On our way out, Stella gives Cecily a hug. “Everything is perfect.”
Cecily holds up both hands, revealing crossed fingers. “Here’s hoping the entire town shows up.”
“The power of positive thinking.” Stella glances at her watch. “Five minutes until showtime. We should get back to the front entrance.” Downing the rest of her drink, she hands the empty coupe glass to a passing waiter. Presley follows suit with her nearly full one.
After many sleepless nights spent worrying no one will show up, Presley is relieved to see a long line of cars and hordes of people on foot making their way up the drive and sidewalks. Stella’s grandmother and uncle are among the first group to enter the building. While Presley has heard much about Opal and Brian, she has yet to meet them.
Stella introduces Presley to her grandmother first. She takes the older woman’s soft hand in hers. “I admire your work, particularly your mural in Jameson’s,” Presley says. Opal is a tiny woman with penetrating blue eyes and super short gray hair, growing back curly after chemotherapy. “I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been fighting leukemia.”
“Past tense, my dear.” Opal raises a balled fist. “I fought it and won. I kicked that leukemia into remission.”
Presley laughs. “Good for you! You look wonderful. When you’re feeling up to it, I’d love to talk to you more about your art. If you’re interested, I have some ideas of ways we can utilize your talent.”
Rosy spots appear on Opal’s cheeks. “I’m definitely interested. You can get my number from Stella. Call me anytime.”
“In that case, expect to hear from me this week.” Presley turns to Brian, a refined man—upper fifties, maybe sixty—wearing gray flannel pants and a navy sport coat. “I’m Presley Ingram.”
He smiles at her. “Brian Powers. I’ve heard a lot about you from my niece. She says you can work miracles.”
“No pressure there,” Presley says, rolling her eyes at Stella.
Stella smiles at her. “You’ve already performed one miracle in pulling this party together on such short notice.”
Presley wonders why Brian never married. He’s a successful attorney, tall and handsome with white hair and his mother’s blue eyes. He would make an ideal beau for Lucy.
“Be sure to visit the wine cellar,” Presley says to him. “Lucy Jordan, our sommelier, has set up an elaborate tasting. Have you met Lucy?”
“Not yet,” Brian says. “But I’ve heard wonderful things about her.”
“Even if you’re not a wine enthusiast, seeing the tasting room is worth the trip to the basement.”
“Perhaps we should go there first. Mom.” Brian offers Opal an arm and they start off toward the elevators. With a glance back at Stella and Presley, he says, “Good luck tonight, ladies.”
Stella winks at him. “Thanks, Brian.”
The entryway is now a logjam of people. Stella goes into action, meeting and greeting while directing them to other parts of the building and grounds.
Stella has assigned positions for the team members. Naomi, stationed at the reception counter, will answer questions and hand out brochures. Cecily is in charge of Jameson’s, Billy’s Bar, and the lounge. Everett will float between the various bars. Katherine will patrol the inflatables and oversee games on the back lawn. And Presley landed the job of organizing hayrides and overseeing the oyster roast at the barn. What’s not to love about bluegrass music, a bonfire, and roasted oysters? The weather is ideal with brilliant blue skies and crisp, clean autumn air. She’s dressed for the occasion in jeans, cowboy boots, and a cream-colored turtleneck sweater under a long puffy black vest.
For the next hour, Presley chats with locals as they wait in line for hayrides. She meets bankers and nurses, shop owners and schoolteachers. She quizzes them about their experiences at the inn. For some, this is their first visit. For others, they’ve been coming here since they were children.
“I didn’t understand the extent of the renovations,” one stay-at-home mom says. “A group of our friends gets together for birthday lunches at least once a month. We’ll be trying out Jameson’s for sure.”
“Love the blue bar,” says one dental hygienist. “Hope Springs is moving up in the world.”
With a mischievous grin, an orthopedist specializing in sports medicine tells Presley, “I’m going to leave my kids with my parents and book a suite here next week for my wife’s fortieth birthday.”
“My in-laws are coming for Thanksgiving,” an information technologist says with a pained expression. “Maybe I’ll put them up here.”
“You should!” Presley says. “We have plenty planned over the holidays to keep your in-laws busy and out of your hair while you cook your turkey dinner.” She hands him a business card with all the pertinent contact information for the inn.
These conversations confirm Presley’s suspicions. The inn’s marketing efforts, or lack thereof, have failed.
Sometime later, she’s standing beside the bonfire, listening to the band and eavesdropping on the surrounding conversations, when she meets Mark and Marcia Porter, a husband and wife marketing team in their thirties dressed from head to toe in black.
Marcia’s eyes go wide behind heavy black eyeglass frames when she reads Presley’s name badge. “You’re the event planner? We’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
“Or whoever’s in charge of your marketing plan,” Mark adds.
Marcia vigorously nods. “We’ve called and come by numerous times. We’ve left messages with your guest services manager. But no one ever contacted us.”
Because Naomi never relayed the messages, Presley thinks.
Mark says, “Your direct dial numbers should be front and center on your website.”
Aren’t they? Presley doesn’t know. Maintaining the website doesn’t fall under her job description.
Marcia continues, “I mean . . . I hate to say it, but y’all need to get your act together.”
“We’re working through some issues,” Presley says.
“Seriously, your marketing materials are blah.” Marcia sticks out her tongue. “Your agency is better suited for banks and hospitals. And you really should be using a local firm, not one in Roanoke.”
“Calm down, honey.”
