When Grace Sings (4 page)

A soft squeak caught his attention, and he turned to see the front door open. Briley removed his sunglasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. A girl with her dark hair pulled back in a simple tail, wearing a straight denim skirt and a pumpkin-colored long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, stood framed behind the old-fashioned screen door. Despite her humble wrappings, he recognized beauty when he saw it. Mennonite or not, the girl was a knockout.

He mounted the four steps in two bounds. Two long-legged strides brought him to the opposite side of the door. He settled his weight on one hip, slipped his fingertips into the slanted pockets of his jeans, and grinned at the girl. “Hi, darlin’. I’m Briley Forrester, and I have a reservation for a long-term stay.” Three months would probably seem like forever, but at least the scenery was nice. He peeked beyond her shoulder. The screen distorted his view, but he didn’t think anyone else was inside. “Is the owner here so I can check in?” He half hoped she’d say no so he’d have a little more time to flirt. He liked flirting almost as much as he liked writing exposés.

She pushed the screen door open, forcing him to take a sideways step, and moved onto the porch although she remained just over the doorjamb with the screen door braced against her shoulder. Her chin tipped back when she looked
into his face, giving him a glimpse of a few light-colored freckles strategically placed on her forehead and cheeks. One larger one—more prominent—decorated the left side of her upper lip. What a perfect location to land a kiss. Maybe he’d find a little nightlife here in Arborville after all.

“I’m Alexa Zimmerman. I manage Grace Notes B and B.”

“Really?” He gave her a bold up-and-down look. “You’re too young and pretty to be running a hotel.”

“It’s a bed-and-breakfast inn, Mr. Forrester, and—”

“Call me Briley.”

“—my age and appearance have nothing to do with my ability to run it well.” Looking across the yard, she pointed. “Is that your vehicle?”

He nodded, anticipating a complimentary comment.

“Since you’re long-term, feel free to pull it into the barn at night. It will need to stay on the side yard there during the day, though, so my uncle can access his equipment. Do you have luggage?”

He automatically formed a smart-alecky reply. “Well, I’m here for a long-term stay, so …”

“If you’d like to get it, I’ll show you to the cottage.”

He placed his hand on his chest, feigning surprise. “What? No bellhop to assist me?”

She let the screen door flop into place. Without a word, she stepped past him and trotted down the steps.

He followed her. “Where are you going?”

She moved along the steppingstones, her gleaming ponytail swaying between her shoulder blades. “You asked for a bellhop. That would be me.”

He might be a flirt, even a rogue by some people’s definition, but he wouldn’t let this slip of a girl carry his luggage. He bounded past her and stopped in her pathway. She came to a halt and looked upward. She didn’t even crack a smile. She sure was a serious thing. Too bad. He’d like to have a little fun with her. What would it take to strip away her cloak of indifference?

He quirked his lips into a grin that usually raised a self-conscious giggle from members of the female population. “Where’s your sense of humor? I was only teasing, Alexa.”

“You may call me Miss Zimmerman.”

Wasn’t she something else? Maybe living among people who avoided modern technology made her a throwback to an earlier century. He swallowed a chortle and bowed, affecting a highbrow look. “I beg your humble pardon. Miss Zimmerman, it is.” The hours spent watching black-and-white classic movies with Aunt Myrt weren’t for naught. He could be throwback, too.

Her brows pinched together, reminding him of his third-grade teacher. She’d never appreciated his shenanigans, either. The same deviltry that had led him to torment Mrs. Burton reared its head and aimed its attack at Miss Alexa Zimmerman.

“I shall retrieve my luggage forthwith and carry it with all due haste to your establishment. Furthermore, I—”

“Furthermore”—she folded her arms over her chest in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Burton—“you’ll behave yourself. I reserve the right to refuse service to anyone. I might only be a young woman, but I am the manager of Grace Notes B and B, and I would appreciate being treated with respect.”

