“What if I’m not ready yet?” she whispered to the empty room, already knowing the answer. It didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter because Nancy had written the letter for her. And how could she begin to work on the Avalon without knowing what Nancy wanted her to do? It was her inn now, but it would always be Nancy’s first.
Carrie dropped into her seat, hearing the leather sigh beneath her, and fumbled with the envelope, eventually pulling out three thin sheets of writing paper, all covered in Nancy’s sprawling purple ink.
The first page was, as she’d expected, a message of love from her grandmother. The second bore an entreaty to treat the Seniors well, and to trust the staff Nancy had put in place.
Carrie’s mouth twisted up into a half-smile. Nothing unexpected there, either, given that Nancy had included the Seniors’ bookings with the most important inn documents. And she had always loved her staff.
Nate will help you, if you let him. Trust him. He’s a good man now. I wouldn’t have left him in charge of the grounds, otherwise. You need him, Carrie. And he needs this place.
Just as she’d thought. Nancy hadn’t thought she could do it alone. But why did she think Nate needed the Avalon? Did the guy have nowhere else to go? So much for hoping he might get bored and move on.
The third page was about the Avalon itself. And about Carrie.
I know you love this place every bit as much as I do. And I know you’ll want to make it your own. Just remember, the Avalon is, and always has been, a home, first and foremost. Make it earn its keep, certainly. But never lose that love.
Carrie folded the pages and returned them to the envelope, blinking against threatening tears. How could Nancy think the Avalon would ever be anything but home to her?
She just needed it to be profitable, too.
He needs this place.
Why? Carrie couldn’t stop herself asking the question. What was it about the Avalon that Nate needed? And how much was it going to get in the way of her plans for the place?
She sighed, shuffling the papers into order. At least she knew where she stood now. She needed a backer. Needed to talk to the bank, the accountant, the lawyer, the builders… She needed to talk to Nate. As much as she hated it, they were going to have to work together on this, at least to start. Not because she couldn’t do it alone, but because Nancy had made it very clear she shouldn’t. Wedding venues needed gardens and outdoor space, for photos and drinks receptions and everything else that went with it.
Nate controlled the gardens. But Carrie was in charge of the Avalon Inn. They had to work together.
Just as long as he remembered that she was the boss.
Tucking the letter from Nancy back inside her folder, Carrie gathered her patience and went to talk to Nate.
The autumn night was drawing in fast, the evening breeze chilly through the open doorway. Carrie dumped her files on the reception desk and grabbed a coat from the rack tucked away beside the front door, only realising once she’d shut the door behind her that it was one of Nancy’s old knitted cardigans. It came down to Carrie’s knees, and the waist tie wrapped around twice, but the soft wool and the scent of roses comforted her enough to ignore even the garish cerise colour.
The summerhouse sat on the edge of the woods, through the gardens and past the fountain. Last time Carrie had been there, it had been filled to the rafters with Nancy’s boxes of junk. But theoretically it was a proper lodging; she’d even stayed there herself one summer when the inn proper was full. It would be interesting to see what Nate had done with the place.
The lights of the summerhouse were visible from a way back, glowing yellow against the dark of the woods, warm and inviting. Carrie wrapped her cardigan tighter around her, and stepped up the three wooden steps to the door.
Nate answered her knock quickly, a paperback in hand, and didn’t look in the least surprised to see her. Stepping aside with a smile she couldn’t quite read, he motioned her inside, and shut out the night air behind her.
“Drink?” he offered, moving to the kitchenette in the corner of the main room, which held a microwave and mini fridge. “I’ve got wine or beer, I think. Or whisky.” He looked up and saw her still hovering by the door and said, “Sit down, won’t you?”
Still Carrie hesitated as he stuck his head back into the fridge. The summerhouse looked nothing like she remembered. It looked like a proper home now, with a sofa, and a desk under the window, and even lamps and one of Nancy’s traditional lumpy patchwork blankets. The door to the bedroom was open, and she could see a real bed beyond, not just a camp bed. And she knew farther back was the tiny bathroom Nancy had put in when she had some idea of this being staff quarters one day. Which it was, now, Carrie supposed.
Nate stared at her from the kitchenette, a bottle of wine in one hand and whisky in the other. In a burst of movement, she threw herself down on one end of the sofa and said, “Actually, whisky would be great.”
The glass tumblers Nate provided looked like the odd ends of Nancy’s old sets, and probably were. As he settled onto the other end of the sofa, Carrie took a sip of the smooth amber liquid and started to feel properly at home for the first time that day.
Nate watched her, caution behind his eyes, and she tried to smile for him. “Nancy started me drinking whisky when I was sixteen,” she said. “Just a half-measure, before bed, when I couldn’t sleep. The next summer she decided that if I was going to drink it, I should at least learn what was decent and what would rot my insides.” She took another sip. “This is good stuff.”
“It should be,” Nate said, with a half-smile. “It was a Christmas present from Nancy.”
“That explains it, then.”
They sat in silence for a moment, until it started to feel awkward, and Nate said, “Did the papers tell you all you needed to know?”
Carrie sighed. “And much, much more.” She remembered the copy of Nancy’s will. “You were right; I have to keep you on.” She couldn’t bring herself to admit to the words ‘full control’.
Nate blew out a short breath. “Is that a problem?”
“Not as much as the bookings we apparently have until the end of time.”
“Ah.” Nate winced into his whisky. “The Seniors.”
“Yeah.” Carrie tried to catch his eye, but his attention was firmly focused on his drink. “You knew about that bit?”
Nate shrugged those wonderfully wide shoulders again. “Nancy mentioned she wanted them to still feel welcome at the Avalon.”
Carrie sipped at her whisky and considered. “It’s that important to them?”
“It’s their home.” Nate looked up, finally, and caught her eye. When he spoke again, it was with such conviction, Carrie almost wished he hadn’t. “None of them really have anyone, or anywhere, else. It’s not just the three of them, you realize. There’s a whole crowd of people for whom the highlight of their week is playing bridge with Stan, or dancing with Cyb. It’s important.”
“A community service,” Carrie said, with a half-smile. “Only problem is, I don’t see how it’ll go side by side with a boutique wedding-venue hotel.”
Nate settled back against the arm of the sofa, his left leg folded up over his right. It couldn’t be comfortable, Carrie thought, being such a tall man in a very small summerhouse. “That’s what you’ve got planned for the place?”
Carrie