This woman appears in her upper forties. No older than fifty. Presley is thirty years old. Which makes the timing right for that woman to have had an unwanted pregnancy in her late teens or early twenties.
Where are Sam and Carolyn? Do they still reside in the house? And what about this woman’s husband? Is he late coming home from work? Or is she divorced?
The woman ends her call and drops her phone into her purse. Removing the mail from the black box to the right of the blue door, she sits down on the front steps and sorts through a stack of envelopes. She’s smiling now, her phone conversation apparently forgotten. Presley is tempted to introduce herself. But what would she say? “Hey. You don’t know me, but I think I may be your daughter.”
The woman looks up from the mail and across the street at Presley. They lock eyes for a fraction of a second. A shiver runs down Presley’s spine, and she averts her eyes. Did the woman see her? Is she making note of the license plate number and make and model of the rental car? Presley’s not ready for this. Breathing deeply so as not to hyperventilate, she starts the engine and drives off.
She heads north to Main Street and west for another six blocks to the Inn at Hope Springs Farm. When researching hotels for the long weekend stay, she was intrigued to see the prominent luxury property had recently reopened after extensive renovations. She’s booked herself a suite. After what she’s been through the past eighteen months, a little pampering is justified.
Surrounded by a crop of yellow and purple pansies, the American and Commonwealth of Virginia flags flap in the breeze in the center of the circular driveway as she travels up the hill to the main building. Under the portico, a uniformed bellman awaits her arrival.
Opening her car door, he says, “Welcome to Hope Springs Farm. Are you checking in this evening?”
“Yes, sir. Presley Ingram is my name.” She hands him the car keys and a ten-dollar tip. “Please make certain my suitcase gets to my room.”
He tips his hat to her. “Will do, madam. Enjoy your stay.”
The inn’s interior is a stylish mixture of old world and new. Hardwood floors swathed in pale Oriental rugs. Antique chests and end tables combined with contemporary seating. Presley feels as though she’s back home in her mother’s house in Nashville as she makes her way through the wide front hall to the reception desk. A striking black woman greets her, introducing herself as Naomi Quinn, the guest services manager. Presley provides her name, and Naomi locates her reservation.
Looking up from her computer, Naomi says, “I have you booked for a one-bedroom mountain-view suite on the third floor.”
“That sounds lovely,” Presley says, handing her a credit card.
Naomi clicks a button and paperwork spits out of her printer. “If you’d like a cocktail or a glass of wine before dinner, off the lounge to your left is Billy’s Bar. Next to the bar, our restaurant, Jameson’s, serves three meals a day, including a complimentary buffet breakfast from seven until eleven in the morning.” Her arm shoots out with finger pointing in the hallway opposite the lounge. “The elevators are down that way on your right.”
“Thank you,” Presley says, taking the key folder from her. “I’d like to have a look around down here before heading up. Will you please advise the bellman of my room number?”
She lifts a walkie-talkie. “I’ll do that now.”
Naomi’s smile doesn’t meet her eyes, and Presley senses something disturbing about her. She’s friendly enough, but she seems sad. More than sad. Troubled. Perhaps Presley is seeing her own somber mood reflected in the woman’s big brown eyes.
Renee had always viewed Presley’s uncanny ability to read other people’s feelings as a curse. But she finds her people reader helpful in gauging how to respond to them. And she’s getting powerful signals to proceed with caution where this woman is concerned. Let it go, Presley. You’re only here through the weekend.
She wanders down the hallway to the right. A couple is drinking tea by the fire in a cozy wood paneled library. A group of men dressed in khaki fly-fishing attire occupy the adjacent game room. Two of them shoot pool while the others watch a golf tournament on a large-screened television. Moving along, she discovers the octagonal-shaped solarium at the end of the hallway unoccupied. Groupings of rattan furniture, painted a forest green color with cushions covered in a tropical leaf fabric, take up much of the space. She circles the glass bubble of a room. Stone buildings dot the landscape leading to a shimmering lake, while beyond, a mountain range blazes orange with fall foliage. Tomorrow, weather permitting, she plans to explore the grounds.
Leaving the solarium, she works her way back through reception to the lounge on the other side. Richly textured fabrics in hues of gray make up the upholstered furniture and drapes adorning the floor-to-ceiling windows. Accents in various shades of blue add pops of color. The overall effect makes for a warm and inviting space to visit with friends.
She passes through the lounge and enters Billy’s Bar where the patriotic décor features carpet splashed red, white, and blue, and paneled walls painted a high-gloss indigo blue. A marble-topped bar stretches the length of one wall, behind which stands an attractive male bartender approximately her age.
Presley roams about the room, studying the rock and roll memorabilia adorning the walls. Electric guitars displayed in acrylic