His amusement fled. Irritation replaced it. She didn’t need to be so high-and-mighty. Didn’t she know how to have fun? But what did he care? Would he let some unsmiling Mennonite girl make him feel small and insignificant? Absolutely not. He shrugged in well-practiced nonchalance. “Whatever you want, Miss Zimmerman. I’ve had a long drive and I’m tired, so if you’d point me to my room and tell me where I can grab some supper, I’d appreciate it.”

She finally smiled. Not a flirtatious smile. Not even a friendly smile. More a smile of success that brought a greater stab of aggravation. “Of course, Mr. Forrester. The cottage is ready for you, and as your boss requested, I stocked the minifridge with sodas, sandwich fixings, and fruit so you can prepare your own simple supper. Please grab your luggage and follow me.”

With a little snort he slung his laptop case over his shoulder and then
retrieved his leather rolling suitcase. The case’s wheels bumped across the steppingstones, hindering his progress, but he followed her past the house and then along a narrow gravel path to a small, square building painted in colors similar to the Victorian farmhouse.

She opened the door and held her hand out in invitation. “Here you are. Your own little home-away-from-home.”

He crossed the cracked square of concrete serving as a stoop and entered what Alexa—oops, Miss Zimmerman—had called the cottage. The space reminded him of a project from one of the do-it-yourself home improvement magazines Aunt Myrt liked to read. Quite a change from his masculine, streamlined, glass-and-black decor at home. A designer would probably define the cottage as “charmingly eclectic,” and no doubt some would rave about the scattered throw rugs, mismatched furnishings, and high tin ceiling. He felt as though he’d stepped into a time machine and landed somewhere near the turn of the twentieth century. His sense of zipping backward in time increased when his gaze fell on the massive wood-burning stove lurking in the far corner.

He pointed at the big black hunk of iron. “I’m not expected to cook on that thing, am I?”

She laughed lightly. If he hadn’t been annoyed with her, he might have enjoyed the trickling sound. “There’s a microwave behind the roll-up door in that green-painted cupboard.”

He crossed to the cupboard and slid the door upward. A shiny, stainless-steel microwave greeted his eyes. He blew out a relieved breath.

“You should find everything you need, but if you discover you’re lacking something, please just knock on the back door. I’ll do what I can to make your stay comfortable.”

He considered voicing a suggestive request but decided against it. Aunt Myrt wouldn’t approve, and Len had warned him about trying to fit in with these people. He made a mental note
—no flirting
. Besides, she was being pleasant so he’d respond in kind. “Okay, thanks.” He placed his laptop case on
the scarred table that held a square red-and-white-checked scarf and a chunky crock overflowing with artificial daisies. How sweet … “Any other regulations besides leaving my car outside the barn during daytime hours?”

“Grace Notes B and B is a no-smoking, alcohol-free inn. Even though you’re in the cottage rather than in the house, we’d appreciate you honoring our preference.”

Our?
Maybe she was married and that’s why she resisted his flirtations. Then he’d definitely curb it. He might be a lot of things, but a wife-stealer wasn’t one of them. “No problem. Anything else?”

“On Sunday we attend worship service, so I only serve breakfast at eight o’clock. Every other day, you’re free to choose an earlier or later time that suits your schedule.”

“Eight is fine every day for me.”

“All right. Since you’ll be staying for a while, you’re welcome to attend service with us on Sundays.”

Eventually he’d want to sit in on their worship—Len said he ought to. But tomorrow he intended to kick back and relax, work out the stiffness in his muscles from his long drive from Illinois. “Thanks. I might do that.”

“All right then.” She’d remained on the stoop. She withdrew a silver-plated keychain shaped like a music note from her pocket and held it across the threshold as if her arm was a bridge. “Here’s the key for the cottage. I unlock the back door of the house by seven if you’d like a cup of coffee before breakfast.” She backed up slowly, her hands clasped loosely against her skirt front.

