What if she gave up everything she had worked so hard to build—the lifestyle, the clientele, the independence—and then the spa at the inn tanked? That was a very real possibility because the dynamic would be completely different from what she was doing now.
But the Forsyth Galloway Inn was so special to her. It held so much family history. Shouldn’t she do her part? Or at least care about leaving her imprint on the business, which was supposed to continue on for limitless future generations?
The prospect of tying herself to the inn made her itch the same way that the thought of being married for the rest of her life did.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She paused to look around. She had walked through the front doors so many times, usually in a hurry to get in and out, and now she realized it had been a long time since she had stopped and really looked at the place.
It was heartwarmingly familiar, but at the same time, it all looked new.
Next to the front door, a tall, galvanized metal container held an assortment of umbrellas. Its companion, a leaning coat rack, stood sentry on the opposite side of the door. A grandfather clock ticked rhythmically from the corner. The impressive staircase dominated the center of the room.
There was a plethora of dark wood, antiques and tchotchkes everywhere. A replica of the Eiffel Tower was perched on an end table next to a merlot-colored wingback chair. On the front desk, a porcelain figurine of a woman in a Southern belle’s ball gown held court amid a garden of brochures and pamphlets about things to do in Savannah. Behind that, a collection of teacups and teapots perched on a shelf. There were several arrangements of artificial flowers—some had seen better days. Several paintings created by Elle adorned the dark, paneled walls; some depicted floral landscapes, and others were of local scenes such as the famous fountain in Forsyth Park and a streetscape of the historic downtown area.
“Hello, do you work here?” The voice came from behind her.
No, I don’t work here, but—
The words were on the tip of her tongue and she turned around to see a man holding a huge arrangement of pink and white flowers, mostly roses, with some peonies and ranunculus rounding out the gorgeous work of art.
Flowers.
She loved flowers.
She had often thought that if money were no object, she would have vases of fresh flowers in every room of her house. It was a nice thing to do for yourself.
But she had to admit they were even sweeter coming from someone else. From a man.
Flowers were such a romantic gesture. They were totally impractical. A grand arrangement of cut flowers like these easily set back the sender a couple of hundred bucks.
They were beautiful and expensive and they usually faded within a week. But flowers like these could transform an otherwise ordinary week into something splendid.
Wait—what if they are from Aidan?
Kate’s hand fluttered to her chest as her heart skipped a beat. Hope bloomed at the thought of Aidan making such a wonderful, romantic gesture.
Just as fast, her kicking heart clinched in her chest. Flowers—even if they were simply stunning—did not make a marriage work.
“I sort of work here,” she said to the delivery guy. “I mean, my family owns the inn. How can I help you?”
The delivery guy turned the arrangement and glanced at the card, which was secured on a plastic holder.
“These are for Zelda Clark. Is she here?”
These flowers are for my mother? From whom?
Who was sending her mother flowers like these?
They were a bit too over the top to be from a vendor who might be courting her for business, or from a guest thanking her for a special getaway at the inn.
Kate cleared her throat, swallowing the disappointment that Aidan hadn’t sent them to her, but then again, how would he have known she was here right now? He would have had them delivered to the salon.
“Yes, Zelda works here. I’ll see that she gets them.”
The man pulled a receipt and pen out of his pocket and held it out for Kate to sign. Then he transferred the flowers to her.
The heavenly aroma of roses and fresh-cut greenery tantalized her senses and enticed her to take deep breaths all the way to the kitchen.
She pushed through the double doors ready to begin the inquisition. Her mother and her sister Elle were seated at the wooden trestle table, sipping hot tea out of porcelain cups and giggling about something. Kate wondered if they were talking about the mysterious sender of the flowers. Their heads swiveled toward Kate as she entered the room.
“Aww, you shouldn’t have,” Elle joked.
“What in the world?” Zelda asked.
“I was wondering the same thing, Mom.” Kate set the flowers in front of Zelda. “These came for you.”
Elle’s mouth formed a perfect O, and then her jaw dropped. “Who is sending you flowers, Mom? They’re beautiful.”
Zelda’s eyes were wide, and she looked bemused as she took the card off the pick and opened the envelope. As she read, a pretty smile spread over her lips.
Judging from her mother’s dreamy expression, they were definitely not from a prospective vendor.
Then she returned the card to the envelope, set it on the table in front of her, laced her fingers and placed her hands over the card as if that rendered it invisible.
“Where were we?” she said.
Elle and Kate looked at each other and then back at their mother.
“Um, hello?”
