Love Inn (4 page)

Chapter Four

Kitty crossed the graveled drive toward the barn, thankful for the time to collect herself. She hadn’t expected to be so thrilled to be away from the house and alone with Ben. He was definitely a disturbing distraction from her writing, but at least for today, a welcome one.

Getting to know someone was a perfectly normal result of meeting, she reasoned, especially when she needed to formulate human interactions for a story.

She had to have something to work from and Benton Jessup was an alluring subject. He was more than that, she admitted. She wanted to get to know him from a totally personal perspective.

There had been others in her life, even one man who worked for her agent as an associate. He’d seemed more interested in gaining his own client list through whatever means than developing a real intimate relationship though and they hadn’t lasted.

The others, the gold-diggers, didn’t fool her any longer either. She’d worked hard to accomplish the pinnacle where she resided. She wouldn’t be tumbled—in any way, shape, or form, unless she really wanted it and she hadn’t been that interested in some time. But there was no denying that Ben brought out more than interest.

She believed his aloof way of handling her made her put forth so much effort. She smiled to herself as she moved toward him.

The thrill of the chase?

He turned deep blue eyes on her as she walked up. He held the bridle of one of the horses. “Ready to ride?” he asked.

She nodded and he assisted her to her saddle.

“It’s an older horse and used to following others on the trail. Should be uneventful. You won’t get bucked off, and he won’t run you through any low hanging limbs.”

“Thank you. I was never an accomplished rider to begin with.”

He smiled and mounted his horse, then led the way around the barn and toward a hill where he pointed. “Up there is where I want to take you first.”

She inclined her head and let her horse have a bit of lead in following the other. They didn’t talk much while they rode, and she gave over to thoughts about her host.

He was attractive, and had a business, but most of all he had a history haunting him. Great fodder that, she mused. What was it that made him look so sad whenever Ireland was mentioned? What did losing his spouse and partner do to him?

She pondered these thoughts as they slowly climbed upward. The landscape unfurled like a painting coming alive after its long winter sleep. An enormous anthill caught her eye reminding her of how hard ants work and how hard life is.

She itched for the pen and paper she had stowed in her backpack.

Wooden fences lined the property and roses intertwined the boards. She knew in a few months those fragrant blooms would burst into a wild array of color. Breathing in the spring air, life coursed through her veins and she wondered again about the woman Benton Jessup had called wife.

She’d obviously been his partner, in marriage and business. She’d lovingly adorned their home while turning it into a moneymaking venture, and must have been a devoted person to be able to handle running a business, keeping her husband busy and happy, and then the additional trauma of dealing with a terrible disease.

Kitty wondered if she would ever have the kind of relationship that her parents, and Ben and his wife had seen. One both selfless and love-filled.

She glanced at the back of the man on horseback in front of her. What would loving a man like him be like? Would it be difficult filling the first wife’s shoes? Would he always compare his second love to his first?

She shifted in the saddle, suddenly uncomfortable with the way her thoughts were turning.

Focus on the book. Only the book
.

She could have any sort of relationship she wanted through the characters of her novels.  Living their lives vicariously filled in a little of the void. For now.

When they reached the top of the hill, Ben called a halt and asked Kitty to dismount. The view was spectacular and he didn’t want her to miss it.  “If you ever need inspiration in your story, something to move the reader to tears when they imagine they are there, this is the place,” he said, as they stood gazing down.

“It’s lovely. I’ll bet covered in snow in the winter, it looks like a postcard.”

He smiled. “Yes, exactly. I think it was this place that made my wife want to buy the whole package. At least she pushed harder once we stood here and drank it all in.”

Kitty smiled back. “I’ll warrant it was. It makes me very homesick.”

“Ireland is something like this place I guess. Rolling hills, green lands filled with some form of livestock. Little dots of houses all around,” he agreed, pointing.

Then after a while, they walked the horses a short distance away. “The difference is that we have cities encroaching on our wide open spaces, and they are like a wildfire. They won’t stop until they’ve swallowed everything around us.”

“That’s true. Tourism keeps our country free of too much settling.”

He sighed and a small wrinkle creased his brow. “I sure hope tourism keeps my boat afloat. Although the change in this scenery might change my mind about that.”

She touched his arm. “Why? Is there a problem with your little inn?”

He turned and glanced at her. “Well, the bank isn’t hovering at the door or anything, but I have to keep turning a profit or,” he turned and waved at the view of the vale below, “all of this is a goner.”

They hiked a while, neither of them speaking.  Finally, Kitty broke the silence. “It’s been my experience to not be idle if you want to be successful. There’s always something else that can be done to get you to the next level of your ladder to the top.”

He shrugged. “Only so much one person can do. Nikki has been a big help, but she has her own life. Can’t keep counting on her. I’ve got to make this thing work on my own. It’s the only way I know how to work. I can’t afford to take on a business partner right now.”

She nodded. “I’m quite the solitary creative myself. There’s no need for the apologetic tone and there’s nothing that says you can’t make your business profitable, on your own. It’s quite possible.”

“I hope you’re right.” He pointed ahead. “That’s where we’re headed. I brought a light lunch, and we can eat there by the water.”

He showed her to the stream running across the top of the hill, fed somewhere further along, eventually leading to the river or one of its tributaries. The soft gurgle of the water and the warmth of the sun beating down on them made a pleasant setting.

“I’ve praised your fajitas, and your tea making abilities to the moon, but this,” Kitty sighed, gazing at the sights. “This is exquisite.”

