Authors: Sophie Pembroke
“Well, she’ll be new at this, right? So we can show her how things are supposed to work. She’ll rely on us, and we’ll get to keep things the way we like them.” Jacob turned from rinsing a fork under the tap and glared at Nate’s seating choice.
Nate shuffled along a few inches to let Jacob access the silverware drawer. “She’s a wedding planner. She’s used to working with hotels. Actually, she’s used to expecting top service from hotels and their staff, without understanding the work required to get it.” Nate shuddered. “Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, to me.”
Jacob shoved him off the counter and reached for his microfiber cleaning cloth. “I don’t know what
you’re
worrying about. You’ve been running the place for, like, six months now. It’s not like she can do it without you.” When Nate didn’t answer, he sighed. “She’s Nancy’s granddaughter, Nate. How bad can it be?”
Clenching his jaw, Nate tried to dismiss the memories of his former boss. He didn’t have time to be distracted by grief today. Not when Carrie Archer would be arriving at any moment.
“Jake, I adored Nancy as much as anyone, but you have to admit, she wasn’t always
easy.
”
Jacob winced. “True.”
“Yeah, but that’s just because she was old.” Izzie appeared in the kitchen doorway, speaking with all the confidence of a just-turned-twenty-year-old.
There might only be ten years between them, Nate thought, but sometimes it felt like a hundred. Even Jacob, four years his junior, rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t let the Seniors hear you saying such things.”
Izzie’s eyes widened, and she glanced around her to check she hadn’t been overheard. Nate couldn’t help but smile. The Seniors were a force to be reckoned with. Even if he sometimes felt older than Nancy’s friends too.
“Where are they, anyway?” he asked.
“Waiting for her in the lobby.” Izzie bounced on her toes. “That’s what I came to tell you. Her car just came up the drive.”
No point wasting time questioning why that information hadn’t been the first thing out of Izzie’s mouth on arrival. Izzie’s priorities were never the same as anyone else’s. Nate gritted his teeth. “Then let’s go.” He headed down the passage to reception, glancing back just long enough to see Jacob straighten his cloth on the draining board and follow him.
“Bet the Seniors are excited,” Jacob called from behind.
“I’m sure they are,” Nate murmured. He just hoped they weren’t setting themselves up for a disappointment.
The Seniors were lined up inside the lobby, each wearing their brightest smiles and their Sunday best, hands shaking with excitement rather than just the usual old age. Nate sighed. He wished he had their confidence about how the morning would go.
“I remember her from when she was a girl, you know.” Cyb patted the pillbox hat on her head. Nate hoped she’d remembered their visitor wasn’t actually the Queen. Cyb’s memory quite often provided accounts of more interesting past incidents than had truly occurred. Perhaps she was working forward now, too. “She used to climb the trees in the woods and run in to breakfast with grass stains on her knees.”
“Nancy was always very fond of her,” Nate’s grandmother said, with a cool sort of detachment Nate hoped meant she was reserving judgment for the time being. One of them had to be cautious. “I wonder what she has planned for the Avalon.”
Cyb looked blank. “It’s an inn. Whatever else could she have planned?”
Beside her, Stan straightened his tie. “Well, if she knows anything about anything, she won’t mess with the tried and tested. Nancy knew what this place needed.”
“And hopefully her granddaughter will, too,” Nate finished quietly.
“Exactly.” Stan gave him a sharp look. “Worried about your job, boy?”
With a half smile, Nate shook his head. At least Stan understood what was at stake. “I’m sure I’ll manage, one way or another.”
It was true, to a point. If Carrie Archer decided to sell the inn or turn it into flats, or any other inconceivable idea, he’d get by. He’d work for the new owners, if they wanted him, or he’d get a new job. He still got offers often enough. People who wanted to be able to show off their new garden and say, ‘Oh, yes. We got that chap who used to be on the telly to sort it for us. You know, the Singing Gardener.’ At least, the ones who didn’t mind the fact that he hadn’t had a programme in almost two years. He’d manage well enough, he supposed.
