“By early spring at the latest. The Summer House, as they called it back in the day, was nothing more than a glorified porch used for bingo nights and dances. I’m hoping the spa and fitness center will help to attract those small conferences.”
Lifting her chin, Presley stares up at the sky. “Summer House. I like it. Makes me think of the movie Dirty Dancing. Why not call the complex the Summer House Wellness Center?”
Stella’s blue eyes grow wide. “That’s perfect! The Summer House part will remind our older repeat customers of days gone by, and the Wellness Center will appeal to the younger generation keen on being fit and healthy. You’re a genius, Presley.”
Presley smiles at her. “Hope Springs Farm is ideal for destination weddings. Are you marketing to brides?”
“Hmm . . . good question. Whether we’re officially marketing to them, we’re doing all right in the wedding department. We have one booked nearly every weekend next summer. If only I could find an event planner to work with the brides and their mothers. I’ve been recruiting, but no one in this town meets the criteria. I need to broaden my search to the larger Southern cities.”
“How hard will it be to entice someone to move from a cosmopolitan metro area to a small town? Hope Springs is quaint, but . . .” When her voice trails off, Presley’s implication hangs in the air between them.
“Quaint or not, Hope Springs is still a small town. He or she will face a culture shock to be sure. I did when I moved here from New York.” Stella chuckles. “It’s funny. I considered myself the quintessential New Yorker, but I love living in the mountains with all this wide-open space to breathe in the fresh air. Quaint, in my mind, means old-fashioned. Once you get to know the town better, you’ll realize it has a certain laid-back sophistication about it.”
“So, tell me more about the job. I’m from Nashville. I may be able to help you find someone. You mentioned convention and wedding planning. What other types of events do you anticipate?” she asks, more curious about the job than anything.
“Well, let’s see. Besides graduation and parents’ weekends, we have many events associated with Jefferson College, like alumni and prospective students’ weekends. We’re scrounging around today to host a last-minute booking for a group of football parents tomorrow night.”
“What about your locals? I imagine your beautiful new facility would be a hotspot for the citizens of Hope Springs.”
“I’m not sure why the local business has been so slow to come back,” Stella says, her expression pinched. “I have confidence in our menus. Our food is spectacular and reasonably priced. We went down to the wire on the renovations. We almost didn’t reopen on schedule. I’d hoped to have a party, a large open house, to celebrate with the community, but I’ve been too busy to plan it.”
“You should make your party a priority. Bringing locals in for a free event would give them the opportunity to see the renovated building and sample your cuisine. And do it while the weather is still nice, so your guests can tour the grounds.” Presley places a hand on Stella’s arm. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so bossy.”
“No apology necessary,” Stella says.
A white pickup truck appears on the narrow road leading from the main building. The driver, wearing jeans and a hard hat and holding a travel coffee mug, waves over at them as he gets out of the truck. Stella blows him a kiss in return.
Presley’s gaze travels to the silicone band on Stella’s left ring finger. “Your husband?”
“Fiancé. He’s also our contractor.” She gestures at the building. “Jack is very good at his job.”
“I can see that. When are you getting married?”
“Probably not until next summer. We haven’t even picked out an engagement ring yet.” She turns away from the construction site. “If you’re headed back up, we can walk together.”
“I’d like that.” As they’re making their way back to the sidewalk, Presley notices another area of construction partially hidden by the forest off to her left. “What’s going on over there?”
“That’s Cottage Row. We’ve demolished the original cottages and are rebuilding them exactly as they were. They’ll be ready by next summer. Our plan is to offer them for weekly rentals.”
“How much land do you have here?”
“Seventy acres total, but much of that is wooded.” As they stroll back to the main building, Stella tells her about the hiking trails and the local bike shop owner who offers guided trips on mountain trails.
Most of the tables on the veranda are occupied. Stella grabs a menu from the hostess stand and shows Presley to a table for two on the edge of the porch. “I need to take care of some business, but I’ve enjoyed chatting with you. If you’re in the mood for decadence, try the french toast with maple sausage links.”
“I might just do that. Thank you.” Presley rarely strays from her strict nondairy, gluten-free diet. But today, when the server comes to take her order, she asks for the french toast. Why not? She’s on vacation.
The fishermen she noticed in the game room last night eat in silence at the two tables nearest her. Their bloodshot eyes tell of their hangovers, and as they pay their bills, she overhears them groaning to their waitress about their long drive back to Atlanta.
As Stella said, the french toast is total decadence, and Presley eats every morsel on her plate. She sits on the veranda for a long time, staring out at the mountains and replaying in her mind the past three years. The time is a blur with her mother’s debilitating disease followed by the funeral and preparations for putting Renee’s house on the market. The realtor has assured Presley that, in the current seller’s market, they’ll have multiple offers the first day. While she has no use for a five-thousand-square-foot house, once it’s sold,
