Mr. North, one of the Paddlewheel Casino’s onsite bodyguards, was tired of making the hour-and-a-half commute to work from Jackson, and he was more than willing to live here until he could find a more permanent residence. She hadn’t met him yet. He’d done everything through e-mail, but she hoped he was pleasant. Even if he wasn’t, the money was too good to turn down.
She and Bay, the groundskeeper, had just finished his room today. They’d gradually been converting all the bedrooms in River Trace to guestrooms as the business increased. Moving that antique armoire up to the attic room had about killed them both. But they’d done it, all while Harris napped down here—compliments of her new high-tech baby monitor.
Cally still couldn’t believe she was living her dream of running a bed-and-breakfast in Murphy’s Point. Of course that dream had come at a crushing price. At twenty-eight years old, she was a widow with a three-year-old son.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes. Damn it. She hated to cry. It had been almost four years and the grief could still unexpectedly bring her to her knees. Sometimes the pain snuck up on her like this and grabbed her from behind. She didn’t have time for it.
“Boat sink! Boat sink!” More water hit the floor and splattered her shirt, shaking her from memories best left in the past.
“Okay, sailor. It’s time to abandon ship and get ready for bed.”
Harris giggled. “I bring boat?”
“Yes, darling. As soon as I dry it off.”
“Yay! Harris take boat to bed…to bed.”
Oh, the cry of my heart. “Now let’s get your pj’s on and brush those teeth.”
Bong. Bong.
“Doorbell, Momma.”
“Yes, honey. I hear it.” One of her guests no doubt. She scrambled up with a wiggling, wet toddler in her arms. Great.
“Let’s see how fast we can get those pj’s on.”
After a couple of tries Cally gave up on the pajamas. They were sticking to the damp places on Harris’s back, arms and bottom.
“Well, let’s just get underwear on so you aren’t completely naked.” She slipped in a puddle as she stepped out of the bathroom and went down on the one knee that, up to that point, had been dry.
Bong. Bong.
“Coming, coming,” she muttered under her breath. “Keep your shirt on.”
“Not wearing shirt, Momma.”
Cally grinned in spite of herself. She passed the gilded mirror in the hallway and her blue eyes widened. How much water had Harris splashed on her?
Her thick hair, wavy under the best of circumstances, was now falling out of the bun on top of her head and curling around her face in ringlets. Her makeup was completely gone, except for that smear of mascara under her left eye. Her clothes were…soaked. And there was a large wet spot across the front of her blouse that made it practically transparent. Lovely.
Bong.
No time to change into dry clothes. She shifted Harris from her hip to her chest and clasped both hands under his bottom.
She glanced in the mirror again. At least she couldn’t see her bra through the shirt anymore because Harris now covered her like a blanket. She took a swipe at the mascara and snorted a laugh at the effort.
So much for first impressions.
MARCUS WAS RINGING the bell for the fourth time as the heavy front door swung open. The woman behind the massive oak-and-glass panel held a wet-haired toddler and looked as if she had just stepped out of the bathtub in her clothes.
Marcus started to reach out to shake the lady’s hand and realized she couldn’t let go of the child.
“Hi, I’m Marcus North. I think you were expecting me earlier?” He smiled.
The kid was wriggling and getting the mother’s shirt even wetter and more transparent as he turned around in her arms trying to get a look at the stranger. The woman brushed curly red hair out of her eyes. She smiled tentatively but her cornflower-blue eyes looked somewhat panicked.
“Hello, Mr. North. I’m Cally Burnett. Welcome to River Trace Inn. I’m glad you’re here.” She talked fast. “Come on inside. We’ll get you all checked in. I…” She hesitated as she looked down at her clothes, clearly uncomfortable at being caught unprepared.
Marcus attempted to put her at ease. “Did you fall in?” he asked with a straight face.
“What…? No…I mean,” she stammered and looked down again at her water-stained clothes as a genuine smile tugged at the edge of her lips. She had a beautiful mouth with twin dimples accenting the corners. “I know it looks that way but, actually, I only went wading.”
“They say one can drown in two inches of water.” He grinned back at her.
Cally winced and seemed to recover her smile, but the dimples were gone. “That’s about how much water is on the bathroom floor.”
“Well, he looks as if he certainly enjoyed putting it there.” Marcus turned his attention to the little boy who was openly staring at him with a confused look.
“Momma didn’t fall. She giving me bathed.”
Her mouth dimpled faintly. “Of course not, darling. We were just joking. Mr. North, this is my son, Harris.”
“Hi, Mr. Nowth.”
Marcus reached out his hand to shake Harris’s damp one. “Hi, Harris, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Let’s get you all settled. You must be tired after your drive.” Cally began the innkeeper’s patter as she brought him into the high-ceilinged living room and over to an antique secretary to handle the paperwork.
“No, not so much.” Marcus looked around the magnificent room, his undercover cop’s brain automatically taking note of and cataloguing details. From the front door he had stepped directly into a large living area with a baby grand piano at one end and a fireplace at the other. Soft moss-green walls made the grandeur much more comfortable than he would have thought possible.
Hardwood floors were covered with several different richly colored oriental rugs. Two loveseats from a bygone era nestled close to the fireplace. Beyond the sitting area on the right he glimpsed the dining room’s huge banquet table and antique sideboard. A large rose-crystal chandelier glowed dimly over the table that was already set for breakfast with heavy silver serving pieces and crystal goblets.
A grand staircase ran parallel to the room on the opposite end by the piano. A hallway lay straight ahead that seemed to go toward the back of the house, and rooms connected off each end of the living room.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Burnett. How long have you lived here?”
“A little over eight years.” She looked up from the registration book. “This was my husband’s family home. His greatgrandfather built it at the turn of the century.”
“Oh, so it doesn’t date back to the Civil War.”
“No,” she laughed softly. “Although I’m afraid the Chamber of Commerce wishes it did. They wanted to suggest that perhaps William Faulkner slept here. But the sad fact is nothing of historic significance has ever occurred at River Trace.”
“Except raising the Burnett family of course.”
Her dimples reappeared.
“So do you and your husband run the bed-and-breakfast?”
Again, her smile faltered.