The Next Always (6 page)

The minute she’d seen the old town house just off The Square, she’d known it would be her place. She could still remember the excitement and nerves when she’d taken that leap of faith. But somehow, investing so much of the lump sum the army provided to the spouses of the fallen had made Clint part of what she’d done.

What she’d needed to do for herself and her children.

Buying the property, creating the business plan, opening accounts, buying supplies—and books, books, books. Interviewing potential employees, working on the layout. All of the intensity, the stress, the sheer volume of time and effort had helped her cope. Had helped her survive.

She’d thought then, and knew now, the store had saved her. Without it, without the pressure, the work, the focus, she might have shattered and dissolved in those months after Clint’s death and before Murphy’s birth.

She’d needed to be strong for her boys, for herself. To be strong, she had to have a purpose, a goal—and an income.

Now she had this, she thought as she went behind the front counter to prepare the first pot of coffee of the day. The mom, the military wife—and widow—had built herself into a businesswoman, a proprietor, an employer.

Between her sons and the store the hours were long, the work constant. But she loved it, she mused as she made herself a skinny latte. She loved being busy, had the deep personal satisfaction of knowing she could and did support herself and her kids while adding a solid business to her hometown.

Couldn’t have done it without her parents—or without the support and affection of Clint’s. Or without friends like Avery, who’d given her commonsense business advice and a wailing wall.

She carried the coffee upstairs, settled down at her desk. She booted up her computer and, because she’d thought of Clint’s parents, sent them a quick email with new snapshots of the kids attached before she got to work updating the store’s website.

When Laurie came in, Clare called down a good morning. She gave the website a few more minutes before dealing with the rest of the email. After adding a few additional items to a pending order, she headed downstairs where Laurie sat at her computer behind the low wall.

“Got some nice Internet orders overnight. I—” Laurie cocked her brows over chocolate brown eyes. “Hey, you look great today.”

“Well, thanks.” Pleased, Clare did a little turn in the grass green sundress. “But I can’t afford to give you a raise.”

“Seriously. You’re all glowy.”

“Who isn’t in this heat? I’m going out, getting my tour of the inn, but I’ve got my phone if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll probably be back in thirty.”

“Take your time. And I want details. Oh, you didn’t send in that book order to Penguin yet, did you?”

“No, I thought I’d do it when I got back.”

“Perfect. Some of these orders take us down to one copy of a couple titles. I’ll give you the deets before you send it in.”

“Good enough. Need anything while I’m out?”

“Could you box up one of the Montgomery boys?”

Clare smiled as she opened the front door. “No preference?”

“I trust your judgment.”

On a laugh, Clare went out, texting Avery as she strolled up toward Vesta. On my way.

Almost instantly Avery came out the restaurant’s door. “Me, too,” she called out. They stood on opposite corners, waiting for the light—Clare in her breezy sundress, Avery in her black capris and T-shirt.

They met halfway across Main.

“I know damn well you spent half your morning riding herd on three boys, dealing with breakfast, breaking up spats.”

“This is my life,” Clare agreed.

“How come you look like you never sweat?”

“It’s a gift.” They started down the sidewalk, ducking under scaffolding. “I always loved this building. Sometimes I’d just look at it out of my office window and imagine it the way it used to be.”

“I can’t wait to see how it
will
be. If they pull this off, your business and mine, baby, we’re going to see a jump for sure. So are the rest of the businesses in town.”

“Fingers crossed. We’re doing okay, but if we had a nice place for people to stay right in town, boy oh boy. I could lure more authors in, have bigger events. You’d have guests staying here heading over for lunch or dinner.”

They stopped a moment at the back, looked over the uneven ground, the planks and rubble. “I wonder what they plan for back here,” Avery began. “With those porches, you want something fabulous. Rumors are abundant. A bigger parking lot to an elaborate garden.”

“I heard fountain and lap pool.”

“Let’s ask the source.”

When they went inside, into the noise, the clutter of tools, Avery glanced at Clare. “Testosterone level just jumped five hundred points.”

