The young woman on the run from an abuser.
Aunt Myrtle May when she found herself a widow at fifty-five with no place to go.
During high school, the inn had burst at the seams during the spring and summer, especially the Fourth of July weekend, and again for Christmas holidays.
He’d worked twelve-hour days all summer, but he’d loved it. Granddaddy had taken every opportunity to teach him about the inn and the business.
The inn wasn’t just a place to lay one’s head; it was a shelter, a respite, a home away from home. His grandparents had made sure people were comfortable and safe. They’d made sure Ben was comfortable and safe.
The interaction with the Walkers reminded him of why he’d started in the hotel business—the gratification of helping people. Of being the port in a storm.
When he’d interviewed with Viridian, they’d offered him excitement and travel. So far, they’d delivered in spades. But he hadn’t realized how much he missed the sweet interactions with guests.
“Ben?” Mr. Walker walked toward him holding an antique doorknob. “This came off the bathroom door.”
“I am so sorry.” He’d have to check all the doorknobs. Myrtle May said Ray had a lifetime of supplies out in the barn. “Do you want to change rooms?”
“No.” Mr. Walker winked. “After all, we are on our forty-eighth honeymoon.”
Ben tried not to laugh. “Yes, sir.” What else could he say? Enjoy? Have a nice night? Go get ’em, tiger? But in a small way, he envied the man. He had true love. Ben couldn’t remember the last time he’d been on a date.
The inn, unlike the Emerald, or any of the hotels he’d opened, had a history. The inn was his history. No one would remember who opened the Emerald or any of the properties in London or Budapest.
But the Walkers remembered his grandparents almost fifty years later. Granddaddy used to say, You can’t take it with you, but you can leave it behind.
What was Ben leaving behind? What did he want his legacy to be? What was his calling? Helping the rich and famous book a spa or limo? Climbing the corporate ladder? Nothing wrong with any of it if it was his calling.
The UT fight song sounded from the office where he’d left his phone. Ben hurried to answer. Jordan. On FaceTime. This could only mean trouble.
“You know you owe me.” Cami tapped the brakes. Nashville’s crazy I-65 rush-hour traffic slowed to a crawl again as she and Annalise made their way toward Cumberland Oasis, Nashville’s poshest country club on the river. It had been five days since Cami had heard from Ben. He had completely ignored her offer. She squeezed the steering wheel and tapped at her brakes again. Ugh, traffic. Thankfully, the exit was coming up in a few miles.
“I know, and I’m grateful.” Annalise brushed on mascara in the light of the visor mirror, then stuffed the tube in her small makeup tote. “I just need a second set of eyes and ears on this one.”
“Is she a bridezilla?”
“Not really, but she has a lot of ideas.” Annalise sat back with a sigh. “She texts me every day with something new and different. She’s very invested.”
Was it Cami’s imagination or did Annalise have bags under her eyes? Her sister’s normally pristine hair was pulled back with barrettes, and since when did she put makeup on in the car? It wasn’t like she hadn’t had time to get ready at home.
“What’s going on with you? I haven’t talked to you since you closed the Emerson deal.” Annalise pulled out some lipstick and gazed into the mirror again.
“Busy, figuring out the move to Indy, interviewing people, talking to Realtors, the contractor. And why are you putting on makeup in my car?”
“The day got away from me.” Annalise snapped the lipstick back in the tube. “I still can’t wrap my head around the idea of you moving. Dad never said a word to me.”
“Nor me before I was in his office.”
“What am I going to do without you?” Annalise said. “I asked Steve if we could move to Indy. He’s working from home most of the time, so why not? But my career is most definitely here. I don’t want to start a wedding planning business in a new city.”
Annalise was well on her way to becoming one of Nashville’s top wedding planners. She’d worked hard to build her reputation. Thus, the appointment with Vicki Carmichael, an up-and-coming country music star. Inside Nashvegas called her the next Carrie Underwood.
“I’ll only be gone a couple of years. The absence will make our hearts grow fonder.” Cami gave her sister a teasing smile.
“Promise me you’ll get a social life in Indianapolis.”
“If social life means work, work, work, then yes, I promise.”
“I’m never going to be a matron of honor at your wedding, am I?”