He glanced down, but the way she cupped her right hand over her left, he couldn’t tell if she wore a ring or not. Not that it would matter. If he remembered his research correctly, the Old Order groups didn’t wear wedding rings.

A smile, this one more genuine and definitely more appealing, curved her lips. “Welcome to Grace Notes B and B, Mr. Forrester. I hope you enjoy your stay.” She turned and scurried off before he could say anything else.

Alexa Zimmerman

Alexa slammed the back porch door closed behind her. The solid
crack!
failed to chase the image of Briley Forrester from her mind. She pulled in a long, slow breath, willing her clamoring pulse to calm. Gracious, it should be illegal for a man to be that handsome. And doubly illegal—if there was such a thing—for him to be so aware of his own virility.

“Alexa? Are you all right?” Grandmother’s worried voice carried from the dining room.

Alexa pressed her palms to her chest and blew out air in a whoosh before rejoining her grandmother at the table, where they had been wrapping silverware in cloth napkins before the sound of the car drew Alexa to the front door. She plopped into her chair, feeling as winded as if she’d run a marathon. “Yes. Sorry about that bang. The door got away from me.”

Grandmother raised one eyebrow in silent query. She placed the last bundle of silverware with the others on the table and leaned back in her wheelchair. “That should be enough to carry you through the next two weeks. Unless you get more calls. I presume, since you didn’t bring anyone inside, your long-term guest just arrived?”

Funny how Grandmother always used
your
rather than
our
when referring to guests or anything else related to operating the inn. Even though the house belonged to her, she saw the business as Alexa’s. Grandmother placing the
responsibility firmly on Alexa’s shoulders made her all the more determined to make this business work. Thank goodness Mr. Forrester—Briley—had stopped acting like a wolf on the prowl so she didn’t have to send him elsewhere. She needed the money from his stay.

“Yes. I hope he’s comfortable in the cottage.” She’d hated to give up what she’d intended to claim as her own little house, but when the newspaper man in Chicago had indicated he’d be sending a male reporter for an up to three-month stay in Arborville, it had made sense to put him out there rather than have a single man staying in the house with Grandmother. As Uncle Clete said, the people in town might raise their eyebrows. And she wouldn’t do anything to cause a stir. Well, at least not more than her arrival in town already had.

“What’s he like?” Grandmother asked.

Alexa busied herself stacking the rolls of silverware in a little wicker basket. “Nice, I guess. Definitely big city.” She pictured his black-with-white-pinstripes button-up shirt, open at the collar and rolled back at the cuffs yet neatly tucked into what were obviously designer blue jeans. Instead of wearing tennis shoes or boots, like the majority of the men in Arborville, he wore tasseled loafers. With jeans!

She shook her head. “He’ll stick out like a sore thumb around here, and at the same time I imagine he’ll turn a few heads. He’s quite the looker.” She waggled her eyebrows and fanned herself, partly for show, partly because her face was heating. She’d never encountered a man as blatantly sensual as Briley Forrester.

Grandmother frowned. “You be careful, Alexa Joy Zimmerman.”

Alexa drew back. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Sometimes you don’t have to. With some men, just being a female is enough.”

She remembered his flirtatious behavior when she’d opened the door. If Grandmother had been the one to greet him, he probably would have behaved the same way. Flattery rolled too easily from that man’s tongue. “I already set
him straight. He tried coming on to me, but I let him know it wasn’t appropriate.”

“Good for you.” Grandmother gave a firm nod. Then she sighed. “I’m glad there are other guests staying this weekend. I’ll feel a little safer knowing Mr. Brungardt and his son will be here, too, with a stranger from Chicago out in the summer kitchen.”

“The cottage,” Alexa corrected with a smile.

Grandmother rolled her eyes but she grinned. “I suppose considering all the work you and Paul did out there to turn that sorry little building into a pleasant getaway, I should stop referring to it as ‘the summer kitchen.’ You really did a wonderful job with it.”