“Anything else in here?”
Viola looked to Lillian, who nodded for her to continue. “The electrical outlet on that far wall is dead. There’s a buckled floorboard behind the sofa. Wallpaper’s pulling loose in places. I keep gluing it, but it won’t stay down.”
“And the fireplace.” Lillian darted a look at him, as if sensing that evidence for closing the inn was mounting. “The flue is cleaned regularly, but it needs serious work both inside and out for safety’s sake. When we had it inspected, recommendations were made that we need to follow if we intend to use it this coming autumn.”
“Folks do love sitting by a crackling fire on a chilly evening,” Viola added. “It lends a homey touch and an excuse for guests to gather around and get to know each other.”
He knew that to be true. “Do the guest rooms have fireplaces?”
“A few. But they’ve long been sealed up.”
A mixed bag. He continued to take notes as the issues in this room alone rapidly tallied up. It was more of the same as they progressed through the downstairs. A cozy library. Small office. Spacious dining room. Laundry and storage rooms. Assessing a kitchen featuring weary-looking appliances, cracked floor tile and a chipped sink led to an enjoyable chat in the adjoining breakfast nook with an elderly couple who were finishing up a morning break of fresh fruit and pastries. Viola pointed out the entrance to her apartment, but didn’t mention work to be done there or invite him to take a look.
Overall, the house was well cared for. Clean. Neat. But it was aging. Neither the somewhat shabby furnishings, heavy and dark with a south-of-the-border feel, nor flooring and wall and window treatments created an appealing ambience that would lure guests back for a second visit. He hadn’t seen the upstairs rooms yet, but clearly the inn required a lot of work, time and money. Three things he couldn’t in good conscience encourage his mother to invest in—or willingly agree to oversee himself.
A phone in the office rang, and as Viola went to answer it, he noticed her limp, more pronounced than when he’d first arrived. From the hip broken earlier that year, no doubt. Her cheery demeanor had faded as their route progressed through the inn, giving way to evident weariness. But his presence and known purpose undoubtedly contributed to that. How did his mother expect him to gauge the state of her health? He wasn’t a doctor or physical therapist, and he sure couldn’t count on her niece for an unbiased opinion. But he had a hard time picturing Viola with the 24/7 energy level that an inn demanded.
Inwardly he cringed when Lillian, perhaps sensing the direction his mind was going, gave him an uncertain smile. Letting her aunt down wasn’t going to be easy. Where would a seventy-seven-year-old woman find affordable housing and pick up a monthly paycheck around here? But he couldn’t let his mother keep sinking her capital into a money pit like this just to subsidize the lifestyle of someone she’d known while residing here but a few short years. And long ago, at that.
But then Lillian opened the multipaned French doors just off the breakfast room, and they stepped into a walled-in garden.
And everything changed.
* * *
Lillian caught a flash of surprise in Denny’s eyes as he gazed around the sun-dappled, expansive stone-walled garden.
He glanced at her, his eyes questioning. “This is...unexpected.”
“We call it the Secret Garden. We can comfortably seat about thirty-five or forty for a wedding. Fifteen or twenty for a luncheon.”
“Nice.”
And indeed it was. The perimeter of the one-hundred-foot-deep space featured a variety of trees and bushes and was punctuated by a flagstone walkway leading to a spacious patio that faced a gazebo. Native perennials abounded, skillfully woven in to complement colorful annuals and an occasional stone bench.
“My aunt’s green thumb and artistic eye shine the brightest here.” Despite a short growing season at this more-than-mile-high elevation, the walls provided a protected microclimate of sorts where greenery flourished, colors and textures changing as the seasons passed. Even wintertime brought to it a stark, pristine beauty. “This gem keeps the Pinewood Inn in the black. It’s booked from late spring through midfall for small weddings and receptions, private parties, and luncheons.”
“I can see why.”
This, in fact, was where her ex-fiancé’s sister, Barbie, was to be married in October. Thankfully, despite pressure from the girl’s mother, the bride-to-be hadn’t held Lillian’s runaway-bride act against Aunt Viola or canceled her booking after the aborted June wedding. But the notoriously spoiled young lady was proving to be something of a bridezilla in her demands—which had further spurred Lillian to keep at her aunt to approach her employer for upgrades. It was no secret that the inn itself didn’t hold a candle to the romantic draw of the garden. Seldom were guest rooms booked in conjunction with events held there—no bridal-party weekends and certainly no honeymoons or anniversary retreats.
Most repeat guests were those who’d warmed to Aunt Vi’s special brand of hospitality, not who craved the more tangible aspects of the inn itself.
Accompanying Denny as he silently wandered the garden walkways, Lillian watched him from the corner of her eye. Did he see what she saw—that the garden deserved guest accommodations to equal it? Maybe something unapologetically romantic, a style more in keeping with the traditional exterior than the blandness that was there now.
“I remember one year an evening Christmastime wedding was hosted here.” Her heart lightened at the memory, and she hoped it would touch him, too. “The garden was warmed with decorative patio space heaters, and the pines and bare branches of the deciduous trees were strung with twinkling fairy lights.”
She looked to him hopefully. But he was gazing down at his phone and didn’t respond. Lillian’s stomach knotted when he murmured an apology and stepped away for the third time that morning to take a business call. So much like Cameron. He hadn’t been able to stay in the moment longer than it took to blink twice, couldn’t keep his mind from drifting away to seemingly more important matters. Pity the woman who ended up wed to Hayden Hunter.
Yes, despite her feelings of animosity toward him, she’d checked out his ring finger.
Clearly, though, he wasn’t impressed with the Pinewood Inn, and seeing it through his eyes, she couldn’t fault him. It hadn’t gotten into its current condition overnight. When earlier in the spring she’d criticized her aunt’s employer for the neglect, Aunt Viola came to Charlotte’s defense, admitting that it was as much her own fault that things had gotten to this stage. Grateful for the opportunity to have a job she enjoyed and a nice place to live postretirement, she’d done her best not to be an albatross around her patron’s neck.
“Sorry for the interruption.” Denny joined her again, tucking away his phone. “You step out the office door for a few days, and suddenly nobody can live without you.”
As was the case with her former fiancé, undoubtedly that made him feel good about himself. Important. Indispensable.
“As I was saying,” she continued, “the winter wedding was lovely, with snow flurries setting a romantic mood for the exchange of vows.”
Could he picture that? Or was his mind focused on the drawbacks of the inn and alert to the nuances of her aunt’s flagging health? Thankfully, there was no need for a walker or cane this morning. But had he noticed how carefully she turned? How she occasionally gripped the back of a chair or casually leaned against a door frame to steady herself?
Please, Lord, don’t let Denny expect Aunt Vi to accompany him