Only he didn’t want to ‘manage.’ The Avalon Inn had become home, from the moment he’d pitched up on Nancy’s doorstep and said, “Remember me?” Nancy had let him in, made him hot chocolate and sent Izzie to make him up a bed in the summerhouse. That was two years ago too. He’d headed straight to Wales from the meeting with the producers, the meeting where he’d said, ‘No, no more. Enough. I want to do it my way.’ He hadn’t really expected them to decide his way wasn’t good enough.
He didn’t want to leave the Avalon Inn, even if it felt strange every single morning, heading up to the house and not finding Nancy drinking coffee in her office or berating Jacob in the kitchen. But he didn’t want it to change, either. It was comfortable. It was home. And Nate liked it just the way it was.
Who knew how Carrie Archer would want things to be? It wasn’t as if she’d spent a lot of time there in the last decade or so. She hadn’t even spoken to them at the funeral.
Nate just hoped Nancy’s faith in her wasn’t misplaced.
Over at the front door, Izzie dropped the curtain, turning away from the window and back to the group.
“What’s she doing out there?” Stan asked, his gruff voice impatient. “Should we go help her with her bags?”
“She’s just sitting in her car, still.” Izzie’s face scrunched up. “It looks like she’s talking to herself.”
A worried murmur vibrated through the lobby, until Nate pointed out the obvious. “She’s probably on the phone, Iz. Hands-free.” That settled the others, but left Nate wondering who his new boss could be talking to. Estate agent? Lawyer? Boyfriend who wanted her to sell up and come home immediately?
Izzie peeked through the window again. “Hang on, she’s getting out.” The curtain swayed as it fell from her hand. Izzie ran back to stand beside the Seniors at the bottom of the stairs, a perfect welcoming committee. Even Jacob stopped sending angry texts to his ex-girlfriend and moved to lean against the banister next to them. Nate shrugged, and slotted into formation.
Moments later, the front door rattled and creaked open. “Show time,” Nate whispered, and only Jacob gave a snort of laughter. Everyone else was too busy focusing on Carrie Archer as she stepped into reception.
* * * *
The heavy, dark-wood front door, with its stained glass panel showering colored light onto the stone floor of the reception area, felt like another old friend to Carrie. She remembered being too small to even open it on her own; sitting on the step outside waiting for Nancy to come back from the garden to help her, or for a kindly passing guest to let her in. Today, Carrie’s hand hovered above the wood, suddenly reluctant to enter. What if it wasn’t as she remembered? Who was waiting inside?
Carrie sucked in a breath and shoved. The door fell open under her hand, easier than she’d remembered, and she stumbled before finding her feet.
Her favorite tapestry still hung above the reception desk and the sparkling silver threads of the unicorn’s horn caught her eye immediately. Her gaze moved lower. A line of senior citizens spanned the width of the hall, all standing straight backed and staring ahead, like the staff of a 1930s stately home, welcoming their master back from a long trip.
Exactly who had Nancy been hiring lately?
They looked faintly familiar from the funeral, but Carrie knew she’d been too upset that day to really take anything in.
Plus, she’d spent most of the day arguing with Dad. Nothing much else had registered. Now she wished she’d paid more attention.
After a long moment of staring at each other, a younger man at the end of the line stepped forward out of the shadows. Even at a six-foot distance, she had to tilt her chin up to take in his cropped brown hair, accentuating a strong jaw. She let her gaze drop enough to linger on the wide, muscled shoulders that looked like he spent his days slinging oxen around, or something equally rural.
“Shall I do the introductions?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Carrie blinked. He wasn’t just gorgeous, he felt...familiar, somehow.
And despite his welcome, he didn’t look too pleased to see her.
Carrie managed a nod, expecting him to start with himself. Instead, he motioned to the elderly gentleman at the front of the line, and Carrie scrambled to pay attention. “This is Stan Baker.” Stan gripped her hand hard enough to burn, and Carrie focused on the light reflecting off the row of military medals pinned to his knitted waistcoat.
