwards onto the bed. Jack had slipped off his shirt and was now pressing Annabel's over her head. She felt his hot, wet breath on her neck and shoulder. His hands were now pulling down her jeans. She heard the jangle of Jack's belt buckle unfastening. Annabel tensed and waited.

But then . . . nothing.

Jack flopped over onto his back beside her. His eyes were staring straight up at the ceiling.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“It's okay, Jack,” she said.

Annabel didn't know how she felt. Disappointed? Relieved? She reached over and stroked her husband's face, but he gently pulled away from her touch.

“I guess I'm just too . . . I don't know . . . too worked up,” he said, still looking at the ceiling. “It's all I think about. This has got to work, you know, baby cakes?”

“What has got to work?” she asked quietly.

He finally pulled his eyes away from the ceiling tiles and looked at her. “
This
,” he said. “This house. This business idea. This taking over and making it ours.”

“We'll do what we can, Jack. We aren't miracle workers.”

He sat up, his face suddenly tense. “No, it's
got
to work! I won't take any failure! I tried so hard with that goddamn book, Annabel. I thought I had the whole success thing figured out. And I failed, sweetheart. I failed!”

“Jack, publishing is a tough business. You didn't fail. The company just didn't market your book the way they should have.”

His eyes grew dark. “Bullshit. The book was crap. I'm a lousy writer.” He suddenly grabbed Annabel by the shoulders, making her jump. “This is my last chance, angel pie. I've got to make this fucking guesthouse the most successful inn in all of New England! I've got to make us rich! This is my goddamn last fucking chance!”

“Jack, putting that kind of pressure on yourself isn't going to help.”

He let go of her shoulders, his eyes narrowing at her. “What's the matter, sweet cakes? Don't you want to be successful? Seems to me, after all you've been through, you'd want a second chance to prove yourself, too.”

“Prove myself to who?”

“Annabel,” her husband said, “I don't want this house to blow up in our faces, leaving me to rot somewhere in the city and you back on the blow.”

“I'm never going back on the blow, Jack,” she told him. “No matter what happens.”

He stood, shrugging. “You gotta hope not. That's why we need this to work, angel face. For both of us. Get a big glossy profile in
Travel & Leisure
magazine.”

Annabel didn't stand. She just sat there in her panties and her unhooked, crooked bra, looking at him. “I fully intend to do everything I can to make this place successful, Jack. That's why I wanted you to set some ground rules with your grandmother. But it's not life or death, Jack. I refuse to see it that way. If I learned anything in rehab it's that we always have choices. We always have options. If not this, there will be other things—”

“No!” Jack cut her off. “It's this, babe! This!” He suddenly looked defeated. “I don't have the strength to try again if this fails.”

He buttoned up his shirt and buckled his belt and headed for the door.

“I'm going to go talk to Gran. Tell her we're going to start renovating the place.” He smiled at Annabel. “First thing tomorrow morning.”

She gave him a weak smile of consent. He left the room.

Annabel wasn't unhappy. This was what she wanted. She had some great ideas about how she could fix the house up. She'd start with the parlor, then the bedrooms.

But Jack's all-or-nothing attitude troubled her. She guessed that, in her own struggle in overcoming her addictions, she'd failed to see just how profoundly Jack had been affected by his own career troubles. Annabel had known how disappointed he was, but she now understood the disappointment had gone very deep. It had been publicly very humiliating for him to get such universally terrible reviews. It had called into question his whole life's game plan. Suddenly, she felt terribly sorry for Jack.

She fixed her bra, slipped her shirt back on, and pulled up her jeans.

The only thing to do was to get moving.

Annabel pulled out her computer and hit the power button, before suddenly remembering there was no Internet in this godforsaken place. How was she supposed to find the best local contractors to hire to start the work on the house?

The old-fashioned way, she told herself.

She dug out of her pocket the card she had picked up at the market yesterday.
M
ILLIE
W
ESTERBROOK
,
it read.
Proprietor
. And underneath was the phone number.

Annabel whipped out her phone. Not many bars, but enough. She entered the number of the market.

“Woodfield Market,” a woman's voice chirped.

“Hi, this is Annabel Wish. I was in yesterday?”

A moment of silence on the other end.

“I just moved into the Blue Boy Inn.”

“Oh, sure,” Millie said, her voice filling with recognition. “What can I do for you, honey?”

“I'm wondering if you might be able to recommend a good contractor.”

“Well, the best around is Charlie Appleby. He and his sons do good work.”

“Terrific,” Annabel said. “Do you think they'd be able to start work right away?”

Millie laughed. “Had enough of all that dust and gloom already, huh?”

“I figure if we can start now, maybe we'll be up and running by summer.”

“Charlie's pretty busy, but he could probably get one of his boys to start giving you a hand. Hold on. Let me get his number for you.”

“Thanks, Millie.”

Annabel smiled. It felt good to be taking the first step.