It was a beautiful place, sweet and charming, cozy in all the right ways. Granny had done the best she could keeping up the general appearance of the inn, but Ben knew, sure as he breathed, the bones beneath were brittle and in need of repair.
In the lobby, the cherry antique reception desk sat on the far wall facing the front door. And it was empty. As was the huge dog bed behind the desk. His great-aunt, Myrtle May, Granny’s sister, was supposed to be there answering the phone, checking email for reservations. But she was nowhere in sight.
“Myrtle May?” Ben glanced down the hall, then to the front porch. How many times had he reminded Aunt Myrtle May to not leave the front desk vacant?
Maybe it was his high-end hotel training, but it made sense to always have someone at the front desk, ready to take reservations and greet the guests.
No wonder business was slow.
Meanwhile, the warm aroma of sweet cinnamon and sugar filled the inn. Walt’s cookies. Best in the world—at least Ben thought so. But don’t tell that to any of the pastry chefs he’d worked with around the world. Or to Haven’s Bakery just down the road.
The inn offered lunch and those amazing cookies all afternoon, along with sweet tea, hot tea, and coffee. Which was a sad shame, because Walt’s coffee had to be the worst tasting cup of mud in the state. Note to self: find a new coffee source.
The grandfather clock next to the piano on the opposite wall chimed the top of the hour. Eleven gongs echoed through the lobby. The lawyer would be here any minute.
Since Myrtle May was out, Ben slid behind the desk and pulled up the reservations. At Ben’s recommendation, Granddaddy had installed an online system, despite Granny’s protests, and insisted everyone, even Walt, learn to use it.
Myrtle May had the calendar open showing only a handful of reservations, which explained the bank balance. With so few bookings, it was a wonder the inn survived. Since the inn was in a trust and Ben was now the owner, he had to pay all the bills after Granny’s funeral.
Maybe he needed to just haul all the boxes to an incinerator and get on with the finances of the inn.
The bell over the front door jingled, and Lawrence Graham, Granny’s attorney, was ushered in with a strong gust of wind. The sunshine from ten minutes ago had disappeared behind an angry cloud.
His warm dark eyes caught Ben’s as he adjusted his suit and tie while he approached the reservations desk. “Weatherman says we’re in for a real doozy tonight. Best tighten down the hatches. How’re you doing, Ben?”
“Exhausted, if I’m honest. I hope you have good news for me.” Coming around the desk, Ben shook the older man’s hand.
Mr. Graham had been his grandparents’ lawyer since Ben could remember. He was tall, dark-skinned, smart, and looked almost the same as he had twenty years ago, only with a graying head of hair.
“Good news? Not so sure, but I’ve plenty of good advice.” He pointed toward the western windows. “Best check that big oak right outside. It’s bending in this wind, and I’m sure it’s rotten. Told your Granny five years ago to get rid of it, but she refused. Said her Benji used to climb that tree.”
“I did. Granddaddy and I built a tree house in it,” Ben said, moving to the window. The tree stood tall, swaying in the gusty breeze, looking steady and strong. He had practically lived in that tree after his parents left him with his grandparents the summer they returned to Papua New Guinea to serve with the Pacific Isle Mission. “I had my first kiss in that tree house. Cami Jackson.”
“Did you, now?” Mr. Graham’s chuckle was full of sentiment.
She’d been cute, fun, and destined to be a great artist. She would come from Nashville with her mother and sit in the shade of the inn’s cottages with her easel and paints. In fact, Cami’s mom had painted the large picture behind the desk. Granny had always said she was just holding it for the family.
One day they’ll come for it.
“We were in the tree when we suddenly heard this loud crack. Next thing you know, we’re falling to the ground, arms and legs flailing.”
Man, had that been fifteen years ago already?
Mr. Graham chuckled. “Did she ever speak to you again?”
“She did, believe it or not. Until her mom passed and she stopped visiting the inn.”
“Sentiment aside, my boy”—Mr. Graham headed for the coffee station—“best take that tree down before it goes down and does some damage.”
He made quick work at the coffee station, pouring a cup of Walt’s coffee. Did Ben apologize now or wait until Mr. Graham pumped his fist against his burning chest?
“Walt’s coffee is in a class all its own.” Mr. Graham took a long swallow. “How are you settling into Hearts Bend and the inn, Ben?”
“Granny was a pack rat.” Ben led the lawyer to the office.
“I told her to get rid of all that stuff too, but it made her feel connected to your grandfather. Can’t say as I blame her.” Mr. Graham eased down into the chair opposite the desk.
“Your parents well? Still missionaries?”