“I wish I could take credit, but I’m glad you like it. Lunch soon,” he grinned, pulling a saddlebag off his horse.

As he prepared the food, he watched her. She pulled out a pen and notebook from her backpack and promptly began writing. He wondered what she had seen or heard that sent her to create so intensely. She paid him no mind as she worked, pen scratching on the paper. Lines appeared, the ink marks perfectly formed, slightly leaning. She frowned once and he saw the pen pause, but only a moment before it moved again.

He slid a paper plate toward her heaped with pickles, slices of ham, turkey, cheeses and crackers then opened a canned soda and set it by the plate.

“Light fare, but tasty,” he said, as she glanced at it before selecting a pickle.

She didn’t speak but only chewed and wrote. He ate in silence watching her.

The sun beamed down on her hair turning it into interesting shades of gold and fire. He wondered if she used some special hair care product to make it do that. His wife, Carla, had hair like that. He shook his head at the direction his thoughts began churning.

Kitty sighed deeply, set the pen down and picked up the soda to drink. She caught him staring at her and he dropped his gaze.

“What is it?” she asked, tilting her head and smiling.

He looked on her again. Her curiosity reminded him of a small child, full of wonder and magic at the simple things in life. It scared the hell out of him.

“I was wondering about you and writing. I guess I was staring. Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to bury his embarrassment by gathering crackers and lunchmeat into plastic bags.

“What would you like to know?”

He stopped movement and answered. “Really?”

She nodded.

“What’s it like? How do you capture just the right emotion, or feeling and put it into words?” 

“Writing, dear Ben, is like painting. You see it, hear it, taste or feel it and you paint the paper canvas with it. Words are only visuals placed in place of pictures.”

“Eh, for me, words come too hard. I could probably paint a picture easier.”

She waved at him in disbelief. “Trust me, we all believe writing is impossible. And truthfully, on some days it is the hardest thing to make the words come. But days like this, with the spring on the horizon and the setting so calm and perfect, well, it isn’t hard at all.”

He smiled. Maybe he had succeeded in his mission to bring her here.

“I hope my place can be everything you need for your story, and I’m proud you chose The Inn for your inspiration.”

She took a bite of cheese. “I believe your little place will be the most ideal setting I’ve ever used before. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m using you for a character.”

He picked up the remainder of the lunch fixings and averted his eyes. “You do your stuff pretty good. I guess you know what’s working for you.”

“You said you’d read my work.”

His brow shot up. “Well, some.”

She tossed back her hair. “Did you like it? Don’t be shy now, I’d like to know what you thought. In truth, a man wasn’t my target reader. I’m intrigued that you even were remotely interested.”

He knelt to take her plate and caught a whiff of her cologne, sweet and musky. The combination of thinking about the bedroom scene in her book and how she looked at that moment along with the way she smelled made his body react.

“I think …” He trailed off. Her eyes held him spellbound. “It’s damn good, Kitty.” 

###

Ben stretched out on the blanket, one arm thrown across his face to shield his eyes from the sun. He’d left her to her own devices not wishing to interrupt her need to write with his questions about writing. She’d taken advantage of it and wandered a short distance away, seated herself on a tree stump and let her mind go.

Of course, this book would fly out of her fingers. Her agent wasn’t expecting any drafts to come through the post for months, but Kitty knew it wouldn’t be that long, it never was, especially when the words came as easily as they had done today.

She glanced up after a long passage and chewed on the end of her pen. Something white fluttered down behind a clump of brush, and she decided to investigate. A whole flock of the gulls wheeled overhead, spooked by the movement she made. 

“What on earth?”

She found herself in the midst of what seemed to be a family cemetery. The large granite headstone facing her was obviously newer than the few surrounding it.  Her eye caught on the Celtic cross topping it, a stark reminder of the recent loss suffered by The Inn and its host. She was no longer in Ireland, yet the headstone marker stood before her bearing a beautiful symbol of all she loved.

Kitty smiled and moved to stand closer to it. She brushed some of the weeds away where they threatened to overcome the cross and let her hand rest on the deep markings that etched a life’s beginning and ending.

Love was here. She felt it all around her. In the wind sweetly sighing, in the softness of the ground. And mostly in the way the whole area held its breath as she drank it in. The imagery brought a gasp to her lips. The memory of a lifetime filled with love and memory smote her as she knelt and uttered a small prayer.

Finally, she straightened and stared down at the grave as though she could see all the way through it.

“We all end up here, don’t we?” Ben’s voice, tinged with sorrow, made her jump at the suddenness of it.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on the privacy of your family…I followed a lot of seabirds. Strange they were here, isn’t it? Miles from water?” Her voice wavered, and she rushed into a conversation with herself. “Kitty Beebe, you’re always blundering into something—“

“It’s all right,” he interrupted, moving to stand beside her. “Carla loved company. She wouldn’t mind a bit.”

“The stone’s lovely,” she touched his arm. “She’d approve, I think. I almost feel her presence here and … she is at peace, Ben.”

He nodded and the mask he wore slipped. For just a moment his pain and loss moved aside and allowed the love he denied to shine through. She thought he might speak of the woman he had lost, but he only shifted slightly and waved behind him.

“We need to go back. I have things to do at the house.”

He led the way to where the horses waited, his shoulders straightening with some inner resolve. The wounds of his sorrow had opened yet again and she couldn’t help but feel like she’d been the one to cause it.