“Or a rehabilitation facility,” she repeated, and the vein turned bright purple. “That’s what the man said.”
Across the pub table, Nate put down his pint and shook his head. “I can’t see Carrie selling the Avalon. She’s got plans for it. I told you. She wants a boutique wedding venue.”
Stan scoffed, so loudly that the Red Lion staff looked over from the bar. “Does she? Really? How do we know she hasn’t decided it’s all a bit too much like hard work? We can’t afford to give her the benefit of the doubt just because you’ve got a little crush, boy.”
“I have not got a—”
“Besides,” Stan said, “I know what these business types are like. He’ll have money on the table for her.” He shook his head. “Not sure she’s the sort who would pick hard work over money. Not like her grandmother.”
“She was talking to Izzie about the reservation thing on the computer yesterday,” Moira said. “Would she really do that if she was planning on selling?”
“I have no idea what goes on inside young women’s heads these days.” Stan’s face grew redder and redder. Cyb moved his pint glass farther away, in case he decided to bang his fist on the table again. A passionate man, Stan. She looked at him, considering. Maybe it was time to find a better use for all that passion, once this mess at the inn was sorted out.
“We could just ask her what she’s going to do,” Cyb suggested, in what she thought was a reasonable manner.
Stan obviously thought otherwise. “Just ask? And what, exactly, is going to ensure she tells us the truth?” He grabbed his ale and drained the quarter of a pint left in the glass. Cyb motioned to a nearby member of the bar staff and indicated the empty glass. The Red Lion didn’t offer table service, but they weren’t very busy and Cyb had found them to be very accommodating to a group of senior citizens. Moira had suggested they were just afraid one of them might slip on the pools of stale beer that tended to form by the bar and sue the pub to cover their hip replacements.
“Unless...” Stan tapped the side of his empty glass. “Nate, boy, I have a job for you.”
“No,” Nate said, firmly. “I’ve already told you everything she told me.”
“Wait a moment,” Cyb said, willing her forehead to unfurrow. Anti-wrinkle cream could only do so much. “I don’t understand. What’s the job?”
“He wants me to get close to Carrie, win her trust and find out if her plans have changed now she’s met with the lawyer and business advisor,” Nate explained. Obviously he didn’t want to say ‘seduce the truth out of her’ in front of his grandmother.
“Well, would that be so bad?” Cyb asked, still confused. It had seemed to her Nate wanted to get close to Carrie Archer. Well, apart from the days he was mad at her. Moira said he couldn’t seem to make his mind up about whether Carrie was going to save the Avalon or destroy it.
“If she found out I was only doing it because Stan told me to?” Nate shook his head. “Hell, yes. Look, I’ll talk to her some more, I’ll ask her. But I’m not going to pretend anything.”
Stan gave a heavy sigh, and Cyb wondered where the bar staff were with his second pint. He was always more manageable when he’d relaxed a bit. “Play it any way you want, Nate. But remember, it’s your livelihood at stake here, too.”
Cyb was watching Nate, waiting for his response, so she saw the look he threw at his grandmother, a secretive sort of glance, and she wondered what Moira knew that the rest of them didn’t.
Whatever it was, Cyb wasn’t feeling any better than she had when listening to Mr Norton’s offers. If anything, she felt worse. And, looking around the table, so did everyone else. Probably not the time to try to discuss passion with Stan, she decided.
It would either be a very sombre, or a very exciting, dance night that evening.
The only good thing about getting rid of Mr Andrews and Mr Norton so early was that Carrie was able to have a mini breakdown in private before the Seniors returned and started decorating for dance night. And before Nate got back. Nate, she knew, would have questions.
She really didn’t want to answer them.
Carrie had thought that coming home to the Avalon would be an opportunity. Yes, she knew it would be hard and she’d have a lot to do to make a success of the inn, but she’d seen it as a chance to make her own future. To strike out on her own, go after the life she wanted for herself.
Instead, the doors of opportunity seemed to be slamming in her face everywhere she turned.
Left alone that afternoon she’d sat down with her planning file and made a list of options still open to her. With the banks, Mr Norton and Mr Andrews out, it was a very short list. With the amount of structural work needed on the Avalon, even another mortgage was out. Which left private investment. And the only people she knew with the money and potential incentive to invest were Anna and Uncle Patrick.
She’d written both names down in her file, then covered them over with a Post-it note. They had to be a last resort. Anna was still furious with her for leaving, so would probably say no out of spite anyway, or screw her over on the deal. And Uncle Patrick and Aunt Selena… They were family; the Avalon had been Patrick’s mother’s pride and joy; their own daughter wanted to get married there. They had all the incentive in the world, and God knew they’d bragged often enough about having the money. But Nancy hadn’t taken it, and Carrie didn’t want to either.
They could pay for the wedding. But to ask for more… Not yet. There had to be some other things she could try first.
Even if she had absolutely no idea what at the moment.
Sighing, Carrie stared up at the Union Jack bunting strung around the dining room and tried to decide if she liked it more or less than last week’s international flags. Still, in context, the bunting looked quite jolly. Along with the posters Stan had hung up on his return from wherever they’d all gone that morning, while Carrie had been working up in the Green Room again and thus unable to stop or question him, the dining room began to resemble a 1940s American army base. Complete, apparently, with its own Wren, ready to keep the soldiers company in return for some nylons.
“Cyb, that’s a...great costume.”
Cyb grinned at her from under her perfectly pin-curled hair. “Isn’t it? It belonged to my older sister, you know. She married an American during the war. Moved to Ohio when it was all over.”
“It certainly seems to fit with the theme,” Carrie assured her. “Are many dance nights so...Second World War centric?”
Cyb laughed. “Oh, no. Only the second Monday of every month.”
“Of course.” Because that was totally normal.
“We even have food like they’d have had on the American bases in Britain,” Cyb chattered on. “Jacob did some research for us on the internet and found all sorts of exciting recipes. And Stan runs old movies on the screen at the far end without the sound on. And we play all these wonderful thirties and forties songs to dance to. And—”
“Cyb?” Nate interrupted the monologue from the doorway. “I think Gran’s looking for you in the drawing room. She’s finalising the song list for this evening.”
Cyb bustled straight off, and Nate came in, apparently unconcerned by the sudden time warp.
“No costume?” Carrie asked, hoping to forestall the inevitable questions about Mr Norton’s visit, and Nate chuckled.
“I should be so lucky. Just wait until Gran gets done with Cyb.”
Carrie