The Room with the Second-Best View (16 page)

Almost a full house, and Millie with only one useful arm. Hopefully she would be fully recovered by then. In the meantime, he would no doubt be required to help in caring for the haughty woman upstairs.

Millie retrieved a dessert plate and fork from an end table and set it on the tray. “Look on the bright side. At least we'll be making some money.”

Al brightened. “How much are we charging her?”

“One-fifty per night.” A frown descended on her face. “Though maybe we should give her a discount since she's staying so long.”

“She knew the price before she came.” He shook his head. “Besides, she drove up in a limousine. I think she can afford it.”

The sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs reached them.

“Mrs. Richardson!”

The shout sounded like a summons. Millie hurried to the parlor doorway. “We're in here.”

Al picked up the tray and turned in time to witness Miss Hinkle's appearance.

“Mrs. Richardson,” she repeated, this time in a stern manner that made Al fight the instinct to duck behind a chair. “That room will not do. There is no television! In fact, I inspected every guest room upstairs, and there are no televisions at all.”

“Oh.” Millie glanced at Al. “We've never discussed putting TVs in the rooms.”

Another unbudgeted expense. Al straightened and addressed his reply to Miss Hinkle. “That's because we weren't expecting guests for three more weeks.”

The woman's demeanor changed, and she turned a patronizing look on Millie. “Mrs. Richardson, you asked for my help in identifying deficiencies in your operation here.”

Millie started to shake her head. “I don't—”

“Let me assure you,” Miss Hinkle continued as if Millie had not spoken, “that a television in every room is absolutely essential. All the best bed-and-breakfasts have them. I absolutely insist on having one.”

Millie's hand strayed to her mouth, and she cast a wide-eyed glance at Al. “Well, I suppose we could arrange—”

“Ah!” Miss Hinkle spied something and stalked across the room to stand in front of the large flat screen Al and Justin had set up for the Derby party. “This one will do nicely.”

A series of outraged exclamations jumbled together on Al's tongue, but all he managed to say was, “
What?
”

“See that it's installed in my room tomorrow. And make sure I have access to the Shopping Channel.”

She swept from the parlor without a backward glance.

Sputtering, Al set off after her, but Millie stepped in front of him.

“I'll scrounge up another television set tomorrow,” she whispered. “Don't worry.”

“We only have one cable box.” He didn't intend the words to come out as a snarl, but Millie winced. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I'm sorry. But Justin and I had to move the cable box in here, and that only worked because there was already a connection. We'll have to call the cable company and have them install another connection upstairs. They'll probably charge us a fee.”

“But, Albert, she's right. We'll need to do that eventually, so we might as well bite the bullet and do it now. In the meantime, we'll leave this one in here and she can watch the Shopping Channel in the parlor for a few days.” The hand she placed on his arm was probably supposed to calm him. “I'm sure the cost won't come close to the price she's paying for a three-week stay.”

Al allowed himself to be placated only because this wasn't Millie's fault. They were in this situation together. Thirty-eight years ago they'd taken a vow—for better or for worse. At the time he'd had no idea that the
worse
would involve an overbearing houseguest who hadn't been under his roof thirty minutes and had already overstayed her welcome.

Chapter Eleven

T
he dishes finally cleaned and put away, the leftover colorful Derby napkins stored in a zipper baggie for next year, and every stray grape from Lulu's hat retrieved and disposed of, Millie and Al retired to their bedroom. Exhaustion dragged at her limbs, which made her nightly ablutions seem to take hours. She envied Al, who donned his pajamas, brushed his teeth, and slid between the sheets before she'd even managed to remove her makeup.

“Did you hear that?” His voice reached her from the bedroom.

Millie popped her head out of the bathroom. “Hear what?”

He sat up in bed, propped against a pillow, an old Zane Grey novel he'd read a dozen times in his lap. “The toilet flushed.” He lifted a scowl toward the ceiling. “The water rushing through the pipes sounded like we should make a dash for Noah's ark.”

She was too tired to try to placate him tonight. “Don't exaggerate, Albert.”

As she returned to the bathroom, footsteps pounded from above. Goodness, they were quite loud. Perhaps she should look for a thick rug to put over the hardwood floor up there. Would that be enough to muffle the noise?

