Standing, Presley crawls her way over the row of spectators to the aisle and hurries out of the stands to the safety of the parking lot. She drives around town for an hour trying to figure out her next move. She made a mistake in coming to Virginia. For Rita’s sake and her own, she should let the matter go. But she’s not sure she’s ready to do that. What exactly is she afraid of? Of disrupting Rita’s life? Or the possibility of rejection? Should she cut her trip short and go back to Nashville? Why do that when there’s nothing and no one waiting for her there. Better to be here amongst strangers than with her mother’s ghost in her cavernous house.
Presley turns back toward the inn. She’ll stay a while longer. Maybe by Sunday, she’ll have a better idea of how she wants to handle the Rita situation. If she wants to handle it at all.
She parks under the portico and hands her keys to the valet. Wandering aimlessly around the lounge, she admires the exquisite collection of landscapes by an artist who signs her work Opal. Even though she skipped lunch, she’s still full from her french toast breakfast. When she hears cheers coming from a crowd gathered in Billy’s Bar, Presley investigates the focus of their attraction. She nudges her way through to the front of the crowd where a precious little girl is dancing ballet to Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf. While Presley knows music, she knows very little about dance. From what she sees, this kid is exceptional, poised and graceful for someone so young. She’s dressed all in white—tights, leotard, and tutu—with pink ballet shoes tied up her toothpick legs. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and her eyes are the same golden brown as her skin.
When the song ends, she dances on her toes over to Everett, who lifts her onto his shoulder and parades her toward the entrance. When he puts her down, she glides through the lounge and out of sight.
Everett catches sight of Presley and waves her over to the bar. By the time she gets through the horde of people, he has a club soda with a lime twist waiting for her.
“Your little ballerina is amazing,” she says, taking a sip of club soda. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Jazz, short for Jasmine.” His blue eyes twinkle when he talks about the child, and the notion he’s a decent guy at heart strikes Presley again.
“What’s she doing at the inn? Is her family staying here?”
He shakes his head. “Her mother, Naomi, is our guest services manager.”
“Oh, right. I met Naomi yesterday when I was checking in.”
A customer seated at the bar summons Everett for a refill. When he returns, he asks, “Have you enjoyed your first day in Hope Springs?”
Presley thinks about the field hockey game. Enjoy is not the word she’d use to describe it. “For the most part. I had a nice chat with Stella this morning. I really like her.”
“I knew you would,” Everett says with a nod. “She’s pretty special.”
“I went out to explore the town. While I was gone, a few hundred guests checked in.”
He chuckles. “That’s the way it is around here on the weekends.”
When a gentleman seated next to where she’s standing vacates his barstool, she quickly claims it.
“If you’re thinking of dining in-house tonight, I’ve sampled the specials, and I highly recommend the scallops. If you’re not a fan of seafood, you can’t go wrong with the rack of lamb or roasted duck. Jameson’s is booked for reservations, but the community table is first come, first served.”
“Good to know. And I love seafood. Thanks.”
Customers suddenly inundate Everett with drink orders. With only her empty hotel room waiting for her, Presley remains at the bar, taking her time in finishing her drink. When Everett finally gets a break, she tries to give him her credit card, but once again, he refuses to take it.
“Then charge it to my room,” she says and gives him her room number.
“It’s club soda, Presley. It’s not worth the effort.”
“At least let me tip you.” She places a five-dollar bill on the bar.
“Fine, but only because I don’t want to argue with you,” he says and pockets the five.
Presley leaves the stuffiness and noise of the bar and ventures out to the terrace for fresh air. The sun has begun its descent over the mountains and the view is breathtaking. An attractive group of women is chatting and laughing around a fire pit. One of them smiles at Presley and moves over, silently inviting her into their fold. The women bombard her with questions about herself, and she quickly learns about their lives. They are mostly from the Carolinas and Virginia, except for one from New Orleans. They left their husbands at home for this long-planned girls’ weekend. Their daughters, all seniors at the college, belong to the same sorority. The girls stopped by the inn earlier to visit with their moms but have returned to campus to log a few hours in the library before going to a late-night party. When the moms invite Presley to join them for dinner at Jameson’s, she eagerly accepts. She feels more at ease with these women, whom she’s only known for an hour, than she ever felt with her own mother.
It’s this place, Presley decides, as she’s walking back to her room after dinner. Everyone is in a good mood here. They are on vacation, relaxing on the veranda, breathing mountain air, and eating delicious food. They all have problems awaiting them at home, but they’ve put those problems on hold for the weekend. Presley could totally get used to this fairytale way of life.
With rain in the forecast for the weekend, Presley books a bike outing for Friday morning with Allen Farmer, the town’s bike shop owner. The workout is rigorous and the views are stunning. It’s pushing
