The Perfect Hope

sidewalk, slathered him as he walked toward the pristine entrance of the Wickham. Colonial elegance with rivers of summer flowers, windows that tossed sunlight, and a doorman liveried in dignified gray with red trim.

Dignified enough he didn’t blink at opening the door for some guy in work clothes.

The lobby spread, white marble floors veined with black, huge-ass urns of flowers—forests of them. Dark oak paneling, crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas all worked together to say, clearly: high-class. And a gleaming front desk manned by a woman in black who could’ve made a living on any catwalk.

“Welcome to the Wickham. How can I help you today?”

“I need to see the owner. Wickham. Senior.”

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Wickham is unavailable. If you’d like to speak with our manager?”

“Wickham. Tell him Ryder Montgomery needs to speak with him. Don’t bother to call the manager,” he said, anticipating her. “Or security. Just tell Wickham I’m here to discuss the charges against his daughter-in-law for assault.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. If he’s okay with that, I’ll go on home and make that happen. If he’s not, he’ll talk to me.” Ryder just shrugged as she lost her composure enough to goggle at him. “I’ll wait.”

He stepped back, glanced around. Looked like a hell of a nice bar off the lobby, he noted. He’d have liked to go in—not for a beer, he was driving in this goddamn traffic again shortly—but to see how it was put together.

He could see Hope here, easily. In her excellent suit and her fancy stilts. She’d fit right in with the marble and crystal, with the shine and elegance and flowers so damn big he suspected steroids.

“Mr. Montgomery.”

He turned, studied the man in the dark suit. “Security? No need to toss me out. I’ll just see Mr. Wickham in court.”

“I’ll escort you to Mr. Wickham’s office. And remain.”

“Works for me.”

They walked up a curving staircase, along a mezzanine, then through a set of oak doors into a small secondary lobby.

Security knocked on another set of doors.

“Come!”

“Mr. Montgomery, sir.” The security guard stepped back, stood at parade rest.

Wickham remained seated at a heavily carved desk that might have suited a president or the king of some small country. He had a shock of white hair, hard blue eyes, and a smooth golden tan.

“I don’t allow people to threaten my family.”

“No?” Ryder hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “Me either. Let me lay this out for you, and when I have you can say what you want to say, and we’ll be done. My family owns Inn BoonsBoro. Hope Beaumont is our innkeeper.”

“I’m aware.”

“Good, saves time with the setup. I’m not going to get into what went on with Hope and your son, your part in it or anyone else’s. I wasn’t around, and that was then anyway. This is now.”

“My family has nothing to do with yours, Mr. Montgomery. And I take threats against my son’s wife very seriously.”

“Good, you should, because they’re damn serious. As to your family having nothing to do with mine? You’re going to need to reevaluate that when I’m done. A couple of months ago your son showed up at our inn. He told Hope you had an offer for her, a big fat one to lure her back. That’s your business, and I can’t blame you for trying. She’s damn good at what she does. Then he made her a side offer. She comes back to him, too, and he’ll take care of her. He’ll set her up, make it worth her while.”

A red flush—temper or embarrassment—rose onto Wickham’s cheeks. “If you think you can come in here —”

“I’m going to finish, Mr. Wickham. She turned him down. If you knew her at all you’re not surprised by that. She left here because he’d lied to her, cheated on her, used her. And when she learned he was going to marry someone else, she got out of the way. But that’s not enough for some.”

“What was, or is, between your employee and my son is their business.”

“There’s no is, and you know it.” Ryder could see it. “He, and his crazy wife, made it my business. Today, this morning, your son’s wife made the trip to Boonsboro, to our inn. She drives a red BMW Roadster, this year’s model. She had on mile-high shoes with red soles and one of those sleeveless jobs that looked like someone painted a garden on it. You could probably check on her wardrobe choice this morning if you need to verify. She caused a scene on our property. I witnessed this myself, as did a number of others. She yelled accusations, threats. She thinks Hope’s sleeping with your son again, which I can guarantee she’s not—but he’s sure as hell sleeping with somebody not his wife. Women know. She topped it off by physically assaulting Hope, and wouldn’t stop or leave until we threatened to call the cops.”

A visible heaviness settled over Wickham, and sounded in his voice when he spoke. “Sit down, Mr. Montgomery.”

“No thanks.”

“Jerald.” Wickham waved to the security guard, who slipped quietly out of the room.

Wickham himself rose, turned to the window overlooking the back garden and patio of his hotel. “I’m not comfortable discussing my family with you. I’ll only say I have no reason not to believe you.”

“That saves time, too.”

“Were the police called? Have charges been filed?”

“Not yet.”

“What do you want?”

“I want five minutes alone with your son, and for your daughter-in-law to spend thirty days in a cell. But I’ll settle for neither of them coming near Hope or our place, neither one of them contacting her in any way, for any reason. And if I hear they’re spreading lies that damage her reputation, I’ll do a lot worse to theirs, and by proxy yours and your hotel. Make that happen, and we’re square.”

“You have my word.” He turned back, face grim, and Ryder saw the kindling of disgust in his eyes. “Neither my son nor his wife will trouble Hope again, in any way. I regret, deeply, they’ve already done so.”

“All right. I’ll trust your word; you’ll trust mine. But I’m going to warn you, Mr. Wickham, if they don’t keep your word, I’m going to cause them a whole shitload of trouble.”

“I understand.” He picked up a card from the desk, wrote something on the back. “If you would contact me— this is my private line—should either of them break the word I’m giving you. Trust me, Mr. Montgomery, I can and will cause them both more trouble than you. And I will.”

“Fair enough.” Ryder pocketed the card.

“I’ll have Jerald show you out.”

“I know the way. Let’s hope we don’t speak again.”

RYDER FOUGHT THE miserable traffic toward home, and felt some of the tension dissolve when he caught his first sight of the mountains as he traveled north.

He’d done what seemed right—not as personally satisfying as kicking in Jonathan Wickham’s balls—but it wasn’t about personal satisfaction.

He trusted Wickham would make good on his word. God knew what kind of wrath and pressure he’d bring to bear, but Ryder imagined it would be fierce and plentiful.

It hadn’t just been anger and embarrassment he’d seen on Wickham’s face at the end. There’d been regret, too.

He turned off the highway, took the winding, blissfully familiar road that wound through those mountains, into and out of Middletown, and straight into Boonsboro.

He turned at The Square, spotted Beckett’s truck—but not his dog as he pulled in beside it.

He did catch a glimpse of Hope in one of her floaty dresses, serving drinks to some guests in The Courtyard.

He needed to check on what had been done at Fit in his absence, and at MacT’s, needed to find his dog and an ice-cold beer.