“WHAT IS THAT NOISE?” Logan Walters asked through clenched teeth. He paced the hardwood floor in his room at the Brookhollow Inn, the room phone cradled to his ear. His laptop sat open on the antique writing desk, and papers were strewn about the bed. Discarded, rolled balls of yellow legal-pad paper lay near the trash can in the corner of the room. So much for the peace and quiet he’d been expecting from the small town in the middle of New Jersey. He’d been making just as much progress in his sublet studio apartment in Manhattan as he was here in Brookhollow.
None.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Walters,” the Brookhollow Inn’s new owner, Rachel Harper, said. “My children aren’t running through the hallways of the guest quarters again, are they?”
“No, not today.” That had been yesterday’s distraction. He couldn’t believe the bed-and-breakfast was home to so many kids. Funny, they’d forgotten to mention it on their newly designed website. He suspected complaints about noise were common now.
He ran a hand through his hair, which reached the back of his shirt collar. Past due for a cut.
Man, he missed the nice, quiet, little old lady that used to own the place. Had he known of the switch in ownership the year before, he certainly wouldn’t have come.
“I don’t hear anything here at the desk. What kind of noise is it?” she asked.
“It’s a hammering sound.” How could she not hear the deafening vibrations echoing off the walls?
“Our renovations have been complete for quite some time.”
He picked up on the note of pride in her voice.
Yes, their renovations—he’d noticed them, too. New paint, new windows, new tiled roof...improvements for sure, but he’d been relieved to see they hadn’t messed with the antique furniture in the guest rooms.
“Maybe it’s coming from outside,” she said. “Would you like me to go take a look?”
Logan was about to reply when the hammering ceased. He waited.
“Mr. Walters?”
“Hang on.” He waited a second longer. Nothing. He brought the receiver back to his ear. “No, that’s okay. It stopped.” Hopefully this time for good.
“Okay, then. Is there anything else I can do for you? I noticed you didn’t come down for breakfast yet. Would you like something brought up?”
Logan glanced at the clock on the mantel of the old wood-burning fireplace: 8:26. He’d been awake since five, surviving on the in-room coffeemaker. His stomach growled. The offer was tempting, especially as the smell of fresh-baked pumpkin-spiced muffins filled the house. Scanning the messy room, he hesitated.
In less than twenty-four hours, he’d made quite an impact on the small space. Clothes spilled out of his carry-on suitcase in front of the window. Yellow Post-it notes decorated the freshly painted dark blue walls above the desk, and his notebooks littered the floor, along with the homemade quilt thrown in a heap next to his damp towels. And the room still held the faintly nauseating smell of the Chinese takeout he’d ordered the night before.
“Um...no, thanks. I’ll come down.” After he restored the room to a livable state.
“Great, thank you. I have several guests checking in any minute, so I really shouldn’t leave the desk until my partner, Victoria, arrives.”
As Logan replaced the receiver, the sound of children squealing, running through the hallways made him wince. Spoke too soon about not hearing her children.
Coming here was a bad idea. He was never going to get any work done with the never-ending noise, in and outside the B & B. Being away from the distractions in the city was supposed to cure his writer’s block. Alone in a place where he could focus on the story in progress and not the stack of personal issues that competed for his every thought.
He’d first discovered this small town when he lived in New Jersey, at the start of his writing career. Brookhollow had been a great weekend escape during his first novel. He’d hoped the inspiration he’d once found here might be waiting for him. He’d foolishly believed that things wouldn’t have changed in the place in almost a decade.
Sitting at the desk, he stared at the open document on the screen. The idea of this sixth book—the final one in his mystery series—made him cringe. Halfway through, he realized his original idea of how to end the series that had defined his career and put him in the spotlight years before just wasn’t good enough. His fans expected more and he didn’t want to disappoint them.
He didn’t have an alternative plan, either.
He scanned the last few paragraphs he’d written. The scene had stalled and he couldn’t figure out why. He wondered if the point of view was the problem. Or maybe it was the setting? Something was definitely off. Maybe it was him. He needed to move on...come back to it later that evening. He worked better in the evening, anyway....
He flipped that page of his legal pad over and wrote “next scene” on the top of the next page, underlined it twice, then tapped his pen against the daunting blankness. If only he knew what the next scene was.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Dillon and McKay Law Office paperwork and reached for it. Leaning back in the chair, he scanned the letter from his ex-girlfriend’s lawyer for the millionth time. His vision blurred as it always did when he skimmed the third line. She was filing for full custody of Amelia Alexandra Kelland.
Full custody...and he’d get what? Visitation? No rights to make decisions about his little girl’s future?
He tossed the papers onto the desk.
If only they’d been married, he’d have had more rights. The thought of his ex-girlfriend made his blood boil and he forced himself to take a deep breath. She was moving to L.A. and wanted to take their daughter with her. He refused to let that happen.
The loud hammering resumed, and he dropped his pen as he stood. That’s it. Grabbing his fleece jacket from the back of the antique rocking chair, he dashed out of the room, leaving the creaking old door to creep closed behind him. It would lock automatically, a lesson he’d learned the hard way the evening before. It had been two hours before the B & B owners returned from dinner at a friend’s.
Taking the stairs two at a time toward the entryway, he collided with a petite blonde whose arms were full of shopping bags. The Brookhollow Inn’s co-owner, Victoria Mason. She’d checked him in the day before.
“Good morning, Mr. Walters,” she said, readjusting her load. “Something wrong?”
“Sorry, excuse me,” he mumbled. Stopping in the entryway, he listened for the sound. Next door, to the right.
“Is everything okay?” Victoria called after him as he pushed the front door open.
“It will be once I get my hands on that hammer,” Logan said as he stepped outside.
Several