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We could’ve made the list longer but we weren’t sure how much we’d be able to accomplish, especially since Mom’s health declined faster than we anticipated. All that mattered in the end was spending time together, regardless of what we were doing.
“Well, Mom, I’m here. We can cross off number four.” I blink away the tears, and stuff the list back into the bag.
“Are you going to come inside, or what?” a raspy female voice says from the porch. “You’ve been standing in the same spot since the cab drove off.”The woman uses a leopard-print cane to steady herself as she descends the ramp leading off the porch. With a silver bouffant hairdo, a string of pearls around her neck, and a sleeveless cream shift dress hanging from her thin frame, she carries herself with an air of confidence and elegance.
I let out a sheepish laugh. “I’m sorry. I was just admiring the grounds. It’s even more beautiful in person than it was in the pictures on the website.”
“Everything’s better in real life than it is from behind a computer screen, my dear.” She smiles wide, and her crystal-blue eyes sparkle. “You must be Charlene.”
I roll my suitcase beside me along the path. “You can call me Charly. Are you Mrs. Holden?”
“The one and only.” She waves a dramatic hand over her head. "But you can call me Bea.”
Beatrice Holden is the owner of the inn who I’ve been corresponding with. Her sweet words wrapped around me like a comforting hug when we spoke. Or maybe the prospect of her maternal companionship felt like it could temporarily fill the Mom-shaped hole in my heart.
I reach my hand out in front of me as I approach the porch. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I can’t thank you enough for accommodating me for the summer.”
She slips her wrinkled, perfectly manicured hand into mine, and gives it a firm shake. “The pleasure is mine. How was your ride up here? You’re from New York, yes?”
I nod, hauling my suitcase behind me up the wooden ramp. “Yes, born and raised in Manhattan. The train ride went by quickly. I had a good book to pass the time.”
She waves me along, and climbs back up the wooden ramp. “You’re a reader. That’s fantastic. You’ll love our library.”
Excitement spikes through my veins, just as it did when I saw the library listed under the list of amenities on the website.
Beatrice reaches the top, and taps the toe of one of her cream pumps with her cane. “They’ll bury me in these shoes, you know. I’ve always said that a good pair of heels makes a woman feel like she can take on the world.”
I glance down at my canvas slip-ons. “Mine are made for taking on the busy streets of Manhattan.”
She clicks her tongue as she swings open the creaky wooden door. “I’ll have to take you into the village one of these days. We can shop ‘til we drop. Legs like yours deserve to be accentuated with a stunning pair of heels.”
“You’d get along with my mother. She always dressed to impress, even if she was only going to the farmer’s market on the corner.”
Sadness washes over her expression. “I’m sorry you lost her so soon, dear.”
Me too. I brush it off, not about to spend this trip wallowing in grief. “Thank you.”
Beatrice gives my forearm a squeeze, and steps inside. “It’ll be nice to have another female around. My grandson is a bit of a stick in the mud.”
“I heard that,” a deep voice retorts.
“I meant you to, my boy.”
My head snaps to theboyBeatrice referred to as her grandson, and my stomach does a somersault.
Thick, dark-brown hair falls around his face in a disheveled heap, the matted strands meeting his overgrown five o’clock shadow. Sable eyes peer out from under furrowed brows the way a jungle cat watches its prey while camouflaged in the grass. I swallow as my gaze falls to his broad shoulders wrapped in a tight white T-shirt, covered in what looks like streaks of dirt. With his arms crossed over his chest, his biceps bulge and the ropy muscles in his forearms dance under his olive skin.
Beatrice’s grandson is no boy—this unkempt mountain of a man towers over me by almost a foot. But instead of welcoming me like his friendly grandmother, as most would do when faced with a newcomer—especially a paying newcomer—his unwavering scowl remains, like it’s been permanently carved into stone.
A shiver dances down my spine.
“This is Charly,” Beatrice says to her grandson as she makes her way behind the desk.
I drop my bags, and extend my hand over the counter. “Nice to meet you. I’ll be staying here for the summer.”
He looks at my hand like it’s a hissing snake. “There’s a problem with your room.”
Beatrice whacks him in the leg with her cane. “Where are your manners, you brute? Shake the lovely girl’s hand.”
