“If my payment to the Grand was refundable or anyplace else was open,” the man bellowed at plump, fortyish reservations manager Sarah Beasley, “we wouldn’t stay in this dump.” He moved too close to her for Caleb’s comfort.
Yep, his uncle had been right as usual. “I need to get in the middle of that. As much as Sarah has done to help Granddad hold this inn together the past fifteen years, I’m not letting him intimidate her.”
He left Uncle Augo as the elevator opened, then he quick-walked to the reception desk and eyed the guy. “Sarah, need some help?”
“You could get some cookies for these little cuties.” Her uplifting voice and unwavering gaze on him silently spoke of her expertise in dealing with problem guests.
Glancing at the orange-shirt man every few moments anyway, Caleb reached over to the bakery box at the other end of the desk, snatched five chocolate chip cookies, and handed them to him. When the family headed toward the elevator, he leanedtoward Sarah and whispered, “I’ll bet those kids won’t taste a single cookie.”
“Then we’ll give them more later.” She pushed back a strand of her straight blonde hair. “Glad he stopped yelling once you came over.”
“He said only what everybody else thought. Each time the lobby door opens, I brace myself for disappointment in the guests’ eyes.”
The look he’d seen too often today, whenever a would-be Grand Hotel occupant crossed his wide, time-mellowed threshold.
“Not your fault.” Sarah spoke in low tones. “Nobody could turn this place around in the two weeks you’ve been here.”
Maybe, but at least none of the guests had recognized him. He ran his fingers through his fresh, short haircut as he scanned the lobby. He’d intended his new, clean-cut image to make him look more respectable. So far, no one had asked why the lead guitar in one of the country’s biggest Christian bands spent the summer—or longer—in a stuck-in-the-past hotel. He could always grow back his long hair and beard if he failed at this career and went back to his old one.
Make thatwhenhe failed.
Caleb grabbed the last four still-warm, napkin-wrapped chocolate chip cookies and a box of fudge, the remnants of his earlier panicked requests to the Fudge Shop on the Corner and Hudson Bakery. He handed the goodies to another mother of two boys as her husband checked in, although his sweets offerings wouldn’t make up for the serious downgrade in accommodations.
“A carriage just pulled in with two more families.”
He recognized the strong Bostonian accent and light flower perfume before he saw Tara Chamberlain, the fiftysomething, silver-blonde-haired town council member and pastor’s wife.And the woman who always seemed to show up when any business in town desperately needed help. Not to mention saving his sanity at the moment.
Tara had apparently slipped in the side door. Wearing a straight, knee-length blue dress and carrying another bakery box, she strode to the reception desk as if on a mission, her low-heeled sandals clicking on the floor. When she opened the box, the aroma of fresh-baked cookies wafted out and somehow made this whole disaster a little more bearable.
“The town is buzzing with bigger news than the flooded Grand,” she said. “Annabelle texted me and said Miss Dahlia Denton and Ariel Sullivan’s private jet just landed at the airport.”
Trust his spinster great-aunt Annabelle Kennedy to know everything that happened on this island. And in this hotel, since she’d lived here all her life except her college years. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll fly back to the mainland for a room.” Because the one thing Caleb did not want to do tonight was apologize to Nashville’s most popular country music stars for his chintzy rooms.
The preacher’s wife gave him that big, unconditional-acceptance grin of hers. The one that always reminded him of his mother. Sometimes it made the old guilt rise up in him so strong he could barely breathe.
“No, they’ll stay on island as they promised. Miss Dahlia would turn in her wigs and sequins before she’d go back on her word.”
True. “We still have a chance. The Grand’s assistant manager said he didn’t know yet whether the presidential suite had flooded.”
Tara glanced at the family of four still waiting near the desk, the boys flopping around on one of the worn sofas, whackingeach other with throw pillows. “I’ll show them to their room so you can check in the next family.”
Caleb reached behind the desk and grabbed two oversized brass keys from the row of hooks. He handed the keys to Tara. “Appreciate the help. Room 203.”
The room with the worst view and the ugliest 1980s décor.
She grimaced a little then recovered. “Sure about that?”
“It’s my last clean room.”
“Then it’ll do. By the way, good idea to bless the guests with the cookies and fudge.” Tara gave him that too-cheerful smile that always meant she was trying to walk by faith, not by sight. “But you need to decide where to put Miss Dahlia and Ariel.”
Tara was right, even if he didn’t want to admit it. “Miss Dahlia always demands the Grand’s presidential suite.”
She grinned. “Better get yours ready. After I get this family upstairs, I’ll come back and check in the rest of the mob, and Sarah can go with you to the third floor to get those rooms ready.”
“Can you handle our outdated reservations system?”
She waved her pink-fingernailed hand. “It was outdated when I worked here twenty years ago, so yes. I’ll put the next family in 301 and go from there.”
