The sound of tires on gravel drew her attention to the window. A familiar truck pulled up the drive, forest green and well-maintained despite its age.
“James,” she said.
Will joined her at the window. “He said he might stop by today. Something about a delivery.”
James Roberts climbed out of the truck, moving with the deliberate economy of someone who spent most of his time alone. He was carrying a large cardboard box, and even from here Tara could see the slight furrow in his brow that meant he was about to do something he found socially uncomfortable. The best-selling author fit the introverted writer stereotype to a T.
She met him at the door, Will a step behind her.
“Morning.” She smiled warmly, hoping to put him at ease. The man always looked like he was bracing for an interrogation. “Come on in. Watch the paint—some of it’s still tacky.”
James stepped carefully over the threshold, his boots leaving faint prints on the drop cloths covering the floor. His blue-gray eyes swept the room with a writer’s gaze, taking in every detail.
“Coming along nicely,” he said. High praise from James, who lived in a stunning glass and wood house.
“Slowly but surely.” Tara eyed the box in his arms. “What’s that?”
He set it on the makeshift table—two sawhorses with a piece of plywood across them—and stepped back as if the cardboard might bite him.
“For the inn. Whatever you need it for, consider it an early housewarming gift.”
Tara lifted the flaps. Inside was an envelope, thick and white, resting on top of what looked like... she pulled it out and unfolded the fabric. A quilt. Hand-stitched, in soft blues and greens that matched the lake outside, with a pattern of interlocking stars.
“James.” Her voice came out hushed. “This is beautiful.”
“It was my grandmother’s. One of them, anyway—she made dozens. I’ve got more than I need.” He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with her reaction. “Figured a bed-and-breakfast could use quilts.”
Will reached past her and picked up the envelope. “May I?”
James nodded tersely.
Will opened it, and Tara watched his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. He showed her the check inside, and her breath caught.
“James, this is too much.”
“It’s not.” His voice was firm despite its quietness. “The inn will be good for this town. Good for the people who come here needing—” He stopped, ran a hand through his hair in that gesture Tara had learned meant he was choosing his words carefully. “Needing what this place offers.”
Will folded his arms, a knowing look settling onto his face. “You know, for someone who claims to hate people, you sure do a lot for them.”
James’s expression flickered—annoyance, embarrassment, something softer underneath. “I don’t hate people. I just prefer them in small doses.”
“Like at Christmas.” Will’s tone was light, teasing. “Anonymous small doses.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” Tara couldn’t help herself. “Because I seem to remember a certain Secret Santa who went to elaborate lengths to help half the town without anyone knowing who was responsible.”
James’s jaw tightened, but she caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “The lottery money was just sitting there. Seemed wasteful not to use it.”
“Mmm.” Will nodded sagely. “Very practical. Nothing to do with caring about your neighbors.”
“Nothing at all.”
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the morning light catching the dust motes floating in the air. Outside, a cardinal called from somewhere near the lake.
“This quilt is from your grandmother,” Tara said finally, running her fingers over the careful stitching. “That’s not lottery money. That’s personal.”
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than usual. “She would have liked this place. Would have liked what you’re building here.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. There are five more quilts where that came from. Let me know if you want them.”