“Pleasure, I’m sure,” Stan said, his words clipped and sharp. “I was very fond of your grandmother, girl. I know she’d want you to do right here.”
Carrie smiled and nodded, adding
find out what Stan means by ‘do right,’
to her mental to do list, before moving on to the lady with the pillbox hat.
“Mrs. Cybella Charles,” her guide murmured, and the woman in question added, “Widowed, of course. Almost everybody is these days, it seems. But we’re just so excited to have you here with us. Do you play Bridge?”
Carrie blinked at the onslaught of words. She vaguely recalled a New Year’s Eve at the inn, ten or so years ago, when Nancy had tried to teach her over too much whiskey. “Um, badly, I think.”
Mrs. Charles gave a wide, still-toothy smile and clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”
“And I’m Moira Green,” the next lady said, her voice reassuringly gentle.
Carrie smiled, and let her gaze move to the under seventies.
“And here we have your staff.” The man motioned to the last two people, both a good forty years younger than the previous three. Carrie hoped this meant Stan, Cybella and Moira were just well-wishers, rather than a fundamental part of the Avalon Inn. They seemed nice enough, but they didn’t exactly scream new, upcoming, luxury wedding venue.
“I’m Izzie,” said a perky blonde from the foot of the stairs. “I do, you know, reception. And the rooms. And stuff.”
“That’s...good to know,” Carrie said.
“And this is Jacob,” Izzie went on, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she indicated the other guy, who was apparently surgically attached to his mobile phone.
“And Jacob is...?”
“Your chef,” Jacob said, shoving his phone into his pocket, where it proceeded to beep out a staccato rhythm.
Carrie turned her attention to the one person she hadn’t been introduced to yet. He smiled, not entirely warmly, and said, “And I’m Nathanial Green. Nate.”
Carrie blinked. “You, I’ve heard of,” she said, reaching out a hand. Last Christmas, she remembered. Nancy had been dragged away from her inn at the behest of her son, Carrie’s father, to join them for a family Christmas at their home in Hertfordshire, during which both her parents had put considerable efforts into persuading Nancy to give up the inn and grow older with a little more grace. Nancy, Carrie recalled, had spent much of the time on the phone to somebody called Nate. Carrie’s mum had joked about her new boyfriend, which had thrown her dad into a mood, and everyone had gone to bed grumpy. Just like most Christmases.
That had been less than ten months ago. Nancy had seemed perfectly well then.
Nate took her hand, and Carrie felt tingles up her arm at the scratch of his calloused skin on her fingers. She swallowed, and kept her voice even. “Although Nancy never really said what it is you do around here.”
Nate shrugged, and Carrie could make out the lines of his muscles shifting under his white polo shirt. At least she could see why Nancy hired
him.
“Gardening, mostly.” Nate flashed her a small, sharp smile. “And pretty much anything else Nancy could cook up for me.”
“My Nate has been holding this place together with string and brown paper,” Moira said, and even if Carrie hadn’t put together the identical surname thing, the relationship between them would have been clear. Moira was every inch the proud grandmother.
There was another awkward silence as Carrie tried to figure out why the gardener had been left in charge of her inn. A worrying sign suggesting there was no one better available.
“Well, I guess you’re the guy to give me the tour, then?” she said. “It’s been a while since I was last here.”
Nate nodded, and stepped forward from the stairs. “Of course. Where do you want to start?”
* * * *
They started in the dining room.
“I’d forgotten about this carpet,” Carrie said, staring down at the green and purple monstrosity, her face sour.
Involuntarily, Nate glanced down too. “You don’t notice it after a while,” he lied, moving quickly toward the kitchen.
“Denial won’t fly with most clients.” Carrie pulled a notebook out of her handbag and started scribbling. “You only get one chance to make a first impression.”
Nate wondered how much she’d paid for the all-cliche business course to teach her that one. Curious, he stepped closer to see what she was writing.
The list, headed up ‘Renovations,’ read:
–Replace dining room carpet