“Speaking from personal experience, getting away helps put your life into perspective. There’s something magical about this place, the history of the inn and being in the mountains. And Stella has done a commendable job of recruiting her management team. We work well together. Most of us are young and hungry for success.”
Presley nods. “I’ll keep that in mind when I talk to Stella tomorrow.” She removes her phone from her purse. “What’s your number? I’ll text you mine, so you can share your landlord’s contact information.”
Here we go, Everett thinks. Why does every conversation circle back to the phone? “I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have what? A phone?” she asks, distracted as she thumbs through texts. “Did you leave yours back at the apartment? You can text me the information later.”
“No, Presley. I don’t own a phone. I’m taking a break from social media. I highly recommend it. There’s a withdrawal period of about a week. But now, I’m way more productive and much less distracted.” He clears his throat to emphasize his point.
Presley looks up from her phone. “Oh. Sorry.” She drops her phone in her bag. “You’re crazy, Everett. Not having a phone is social suicide.”
He laughs. “You should try it sometime. You might be surprised.”
He feels her eyes on him, studying him. She’s suspicious of him because he doesn’t own a phone.
The portico is empty of valet attendants and guests when Everett pulls up in front of the inn. “I plan to be here early tomorrow,” he says. “I imagine a fair number of guests will spend the day drinking in the bar instead of standing in the rain at the football game. I have the landlord’s contact information at my apartment. If you decide you want to get in touch with him, stop by after your meeting with Stella, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Sounds good.” She opens the passenger door, but she doesn’t get out. “And Everett, I didn’t mean to judge you about the phone thing. Maybe I need to try life without mine. Maybe a drastic change of lifestyle will show me the path to the future. Because, after these last few years with my mother, I seem to be treading water, not sure in which direction to swim.”
“If you truly feel that way, Presley, I recommend you think seriously about taking this job, if only for a year or two.”
“I will. I promise.”
“One more thing, Presley. I think ditching your phone would mean career suicide for an event planner.”
Presley laughs. “I think you’re probably right. Goodnight, Everett.” She slides out of the truck and hurries inside, his red rain jacket flapping in the breeze behind her.
8
Presley
Presley spends a sleepless night contemplating every aspect of accepting the job. Planning events and weddings at a resort like the Inn at Hope Springs Farm is her dream job. She’d prefer to live in a Southern city like Savannah or Charleston or Richmond. To be considered for a job of this magnitude in any of those places would require experience she doesn’t have. At Hope Springs Farm, she’d be the primary event planner. She’d be in charge, answering only to Stella and the guests whose parties and weddings she’s organizing. After two or three years, when she’s more qualified, she can apply for jobs in a more glamorous city.
Logistically, the move wouldn’t be difficult. She’d fly back to Nashville on Sunday as planned, load up her Volvo with clothes and other essentials, and return to Hope Springs on Monday. Her realtor can handle the sale of her mother’s house. Most of her high school friends are living elsewhere. There’s absolutely nothing else keeping her in Nashville.
Rita ends up being the deciding factor. While Presley’s not yet ready to reveal her true identity to Rita, the thought of living in the same town with her biological mother appeals to her. It buys her time, allowing her to warm up to the situation. Maybe Presley will become friends with Rita, before she confesses that she may be Rita’s daughter.
By the time Presley enters the general manager’s office at nine o’clock sharp on Saturday morning, she has talked herself into accepting the job. Stella—looking stylish in black leggings, booties, and a gray knit top—comes from behind her mahogany desk to greet her.
The office is handsomely decorated with a small conference table, comfortable seating area, and two large windows overlooking the front lawn. Presley circles the room, studying the framed photographs of famous people who’ve visited the inn over the years. She recognizes musicians and actors and politicians. There’s even one of John and Jackie Kennedy.
“I had no idea the inn was such a hot spot for the rich and famous,” she says.
“In its heyday, the Inn at Hope Springs Farm was one of the South’s best-kept secrets. If you’re interested, check out some of the old photo albums in the library.”
Presley gives her an eager nod. “I’ll be sure to check them out.”
“Shall we?” Stella motions her to the seating area. “I had breakfast sent over from the kitchen.”
Presley sits down in one of four leather chairs. On the coffee table is a tray that bears an insulated coffee carafe and a platter of pastries.
Sitting down in the chair nearest her, Stella pours coffee into two china mugs. She hands a mug to Presley and then peels back the plastic wrap on the pastries. “Help yourself.”
“They look delicious.” Presley chooses a cinnamon roll and one with cream cheese and blueberries.
Stella says, “I’d like to congratulate you on a job well done last night. I’m comping your room, unless you’d rather I pay you outright.”
Presley smiles at her generosity. “Neither is necessary.”
“Oh yes, it is. You worked hard, and you earned your keep. Your stay this weekend is on the house.” Coffee mug in hand, Stella sits back in her chair and crosses her legs. “Now,
