“We’ll find another way to get the money,” Nate finished for her, but she didn’t look convinced.
“Something like that.” She took another gulp of her drink. “If the wedding goes ahead, Uncle Patrick will consider investing in the Avalon long term. If it doesn’t… I have to pay back the deposit.”
There was a pause around the table, as everyone considered the stakes. Even though Nate knew they’d all fight to keep the Avalon open and theirs, if they couldn’t do enough to fix it Carrie would have to sell it to pay her uncle back. And selling it would break not just her heart, but everyone else’s, too.
“Well, I suppose we’ve got a lot more work to do, then,” Cyb said, finally.
Carrie looked up and smiled at her. “Yes,” she said, her voice warm. “We have. And I’d really appreciate all your help.”
She looked at Nate as she finished speaking, and he caught the pleading in her eyes, if not her voice. She hated asking for this, he knew. But she really did need it.
“Then you’ll have it,” he promised, placing his hand over hers. “And anything else you need.”
Stan cleared his throat. “As long as we get to keep our dance nights and bridge games, that is.”
“Of course,” Carrie said, and she even managed a convincing smile.
* * * *
It was surreal, seeing Ruth curled up in one of the bar’s tatty leather wingback chairs, sipping on Nancy’s best whisky and laughing at something Nate had said. Like two worlds colliding. Carrie supposed she’d better get used to it.
Selena and Patrick had departed late that afternoon taking Anna with them, and leaving the whole inn sighing in relief in the wake of their exhausts.
“You promised me wine,” Ruth had said, and Carrie had led her through to the bar, where Nate had furnished them with drinks, then disappeared to let them catch up. Jacob had shown up an hour or so later, first with nibbles, then with the full three-course romantic dinner planned for Ruth and Graeme, which Ruth had been in raptures over.
“I may never leave,” she’d said around a mouthful of garlic potatoes.
Certainly, Carrie thought, watching her cousin, she seemed at home. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that the Avalon had been as much Ruth’s as her own, once. She’d wondered if Ruth resented Nancy leaving it to her, but when she’d plucked up the courage to ask, Ruth had just tutted and said, “Silly. What would I do with an inn?”
Carrie glanced down at her watch. Gone midnight. Izzie and Jacob, both done for the day but showing no signs of leaving, flirted at the bar over some very unappealing-looking shots. Carrie vaguely remembered Jacob mentioning his ex was having Georgia for a sleepover, so he was obviously making the most of his night off. Nate, on the other hand, had merely stopped by to let them know he was turning in, and had been promptly collared by Ruth and forced to stay and drink whisky with them.
“So,” Ruth said, raising her glass. “I think the occasion deserves a toast.”
“To what?” Carrie asked, but raised her glass anyway.
“To you rescuing the Avalon, and to me getting my Cool Water Roses.”
Carrie rolled her eyes, but Nate said, “To the Avalon,” and Izzie and Jacob echoed it from the bar, so she joined in.
“It’s a shame Graeme couldn’t be here tonight,” Carrie said as Ruth poured them all more whisky. “I’m sure he wanted to be.”
Ruth snorted, and Nate looked at her in surprise. Carrie knew the feeling. Ruth was so blonde and petite and delicate that it was hard to imagine her being anything other than perfectly elegant. “He just wants this thing to happen, with minimal inconvenience to himself and his job.”
Carrie blinked. “Well, a wedding is only one day in a marriage, I suppose.” She took a large gulp of her whisky and didn’t look at Nate. They really needed Graeme to want to get married at the Avalon.
“Exactly,” Ruth said, and topped up her glass. “Which is what I kept telling my mother all the way up here.”
“Fun journey,” Nate said, his voice tense. “Did she agree with you?”
Ruth put on her best Selena voice. “‘If a man can’t show interest in his own wedding day, what’s to say he’ll show any interest in his wife, once it’s over?’” She sighed. “He’s a very busy man, is all. I know he wants to marry me.” Ruth looked between them, then glanced over at the bar. “I think your staff just found the tequila,” she said, getting to her feet. “And you know how I love tequila.”
Carrie did know. And she was afraid the next day was going to be a complete write-off.
“Come on,” Ruth added, holding a hand out to Carrie.
“I’ll be there in a second,” Carrie promised, and watched Ruth weave her way to the bar.
“What do you think?” Nate asked, snagging Ruth’s half-full whisky glass. “Will he go through with it?”
“I’ve never met the man,” Carrie said, looking up at him. “She’s only been with him a few months.”
“What happens if he gets cold feet?” Nate’s voice was soft but serious.
Carrie didn’t answer. Instead, she got to her feet, smoothed down her skirt and said, “I’d better go protect the rest of the spirits from Ruth and her new friends,” and headed over to the bar.
Glancing back, Carrie could see Nate staring after her, his grey eyes contemplative. But she refused to think the worst just yet. For now she was going to believe in Graeme the devoted fiancé, who would love the Avalon. If he ever got there.
She chose to believe in herself, too. She could do this, even if no one else believed it. Yes, she had help now, but the responsibility was all hers. Heavy on her shoulders, but uplifting in her heart.
She was going to make this work.
Then Ruth handed her a shot glass, and the night became a little fuzzy around the edges.
* * * *
Wednesday night meant bridge night at the Avalon Inn. Carrie had managed to avoid them since she’d arrived but, in the spirit of their new collaborative effort to save the inn, she figured she should at least show her face. Especially since it seemed they’d be going on for some time to come. So, the following Wednesday, Carrie shut down her laptop early and headed downstairs to find the action.
The Seniors had set up camp in the bar, shifting tables into position and moving chairs at will. Carrie, perched on a barstool with a well-earned glass of wine, watched in amazement. Bridge didn’t appear to need all the props and decorations dance night required, but the bar still looked utterly different.
Under the window, three rectangular tables were laid out in a line, covered in dark red cloths Carrie hadn’t realised they owned. As each player entered the room they put a plate of some sort of eatables on the table. By the time they were all in, there was a pretty impressive banquet of quiche, sandwiches and salads lined up.
Jacob had set up huge urns of tea and coffee at one end, along with cups and saucers, but most of the players were ordering from the bar. Nate, apparently, had been shanghaied into being barman for the night, and was mixing pink gins and Campari and sodas with the sort of ease that suggested this was a regular occurrence.
“Do we actually have bar staff?” Carrie asked during a lull in the ordering.
“Not exactly.” Nate wiped off a glass with a bar towel and replaced it on its shelf. “There’s not usually a lot of demand on the bar. The Seniors help themselves and keep a tally by the till. And on Sundays we have Henry the part-time barman, who