“And counting. They’ve kept the archways.” She stepped closer, studying the wide, curved openings ahead and to the left. “I wondered if they could, or would. They’re about the only thing I remember from when there was an antiques shop in here. My mother used to come in sometimes.”

She moved through the center arch, noted the rough, temporary stairs leading up. “I’ve never been upstairs. Have you?”

“Snuck in once when we were in high school.” Avery studied the steps. “With Travis McDonald, a blanket, and a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple. We made out up there.”

“Wild child.”

“My dad would’ve killed me, still would, so no telling. Anyway, it didn’t last long. He never made it to second before he got spooked. Doors and floorboards creaking. I wanted to check it out, but he was such a wimp about it. He never did make it to second.” She laughed as she started up. “He didn’t smell the honeysuckle, either—or never admitted it.”

“Honeysuckle?”

“Strong—heady, really—like I had my nose buried in a vine. I guess with all that’s going on here now, whoever—you know—walked the night’s moved on.”

“You believe that? In ghosts?”

“Sure. My great-times-three-grandmother is supposedly still haunting her manor house near Edinburg.” Stopping, Avery set her hands on her hips. “Wow. It sure didn’t look like this when I kissed Travis McDonald.”

Rough-framed doorways led off a hallway on the second level where the smell was dust from wood and drywall. They heard workers above on the third floor, below on the main. Clare stepped into the room on her left. The light, dim and faintly blue from the tarp blocking the front windows, washed over the unfinished floor.

“I wonder which room this is. We should probably find one of the Montgomerys. Oh, look, there’ll be a door leading out to the porch. I’d love that.”

“Talk about love.” Avery gestured. “Look at the size of this bathroom. From the looks of the pipes,” she said when Clare joined her, “you’ve got a tub here, shower over there, double sinks there.”

“It’s bigger than my bathroom and the boys’ combined.” Pure and undiluted bathroom envy washed through her. “I could live in here. Could they all be this big? I’ve got to know which room this is.”

She hurried across the bedroom space, and turned through the doorway. And ran straight into Beckett.

His hands came up to steady her. She wondered if she looked as surprised and flustered as he did. Probably more, she imagined, as the hammer slotted in his tool belt probably wasn’t jamming into his hip.

“Sorry,” they said in unison, and she laughed.

“Me, first. I wasn’t looking where I was going. The size of the bathroom in there put stars in my eyes. I was coming to find you.”

“Find me?”

“We probably should have before we came up, but everyone seemed so busy. I need to know which room this is before I move in.”

“Before you . . . Ha.” Jesus, his brain staggered under the scent of her, the feel of her under his hands, the misty lake color of her eyes. “You’d probably like it better when it’s finished.”

“Paint me a picture.”

For a half second he took her literally, and wondered if Owen had picked up the paint yet. Deliberately, he made himself step back. Obviously, his IQ dropped fifty points if he touched her. “Well . . .”

“It’s your design.”

“Mostly. Oh, hi, Avery.”

A laugh danced in her eyes. “I thought I’d swallowed an invisibility pill. I can’t believe the transformation here, Beck. The last time I was in here, it had broken windows, broken bricks, pigeons, and ghosts.”

“The windows and brick weren’t as big a chore as the pigeons, believe me. We’ve still got the ghost.”

“Seriously?”

He winced, adjusted his dusty ball cap. “Don’t spread that around, okay? Not until we figure out if she’ll be a liability or an asset.”

“She. Honeysuckle.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Yeah. How do you know?”

“Years ago, brief encounter. It gets cooler and cooler.” At his expression, Avery zipped a finger across her lips, then her heart.

“Appreciate it. Anyway, this one’s Titania and Oberon.”

“The copper tub.” With a swish of skirt, Clare beelined for the bathroom space.

“The big-ass copper tub,” Beckett confirmed, following her. “Along the wall there. The tiles will accent it, play off it, with coppery and earthy tones. Heated floors. All the baths will have heated tile floors.”

“I’m going to cry in a minute.”

More at ease, he smiled at Clare. “Shower there. Unframed glass doors, oil-rubbed bronze fixtures. Heated towel rack there, another feature in all the baths. Two copper-vessel sinks, each on this kind of foresty-looking stand, copper drum table between. The lighting picks up the organic feel with a vine pattern. John over there.”

