“That sounds delicious.” He peers over her shoulder at the menu on her clipboard. “What’s up? Why so serious?”
“Stella booked a last-minute cocktail reception for a group of football parents on Friday night. I’ve told her time and again to hire an event planner. I don’t mind coordinating the food, but it would be nice to have someone on the front end plan the menu and organize the extra staff.”
“And the alcohol,” Everett adds. “No one told me about the party, and I’m the one who has to provide the booze.”
“Right.” She pokes his chest with her pencil eraser. “Apparently this group has requested a signature, football-themed cocktail for their party.”
Ideas flood his brain. “That could be fun. How many people are we talking about?”
She shoves the clipboard at him. “A hundred.”
He flips through the menus from past parties. “That’s a large party for such short notice. I have a great recipe for trash can punch.”
She tilts her head to the side. “You mean fraternity party trash can punch? As in Everclear and Hawaiian Punch?”
“Yep. The Jefferson College parents love to party. They’ll be all over it.”
Cecily snatches the clipboard away from him. “You’d better come up with something more original with less alcohol than trash can punch.”
He retrieves his to-go container from the refrigerator. “I thought Stella was actively looking for an event planner.”
“She is.” Cecily sighs. “I don’t mean to rag on her. She’s trying, but she can’t find anyone suitable in this town. She needs to recruit from a big city like Richmond or DC.”
He gives the messy honey-colored bun on top of her head a tug. “Why don’t I come in late morning tomorrow, and we can work up a menu for food and beverage.”
She smiles up at him. “Really, Everett? That’d be awesome.”
“I’ll see you around ten,” he says and leaves the kitchen via the veranda to avoid the fishermen.
Walking the length of the porch, he reenters the building through the main back door. The night clerk is on the phone and Naomi’s face is glued to a computer when he sneaks past the check-in desk. He’s almost to the front door, and he thinks he’s made it when she calls out to him.
“Hey, Everett! Have you gotten yourself a cell phone yet?”
He stops in his tracks. She asks him this at least once a week. She knows it irritates him. Whether he owns a cell phone is none of her business. He doesn’t work for Naomi. Stella is his boss. If he doesn’t owe her an explanation, why does he keep giving her one?
Taking a deep breath, he turns around to face her, but he doesn’t move toward the reception desk. “I told you, Naomi. I’m not getting a cell phone. I’m trying to save money.”
“But what if we need to reach you?”
“If you need to reach me, call the extension in Billy’s Bar. That’s where I spend 90 percent of my time. Most days, I arrive early and leave late.”
“How do you stay connected with your friends and family?” She leans across the counter, as though he’s about to reveal his darkest secret.
“Through email.” She doesn’t need to know that Everett doesn’t own a computer, that he goes to the library once a week to check his email. “I moved to the mountains for fresh air and clean living. Kicking the social media habit is the first step toward a simpler life. If it’s so important for me to own a phone, the inn can buy me one. But I’m not paying for something I don’t need.”
When she starts to argue, he cuts her off. “Why are you here so late, Naomi? And where’s Jazz?”
Naomi glares at him. “She’s asleep in the office, not that it’s any of your business.”
“It’s a school night. Most six-year-olds are in bed.”
“Go home, Everett.” She pivots on her heels and disappears into the reservation office.
He chuckles to himself as he exits the building. What a bully! She can dish it out, but she can’t take it. Why is she working so late when they have a night desk agent and hardly any business?
There’s a nip in the night air, hinting at the winter ahead. With no reason to hurry, he strolls down the long driveway toward town. He rents a studio apartment in a renovated warehouse two blocks from the farm at the intersection of Marshall and Main. Two of the three remaining apartments in the building are occupied. His landlord, a kindly old man who’s a partner in the law firm downstairs, tried to convince him to rent the corner unit with the stunning view of the mountains. But Everett has no use for three thousand square feet when his list of possessions is short—an air mattress, a stack of plastic drawers that house his clothes, and his guitar.
His apartment is directly across from Town Tavern, a rowdy hangout for college kids. There’s always a wait for the outdoor sidewalk seating area. On chilly nights like tonight, they put out space heaters to keep their customers warm.
He throws open the top sash of his only window and straddles the sill with one foot on the iron balcony. He’s accumulated a fan club. They can’t see him with his apartment light off, but they can hear him. Cheers erupt from below when he strums a few chords of his guitar and belts out the first lyrics. Continuing his music career in secret isn’t cutting it for him. Something’s gotta give, sooner rather than later. He came to Hope Springs out of desperation. He was running away, not running toward. Eventually his past will catch up with him.
3
Presley
At seven thirty on Thursday morning, dressed in exercise clothes with her ponytail pulled through the back of a Crimson Tide baseball cap, Presley ventures over to Hillside Drive for her second reconnaissance mission. She parks her
