“Bad news?” Ariel bent over and scrawled her name on the shirt the best she could while draping it over her knee.
When she’d finished, Aunt Dahlia reached for the shirt. “Now, what could be so bad that we’d up and go home no sooner than we got here? And what’s your name, child?”
“Harry Campbell. That’s my grandpa, Finley Campbell, in the wagon. But would you please give me my tip first too?”
Ariel slipped over to the wagon, drew a twenty from her bag, and dropped the bill into the can markedTips.
Aunt Dahlia gave him a theatrical wink, then scribbled his name and hers on the shirt. “You’re smart enough to make it in show biz, Harry. Now give me the news.”
“The Grand Hotel sprang a leak. There’s water everywhere, even in your suite. They’re sending the guests to Island House Inn. But a lot of them went in, looked around, walked right back out, and called us for a ride to the ferry.” He puffed out his chest. “I got a tip for bringing them in and another tip for taking them away.”
“I remember Island House as homey and comfortable.” Years ago, of course. Surely they’d refreshed it since then.
“The inn looks like it always does—not quite ready to fall down. And they didn’t have enough rooms ready.”
Aunt Dahlia sighed, casting a glance at Ariel, then back at Harry. “How do you know so much about the hotels?”
He gave her a squinty look. “Haven’t you ever lived in a small town?”
“Well, yes, and I guess that explains it,” her aunt said. “Since you know everything that goes on around here, Harry, tell us about the other hotels or bed-and-breakfasts.”
“There’s the Grand, and there’s Island House Inn, and that’s it. Or you could take the ferry to the mainland.”
He sounded earnest enough, but should they take travel advice from a precocious boy? She glanced at the older man, who’d eased himself down from the wagon and now carried the rest of their luggage to the dray.
“My grandson’s telling the truth,” the man called in the same distinctive, somewhat Nordic island accent her dad had. “The Grand Hotel redirected all their guests to Island House Inn.”
Then it hit her.
She’d soon land at Island House. Not the Grand—the atmosphere she’d counted on to stoke her creativity. Help her find her path.
Save her pride.
“Do you want to go to the ferry?” Harry asked.
“No, we want to help the local economy.” Aunt Dahlia made up her mind in a flash as usual. “Besides, we gave our word that we’d stay on this island and help with publicity for the music festival.”
This could be a bad idea, but…“We could go to my family’s pumpkin farm.”
“Honey, that little bit of a house could never hold us, your family, the writers, and the band.”
Yes, compared to Aunt Dahlia and Ariel’s Nashville-area home, the two-story farmhouse would seem small.
Suddenly, a long-ago memory crossed her mind—one of kindness, warmth, generosity she’d once experienced at the centuries-old inn. “Then let’s go to Island House and rough it. We don’t need a five-star hotel every time.”
“Let’s consult our junior travel agent.” Aunt Dahlia gave her that look that said Ariel should go along with whatever she said. “Harry, would we like Island House?”
He nodded. “At first, I didn’t think so. But now I know you will.”
“Give us your number, Harry, and you can be our driver during our stay.” Her aunt eyed the wagon. “If your fleet of horse-drawn vehicles includes carriages and not just wagons.”
“Me and Grandpa work for the Quinn livery, and they have two dozen new white carriages. We can come back and pick you up in one.”
Ariel couldn’t help grinning at the junior businessman. “Thanks, but our family is coming for us.”
Harry rummaged under the driver’s seat, produced a handmade business card on heavy paper, and passed it to Ariel, who checked it out, showed it to her aunt, then pocketed it. “I could have made them on my Chromebook, but Grandpa thinks people like this better.”
“He’s right.” Aunt Dahlia turned to Ariel, brows raised. “It’s settled then? We’ll spend the month at Island House?”
