“Well, land sakes, who do we have here?” A tall, slender woman with bottle-red hair, bright clothes, and her smiling face covered in makeup crossed the lobby to the registration desk. Her huge smile was welcoming and oddly familiar. “Cami Jackson, is that you? My, my, you sure grew up pretty. But I knew you would, yes siree, I knew you would. Just like your mama.”
“Myrtle May.” Wrapped in her business persona, she stepped toward the woman, hand outstretched.
“One and the same.” A whiff of Chanel No. 5 nearly overwhelmed Cami. “Welcome home, girl.” The woman grabbed her in a powerful embrace. “About time.”
Cami stiffened against her cheerful warmth, but then the way she made her feel—like family—encouraged her to relax and hug Myrtle May back.
After Mama died, all the warmth, heart, and traditions evaporated from the Jackson household. Her maternal grandparents had died when Cami was young, and Dad’s parents tried to keep in touch, but they’d retired in England after Grandpa Jay finished his assignment for the Army. Dad stopped taking them to church, and life became a stoic routine of school, homework, dinner, and bedtime. No stories, no singing, no playing in the summer rain. No Hearts Bend Inn.
Myrtle May stepped back and held Cami at arm’s length, giving her a deep inspection. “I know it’s been fifteen years, but my, my, my, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Your mama was a blessing to Vern and Jean and me. We always looked forward to your painting weekends.” Myrtle May gently swept Cami’s bangs aside, her soft fingertips grazing Cami’s forehead. Cami gritted her jaw against a surge of tears and steeled her heart. One more touch, one more word, and she’d lose it. Right here. Right now. This was a mistake. A big mistake. “You have her beautiful eyes. Like dark chocolate.”
“So I’m told.” Cami’s low reply was thick and heavy as she freed herself from the woman’s grip.
“But you’re dressed like your father. Even carrying one of those fancy briefcases.” Myrtle May laughed and wagged her finger at Cami. “Chip off the old block. Good for you.”
Was it, though? For the first time, Cami felt challenged in her soul. But that was Myrtle May—all Southern charm and sharp words.
“What brings you to town, Cami?” Myrtle May moved behind the registration desk. The same one she’d leaned against as Mama checked them into Cottage Three, then chatted with Mrs. Carter about anything and everything. “Can I book you in a room? Cottage Three is out of commission right now, but we have a lovely, relatively remodeled room on the third floor. Great view of the garden.”
“No, um, thank you.” Cami smiled, fighting all sorts of foreign emotions. “I’m looking for the owner.”
“Well, of course. Should’ve known you’d want to see Ben.” Myrtle May walked her to the door. “He’s the one making all that ruckus with the chain saw. Should’ve heard him bellyaching about taking down that old oak tree. You’d think he cut off his own arm.”
“The one with the tree house?” Cami looked toward the side of the porch where the tree had stood. “We were sitting up there when the boards cracked and the whole thing fell apart. We tumbled to the ground.”
Teach her to kiss a boy in a rickety tree house.
“One and the same. Last night’s storm toppled it. I told Ben to be grateful it didn’t land on the inn.”
So, Ben Carter was the owner? She’d not thought of him in years. Any thoughts of him had been locked away with all her other memories of Hearts Bend and the inn.
He had been the “love of her life” from the moment she’d seen him. But what had she known when she was six? The summer they were fifteen, though… She’d given her first kiss to the tall, gangly teen.
On second thought, his kiss had been awesome. She smiled, watching the memory of how they’d fallen and hit the ground with a thud.
“He’s right over there.” Myrtle May gave her a gentle push forward.
The ground between the inn and the tree was spongy from last night’s storm. She’d been smart enough to wear sensible shoes today, or what she thought were sensible shoes—her Valentino calfskin wedges.
Ben’s back was to her as he worked the chain saw through leafy branches. Cami assembled the business persona Myrtle May had dismantled, ready to talk business with her old friend Ben.
Sawdust peppered the air as he worked the saw through a large limb. When it hit the ground, he stood back, cut off the saw, and pushed his goggles to the top of his blue Tennessee Titans ball cap.
“Ben?” she said. “Ben Carter?”
He turned, the chain saw swinging from his hand. “Yes?”
Cami halted mid-step. The man facing her was not the boy she remembered.
He wore a T-shirt, work jeans, boots, a Titans hat with the bill in the back. His bright blue eyes mesmerized her, his high cheeks were pink from a day in the hot sun, and a reddish-blond stubble covered his jaw. His chest and arms were broad and muscled, covered in sawdust, and she was…staring way too long.
“Ben Carter.” She approached, hand outstretched, ready for a firm, businesswoman handshake. “Hi, I’m Cami?—”
“Jackson.” He stared at her through a narrowed gaze and gestured toward his gloved, dusty hands holding the saw. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, yes it has.” She lowered her hand, brushing it against her skirt. “H-how have you been?”
“Good. You?”
