promising with their charming banjo pickets.
They went into The Lobby, and Hope listened as Justine talked of tile and tables, art and flowers, then moved through a wide arch into what would be the dining room. Coffered ceiling—white trim over deep brown, Justine explained. Tables of glossy wood, left unclothed, each with a little vase of flowers. A small arch of the original stone left exposed in the back wall, with a big, carved buffet in front of it. Chandeliers of iron with oak leaf motif and big globes of stained glass shaped like acorns.
Hope nearly saw it in the unpainted walls, the rough floor, the jumble of material. She saw enough to be sure they’d need a couple of server tables, maybe under the wonderful side windows.
They moved down, more exposed stone, exposed brick, passed what would be the laundry room, the office and into the kitchen space.
She listened again, tried to see the cabinets, many with glass fronts to break up the solidity of dark wood. The granite countertops and stainless steel appliances—wall oven, the range in the island done in cream wood to contrast with the dark.
“There’s no door on the kitchen?”
“We’re leaving it open.” Justine, her sunglasses perched on her head, her thumbs in the front pockets of her pants, scanned the space. “We want guests to be at home, the minute they walk in the door. We’ll keep the fridge stocked with cold drinks—soda, juice, bottled water.”
“Like a big minibar?”
“In a way. Guests should feel free to help themselves. We’re not going to nickel-and-dime people. Once they’re here, the room charge covers the lot. They want a cup of coffee before breakfast—or anytime—and the innkeeper isn’t right on the spot, they can make a cup here, or on the little machine we’re getting for The Library on the second floor. We should have a bowl of seasonal fruit maybe. Or cookies.”
“She already thought of cookies,” Owen pointed out.
“See, same page. That’s the idea. Relax, enjoy, be at home.”
Something in Hope warmed, and that warmth spread as they moved into Reception. She could barely see over boxes and tools, but she began to visualize. A pair of big barrel chairs in soft green in front of the brick fireplace. No desk, no counter, but a long, custom-made table for the innkeeper. Tile floors, tying in with the kitchen and lobby, and all the windows bringing in the light.
She knew she asked practical questions about check-in, computers, storage, security, but by the time they’d finished the main and started up, she understood why the Montgomerys had fallen in love.
“Sounds like my other boys are up on the third floor.” Justine glanced back. “Why don’t we start up there, and the innkeeper’s apartment? You can meet the rest of the family.”
“Perfect.”
She felt a little tug from the left as they started the turn toward the third floor.
“Elizabeth and Darcy,” Justine told her when she hesitated. “Both these front rooms have access to the porch over Main Street.”
For a moment she thought she smelled honeysuckle, turned back to look inside. And jumped when Avery shouted from below. “Are you up there?”
“Heading to three,” Owen called back.
“Took longer than I thought.” Avery jogged up. “What do you think?”
“It’s big, and wonderfully thought-out. I’ve only seen the ADA room on the main level as far as guest rooms. We’re going up to three, working down.”
“You can check out your apartment.”
With an indulgent shake of her head, Hope continued up, gripping the temporary rail. Imagination, she thought as she pulled her hand away again. She could have sworn she’d touched smooth metal.
“The innkeeper’s apartment.” Justine gestured. “And The Penthouse, where somebody’s busy.”
Hope stepped in behind her. She heard the whoosh, thud of a nail gun before she saw him. Sunlight flashed through the window where he worked. For a second, she couldn’t see his face, only had the impression of strength and competence as the nail gun thudded again.
He ran his hand down the wood—the same type of panel she’d seen framing the windows downstairs. Then he lowered the tool, shifted.
He stared at her out of cool, assessing eyes. From somewhere nearby another nail gun thudded. Justine spoke, introducing them, but Hope’s ears buzzed. She barely heard his name, felt a quick and foolish relief that it wasn’t Beckett.
Ryder.
She shook his hand—one with a healing scrape on the back, felt the hard, calloused palm briefly before he dropped it again.
“How ya doing?”
“Fine, thanks.” But she wasn’t entirely sure. The heat rose, seemed to concentrate right on that spot. Her brain throbbed from an excess of details, images.
She wanted suddenly, desperately, to sit down and drink something—anything—very cold.
“Are you okay, honey?”
She looked at Justine, whose voice came down a long tunnel. “Ah . . . too much coffee this morning,” she managed. “I’m a little dehydrated.”
Ryder flipped open the lid of a cooler for a bottle of water. When she just stared at it, he twisted off the top. “So hydrate.”
“Thanks.” For the first time she noticed the dog—the wonderfully homely mud brown dog—who sat with his head cocked, studying her. “That’s a lovely detail,” she said to keep herself from gulping half the contents in one go. “The side panels.”
“Yeah, they turned out.”
“Shit, out of ammo. You got any—” Beckett sauntered in. “Oh, hey.”
“And here’s Beckett,” Justine announced. “We’re showing Hope around.”
“Yeah, hi. I think we met for about five seconds a couple years ago. Welcome to The Penthouse. I was just across the hall in what may be your apartment. So . . . Clare’s not with you?”
“I called her before I came over,” Avery said. “She had to stop by TTP, some Internet glitch.”
“Let’s show you the rest of this space before we go through the apartment.” Justine gestured. “This will be the parlor, third-floor porch access through the door at the end of the hall. The bedroom’s in the back, with the bath between.”
Hope followed her down a short hall, then goggled. “This is a
“My son, the architect. Counter with double sinks on this side, shower there. The tub, and it’s a beauty, on the other side of the wall. We’re going for lush here, intricate tile work, some mosaic touches, crystal sconces with brushed-nickel accents. Contemporary with a touch of Old World.”
The Penthouse equaled luxury, Hope decided, with a big, ornately carved four-poster showcased in the bedroom, with fancy stools at the foot, a dainty side chair.
She had a sense they’d make the space worth the climb.
She felt steady again when they went through the apartment across the hall. The wonderful windows again. A small-scale kitchen, but Owen was right, she wouldn’t need bigger. It jogged off a living room she thought she could make both cozy and efficient. Not nearly the space she had now, even with the second bedroom, but access to the porch—and to the big, beautifully appointed inn.
It was certainly more than adequate, she mused as she wandered through. And more than twice the size of her first efficiency apartment.
Also a third-floor walk-up, she remembered.
Closet space wouldn’t be a problem. She’d just use the second bedroom for that as she’d have the office downstairs. If she wanted to have a guest, she could . . .
And when had she decided she wanted this job, wanted this place?
“It’s a good, practical space, and again well laid out.”
“If we come to terms, you can pick out any colors you like for the walls.” Justine smiled at her. “We can go out and see Westley and Buttercup, our other suite. It’s got its own outside entrance.”