“The famed magic toilet,” Avery commented. “Word’s out on those. It’s like a bidet and toilet all in one,” she told Clare, “with automatic flush—
and
the lid lifts when you walk up to it.”

“Get out.”

“At your service.” Grinning, Beckett stepped back into the bedroom. “Bed there, facing out into the room. Iron, open-canopy four-poster, in copper and bronze tones with a vine and leaf pattern. She’s a beauty.”

“Like a bower,” Clare murmured.

“That’s the plan. We’re going to drape it some, or our fabric people are. Dresser there, flatscreen above. Whitewashed nightstands, and these woodsy lamps. We need a bench under the windows, I think. Soft green on the walls, something flowy on the windows—we’re doing dark wood blinds throughout for privacy, and we’ll work on window treatments. Toss in a few accessories, and that’s a wrap.”

Clare sighed. “A romantic bower for two, midsummer or midwinter.”

“You want to write our brochure copy? I wasn’t actually kidding,” he said when she laughed.

“Oh.” Obviously taken aback, Clare looked around the bare room. “I could help if you—”

“You’re hired.”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Then you’d better give us a very thorough tour. In stages,” she said with a glance at her watch. “I’ve only got a few more minutes right now.”

“I’d really like to see the kitchen space. I can’t help it,” Avery said. “It’s a sickness.”

“I’ll take you down. We’ll work our way up when you’ve got time,” he told Clare.

“Perfect. What’s this one?”

He glanced over as they stepped out. “Elizabeth and Darcy.”

“Oh, I love
Pride and Prejudice
. What are you—No, no, don’t tell me. I’ll never get to work.”

“Highlights,” he said as they started down. “Upholstered head- and footboard, lavender and ivory, white slipper tub, tiles in cream and pale gold.”

“Hmm” was Clare’s opinion. “Elegant and charming. Miss Bennett and Mr. Darcy would approve.”

“You’re definitely writing the copy.” He turned left at the base of the steps, came up short when he heard Ryder curse from the laundry room.

“Goddamn it.”

“It’s a problem,” Owen responded. “I’ll work the problem.”

“What problem?” Beckett demanded.

Owen shoved his hands in the pockets of his carpenter jeans. “Karen Abbott’s pregnant.”

“Didn’t your mom ever talk to you about safe sex?” Avery asked, ducking around Beckett’s arm.

Owen sent her a bland stare. “Funny. It’s Jeff Corver’s. They’ve been seeing each other since Chad started college last year.”

“Doing more than seeing,” Ryder muttered. “Jesus, she’s got to be forty-couple, right? What’s she doing getting knocked up at that age?”

“I note you don’t question how Jeff Corver could knock her up at his age,” Avery added.

“She’s forty-three.” Owen shrugged. “I know because we’ve been talking to her about the innkeeper position. We were pretty well set. Now she and Jeff are getting married and picking out baby names.”

“Damn it. Well, from our perspective,” Beckett said when Clare sent him a disapproving look. “We know Karen, and she and Mom and Owen were working out all the details. Hell, she’d picked out the paint colors for the innkeeper’s apartment on the third floor.”

“And she had hotel experience,” Owen put in. “Working at the Clarion. I’ll put some feelers out,” he began.

“I know somebody.” Avery held up a finger. “I know the perfect somebody. Hope,” she said, turning to Clare.

“Yes! She
is
the perfect somebody.”

“Hope who?” Owen demanded. “I know everybody, and I don’t know the perfect Hope.”

“Beaumont, and you met her once, I think, when she was up visiting, but you don’t know her. We went to college together, and we stayed pretty tight. She’s in D.C., and she’s thinking of relocating.”

“What makes her perfect?” Ryder asked.

“A degree in hotel management to start, and about seven years’ experience at the Wickham—ritzy boutique hotel in Georgetown. The last three as its manager.”

“That’s too perfect.” Ryder shook his head. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch with Hope. It’s the jerk she was involved with, whose parents own the Wickham. He dumped her for some bimbo with a pedigree and man-made tits.”