“I see.” His lips turned down in disapproval. “Then take this summer to grow up and reconcile. Does a body no good to cut off the One who knows you better than you know yourself. He’s got a plan.”
Really? Because when Ben’s parents left him in Hearts Bend twenty-six years ago, he’d been pretty sure God didn’t care a thing about him.
3
Cami startled awake at the blaring horn of a tornado warning. Stumbling to the living room, clicking on lights, she found the remote and turned on the weather news.
The meteorologist said a funnel cloud had been spotted about two miles from downtown. Cami perched on the edge of her sofa and watched the images outside her building move closer. She had an emergency bag prepped and stored in the front closet. If she had to evacuate, she’d grab the bag and run downstairs to the basement.
By the time the storm had blown over, she was wired with adrenaline. The day’s first lights broke over the city, and she decided to just get the day going. She showered and dressed, made a green smoothie, then collected her things and headed out.
Call her crazy, but she’d let Keith Niven talk her into visiting the Hearts Bend Inn. She’d been awash with sentiment as he talked about Vern and Jean Carter’s legacy and how much the town loved and needed the inn.
Images of her summer weekends painting with Mama filled her. If she closed her eyes, she was twelve, fourteen, fifteen again. They’d eaten breakfast in their cottage, Cottage Three, then walked to Ella’s Diner for an early dinner.
Mama had always ordered a salad. Cami had always ordered a burger, fries, and vanilla shake. She’d swum in the pool, walked the grounds, and oh, how could she forget? Kissed that boy Ben in the tree house.
Her phone jingled with her assistant’s ringtone. “Astrid, I’ll be in late. Running down to Hearts Bend to check out the inn.”
“I’m not going to ask why, but I need some questions answered when you get back.”
“I’ll be there before lunch.”
On a whim, Cami put together a proposal of nine hundred thousand dollars, which felt extremely generous. She suspected the place needed massive renovations. Which was not the typical Akron acquisition.
They bought properties to tear down and build new. Or to sell to new investors when the market increased. In all her years with the company, Cami couldn’t remember any renovation projects. But no one could deny there was a market for that kind of work.
She told herself the inn was a different project altogether. It was her project. Mama’s inn. For the first time in well over a decade, she wanted to remember her beautiful, kind, sweet, artistic mother. It had to be thoughts of the inn.
Forty minutes and one Starbucks grande latte later, Cami turned her BMW down Hearts Bend Inn’s long, tree-lined driveway and chose a parking spot. Shutting off the engine, she peered through the windshield toward the old building, which stirred even more buried memories.
Cami popped open her door and stepped out, grabbing her attaché case. The inn sat in the glimmering afternoon sunlight, and she felt as if she’d awakened from a long-forgotten dream.
For a moment, just a moment, Mama stood next to her with her paints in hand. Isn’t it beautiful here, Cami?
In the distance a chain saw hummed, and a hint of sawdust scented the clean air. Cami moved toward the large, wraparound porch, caught between the girl she’d been and the woman she’d become.
On first glance, she saw the porch needed a bit of work. The rocking chairs, although inviting, were a bit worn, but a beautiful floral wreath hung on the door.
The inn’s wood siding was new but needed a fresh coat of paint. The flower beds were filled with colorful blooms but needed to be weeded. Mama would have been on her hands and knees pulling those weeds, never mind the dirt that would build up under her nails.
Mrs. Carter, the inn’s owner, had always been proud of her gardens. Mama had loved to set up her easel and paint?—
Stop. She had not come here to walk entirely down memory lane. She mentally took off her daughter hat and put on her business hat. She’d worked hard to forget the past, even the good.
Then what was she doing here? Why would she even consider buying this place? She blamed the smooth-talking Keith Niven.
“Can I help you?” An older man in denim overalls and a white T-shirt lumbered forward. His white hair curled wildly around a fisherman’s hat, which shaded his face. Was that Ray, the gardener who’d been here back in the day? He had to be in his seventies by now.
“Just checking out the inn.”
“Well, go on in. Myrtle May will set you right.”
She reached for the door handle as the chain saw fell silent, then quickly hummed and buzzed again.
Cami wasn’t ready for the impact of the familiar, homey lobby. She drew in a deep breath, hand to her middle, as the memories threatened to break loose. She suddenly closed her eyes, not wanting to see, not wanting to remember.
Oh, this might have been a really bad idea. But then a wafting, sweet aroma of cinnamon and sugar almost toppled her. The cookies. How she’d craved the cookies over the years. They still made them?
