The Next Always (14 page)

AS ARRANGED, OWEN ARRIVED AT VESTA AT NINE THIRTY
sharp to meet and interview Hope. Since she’d promised to stay out of the way, Avery busied herself with the morning prep—firing up the pizza ovens, making the sauces in anticipation of Saturday business when they opened at eleven.

When Owen walked in, Hope sat at the counter drinking coffee as she looked over her notes.

Owen shifted his briefcase to his left hand, held out his right. “Hope.”

“Owen.”

“It’s nice to see you again. Appreciate this, Avery.”

“All for the common good,” she said from the stove. “Coffee?”

“That’d be great. I’ll get it.” At home, he walked around to the pot she had on one of the twin burners, poured, then added a dose of sugar. “Why don’t we take a table?” he suggested. “So, how was your trip up?”

“Not bad.” She took her seat, gauging him as she knew he gauged her. His eyes, a clear, quiet blue, stayed direct on hers. “I left early enough to miss the traffic.”

“I don’t get down to D.C. often. Traffic’s one of the reasons.” A smile shifted, softened the angles of his face. “Things move a lot slower up here.”

“Yes, they do. It’s a pretty town.” She kept her tone carefully noncommittal. “I’ve enjoyed the area when I’ve come up to see Avery and Clare.”

“It’s a big change from Georgetown.”

Circling each other, she decided. Well, she knew how to dance. “I’m looking for change. Rehabbing and reimagining a building like the inn, with its long history, must be a big change from the kind of work Montgomery Family Contractors has done in the past. You and your family have rehabbed old buildings before, including the one we’re sitting in, but nothing on this scale. It must be a challenge.”

“It is.”

“And owning an inn, with all its demands, issues—quirks—that’s a big change from a more traditional landlord role.”

Who was interviewing whom? he wondered, and decided he liked her.

“We thought about it for a long time, blended viewpoints, and came up with a specific vision. We’re going to make that vision a reality.”

“Why an inn?”

“I’m betting you researched the history.”

“That doesn’t tell me why you and your family conceived this particular vision.”

He considered her while she questioned him. He gave her points—for appearance, to start. Killer looks, and she knew how to play them. The sharp style of her hair set off her eyes. The cut and rusty red color of her suit set off her body, and telegraphed control and authority.

Big, sultry eyes, he noted, offset by an air of coolness.

It was a nice combo.

“It was originally a tavern stand,” he told her, “a place for travelers to rest, rest their horses, get a meal. Over time, various owners added on. The name changed, but for more than a century it served as an inn. We’ll make it an inn again, respecting that history. While bringing it into the twenty-first century.”

“I’ve been getting the rundown on some of the features.” She smiled then, warming up the cool.

He gave her more points.

“We’re having some fun there. This area has a lot to offer visitors. Antietam, Crystal Grottoes, Harpers Ferry, and plenty more. Right now, there’s no place for those visitors to stay in Boonsboro. Once there is, we’ll draw people in, people who’ll want to eat, to shop, to sightsee. We want to give them a unique experience in a beautiful place with exceptional service.”

“Exclusive, individual, historic. It’s an interesting concept, naming the rooms after literary couples.”

“Romantic couples. Each room has its own flavor, its own feel. Couples are a major clientele of B&Bs. We’d like to draw honeymooners, couples celebrating an anniversary or special occasion. Give them a memorable stay, so they’ll come back, and tell their friends.”

And enough about us, he thought, sipped some coffee.

“Your resume certainly qualifies you for the innkeeper position.”

“I have a hard copy of the file I emailed you if you want it.”

“Sure.”

“You’d need the innkeeper to live on-site.”

“Can’t keep the inn by remote. We’d provide the apartment. It’s a two-bedroom on the third floor. Living room, bath, smallish kitchen, but the innkeeper would have access to the main kitchen, and the laundry facilities.”

“She—or he—would have to cook.”

“Just breakfast.”

“I’d think you’d want more than that. If you’re providing B&B service, you’d want homemade cookies, muffins, or some other type of thing to offer during the day. Wine and cheese in the evening.”

“That’d be a nice touch.”

“Avery had an idea about offering guests delivery, if they didn’t want to go out.”

Owen glanced back toward the open kitchen. “Smart. We could put her menu in the room packs. Smart,” he said again, and made a note.

“There are a lot of practicalities, Owen. A list of duties, salary, days off. Housekeeping, laundry, budget, maintenance. Anyone taking this on would need an assistant. Nobody can work twenty-four-seven, fifty-two weeks a year.”

“Then let’s talk about that.”

While they discussed nuts and bolts, Justine came in. Mint green sunglasses today, to match her high-tops. She sent Avery a wave and walked straight to the table.

“And you’re Hope. I’m Justine Montgomery.” She shook hands before running one over Owen’s shoulder. “How’s it going here?”

“A lot of questions,” Owen told her. “And a lot of fresh ideas.”

Hope shifted in her chair to meet Justine’s eyes. “You already have a lot of great ones. I’m impressed with how many of the nitty details you’ve already nailed down. You’ve got a very comprehensive plan for someone who hasn’t worked in the trade.”

“We took polls, friends and family, people we know who travel a lot. What their dream list would be in a hotel. I expect there’ll be a learning curve once we open, but we’d like to hit most of the notes right off the bat.”

“Can I get you coffee, Justine?” Avery called out.

“I’m going to grab a soda out of the cooler. I’ve been up since six,” she said as she did so. “My brain won’t turn off. I was thinking, Owen’s going over all the details, the job description, and so on. I thought I’d come by for a minute before we went over, and tell you what it is I’m looking for.”

“Of course.”

“No question we need somebody presentable, who knows how to deal with the public, roll with the punches. But you wouldn’t have lasted at the Wickham if you couldn’t do all that. I want more.”

Watching Hope, Justine twisted off the top on a bottle of Diet Coke. “I want somebody who can put down roots, who’ll look at the inn, and this town, as home. Somebody who does that’ll be happier in the job, and do a better job because of it. The day-to-day, the this-and-that, we’ll work that out. But you’ve either got the heart for it, or you don’t. You’re going to have to fall in love, or it won’t work for you, or for us.”

She smiled. “Now, Owen’s thinking it’s more important that you can handle the reservation software, keep good records, keep a database on guests, know how to turn a room if there’s a rush. I imagine you can do all that and more, or Avery wouldn’t have suggested you in the first place. But this isn’t just a business, not to us. That place needs love. We’re giving it plenty. I want to put it into hands that can do the same. And whip up some nice waffles.”

“I don’t know if I’m the right person,” Hope said carefully. “I don’t know if this is the right place or situation for me. My life’s . . . in flux at the moment. But I do know I’m interested. And I have fallen in love with your concept, and your purpose.”

“That’s a start. Why don’t we walk over, take a look? You and Owen can talk more about details later.”

“I’d really like to see it.”

“I’ll be over in a couple minutes,” Avery told them. “As soon as Franny gets in.”

“Back door’s open.” Owen picked up his briefcase as he rose. “Ry and Beck are putting in a couple hours this morning.”

“You’ll need your imagination,” Justine began as they stepped out. “We’ve come a long way, but there’s a lot left to do before she shines.”

“It’s a big project. Beautiful stonework.” Hope studied the lines as they walked down the side.

Justine talked about a courtyard where Hope saw rubble and hard-packed mud. But the porches looked promising with their charming banjo pickets.

They went into The Lobby, and Hope listened as Justine talked of tile and tables, art and flowers, then moved through a wide arch into what would be the dining room. Coffered ceiling—white trim over deep brown, Justine explained. Tables of glossy wood, left unclothed, each with a little vase of flowers. A small arch of the original stone left exposed in the back wall, with a big, carved buffet in front of it. Chandeliers of iron with oak leaf motif and big globes of stained glass shaped like acorns.

Hope nearly saw it in the unpainted walls, the rough floor, the jumble of material. She saw enough to be sure they’d need a couple of server tables, maybe under the wonderful side windows.

They moved down, more exposed stone, exposed brick, passed what would be the laundry room, the office and into the kitchen space.

She listened again, tried to see the cabinets, many with glass fronts to break up the solidity of dark wood. The granite countertops and stainless steel appliances—wall oven, the range in the island done in cream wood to contrast with the dark.

“There’s no door on the kitchen?”

“We’re leaving it open.” Justine, her sunglasses perched on her head, her thumbs in the front pockets of her pants, scanned the space. “We want guests to be at home, the minute they walk in the door. We’ll keep the fridge stocked with cold drinks—soda, juice, bottled water.”

“Like a big minibar?”

“In a way. Guests should feel free to help themselves. We’re not going to nickel-and-dime people. Once they’re here, the room charge covers the lot. They want a cup of coffee before breakfast—or anytime—and the innkeeper isn’t right on the spot, they can make a cup here, or on the little machine we’re getting for The Library on the second floor. We should have a bowl of seasonal fruit maybe. Or cookies.”

“She already thought of cookies,” Owen pointed out.

“See, same page. That’s the idea. Relax, enjoy, be at home.”

Something in Hope warmed, and that warmth spread as they moved into Reception. She could barely see over boxes and tools, but she began to visualize. A pair of big barrel chairs in soft green in front of the brick fireplace. No desk, no counter, but a long, custom-made table for the innkeeper. Tile floors, tying in with the kitchen and lobby, and all the windows bringing in the light.

She knew she asked practical questions about check-in, computers, storage, security, but by the time they’d finished the main and started up, she understood why the Montgomerys had fallen in love.

“Sounds like my other boys are up on the third floor.” Justine glanced back. “Why don’t we start up there, and the innkeeper’s apartment? You can meet the rest of the family.”

“Perfect.”

She felt a little tug from the left as they started the turn toward the third floor.

“Elizabeth and Darcy,” Justine told her when she hesitated. “Both these front rooms have access to the porch over Main Street.”

For a moment she thought she smelled honeysuckle, turned back to look inside. And jumped when Avery shouted from below. “Are you up there?”

“Heading to three,” Owen called back.

“Took longer than I thought.” Avery jogged up. “What do you think?”

“It’s big, and wonderfully thought-out. I’ve only seen the ADA room on the main level as far as guest rooms. We’re going up to three, working down.”

“You can check out your apartment.”

With an indulgent shake of her head, Hope continued up, gripping the temporary rail. Imagination, she thought as she pulled her hand away again. She could have sworn she’d touched smooth metal.

“The innkeeper’s apartment.” Justine gestured. “And The Penthouse, where somebody’s busy.”

Hope stepped in behind her. She heard the whoosh, thud of a nail gun before she saw him. Sunlight flashed through the window where he worked. For a second, she couldn’t see his face, only had the impression of strength and competence as the nail gun thudded again.

He ran his hand down the wood—the same type of panel she’d seen framing the windows downstairs. Then he lowered the tool, shifted.

He stared at her out of cool, assessing eyes. From somewhere nearby another nail gun thudded. Justine spoke, introducing them, but Hope’s ears buzzed. She barely heard his name, felt a quick and foolish relief that it wasn’t Beckett.

Ryder.

She shook his hand—one with a healing scrape on the back, felt the hard, calloused palm briefly before he dropped it again.

“How ya doing?”

“Fine, thanks.” But she wasn’t entirely sure. The heat rose, seemed to concentrate right on that spot. Her brain throbbed from an excess of details, images.

She wanted suddenly, desperately, to sit down and drink something—anything—very cold.

“Are you okay, honey?”

She looked at Justine, whose voice came down a long tunnel. “Ah . . . too much coffee this morning,” she managed. “I’m a little dehydrated.”

Ryder flipped open the lid of a cooler for a bottle of water. When she just stared at it, he twisted off the top. “So hydrate.”

“Thanks.” For the first time she noticed the dog—the wonderfully homely mud brown dog—who sat with his head cocked, studying her. “That’s a lovely detail,” she said to keep herself from gulping half the contents in one go. “The side panels.”

“Yeah, they turned out.”

“Shit, out of ammo. You got any—” Beckett sauntered in. “Oh, hey.”

“And here’s Beckett,” Justine announced. “We’re showing Hope around.”

“Yeah, hi. I think we met for about five seconds a couple years ago. Welcome to The Penthouse. I was just across the hall in what may be your apartment. So . . . Clare’s not with you?”