While running a brush through her hair, she traced Miss Hinkle's footfalls, her mind's eye supplying the woman's path from the bathroom to the dresser. A few moment's pause, and then another tromp across the room. To bed, hopefully? Or to the antique student's desk between the two windows? Whichever, silence descended, thank the Lord. Millie lined her toothbrush with minty gel and set about cleaning her teeth.

She'd just rinsed when Albert once again called to her.

“Millie!” This time his summons came in the form of a loud whisper.

Peeking into the bedroom, she found him sitting straight up, eyes wide, the novel forgotten. “I think she's coming.”

Sure enough, the sound of heavy steps stomping down the hallway warned her moments before their bedroom door was thrown open without so much as a knock. Miss Hinkle, draped in yards of cotton and lace, stood in the doorway, her expression heavy with outrage.

“Mr. Richardson, at the prices I'm paying for lodging, I should at least be able to expect a reliable Internet connection. Yours is so slow it's practically unusable.”

Albert, who had snatched the edge of the comforter up to his chin like a blushing maiden caught unawares in her nightie, stammered a reply that might have been, “Well…it's always been…that is to say…” He cast an alarmed glance at Millie in a clear plea for help.

Time to take control of the situation. Millie strode from the bathroom—thank goodness she'd not yet undressed—and crossed to the bedroom door. Taking Miss Hinkle by the arm, she led her firmly into the hallway and shut the door behind her.

“Thank you for letting us know about the Internet.” She pasted on a genuine smile but instilled her voice with a purposeful edge of steel. “My husband is a computer specialist, so I'm sure he'll be able to address your concerns tomorrow.”

“A specialist?” The woman gave a haughty sniff. “One would think he'd anticipate this problem, then.”

If we'd known you were coming, he might have.
Millie left the snarky thought unsaid. Albert probably wouldn't have thought about the Internet connection any more than she'd thought about televisions in the rooms.

Instead, she firmed up her smile. One issue needed to be cleared up immediately. “Miss Hinkle, you're free to enjoy any part of the house or the grounds
except
our personal rooms. In the future, please knock before entering.”

“I see.” The thin lips twisted, and the skin surrounding her mouth settled into deep crevices that bore witness to the fact that the expression was a common one. With a slight nod, she said, “A reasonable request.”

“Thank you.”

She turned to go but then stopped. “I'm accustomed to having breakfast at ten. I assume I'll be served in the dining room?”

Until that moment Millie had not thought of breakfast. She felt like slapping her forehead. Of course she would need to serve breakfast. That was what the second
B
in
B&B
stood for. She took a quick mental inventory of the fridge. The remnants of the cheese tray, a few of Violet's country ham biscuits, and she was fairly sure she had at least a half-dozen eggs. She could easily whip up an acceptable omelet.

“Of course.” She nodded. “But tomorrow is Sunday, so breakfast will be at nine o'clock. You're welcome to come to church with us.”

“
Nine
o'clock?” A curling lip told Millie what she thought of the change in her routine, but she heaved a loud sigh. “I suppose I must be accommodating.” Her gaze slid to the closed door behind Millie. “About a great many things, it appears.”

Her head high, she turned and marched away.

Millie let herself into the bedroom to find that Albert had not moved from his previous pose. If she hadn't been so tired, she might have laughed at his indignant expression.

“Don't worry,” she told him before he could complain. “I've told her our rooms are off-limits.”

“Hmm.” He relaxed enough to lower the comforter, though he cast a suspicious glance toward the ceiling. “Tomorrow I'm putting a lock on our door.”

Considering Miss Hinkle's demanding nature, Millie thought that an excellent idea.

Showered and refreshed, Al entered the kitchen with an attitude as bright as the morning sky. Amazing what a good night's sleep could do for a bad attitude. An enjoyable day stretched before him, without the presence of Miss Hinkle to spoil it. Today she would be Justin's headache.

Millie stood at the counter, her back toward him.

“Good morning, Mildred Richardson,” he chirped.

She whirled, and in a flash Al revised his opinion of the day's prospects. Stress lines marred the usually smooth skin of his wife's forehead, and the corners of her mouth plunged downward. Something gooey dripped from her left hand, and in her right hand she held a blood-stained paper towel in the fingers that protruded from the brace on her right.

“Millie!” Al rushed across the room and gently took the injured appendage, pulling aside the paper towel to assess the damage. “What happened?”

Though her eyes remained dry, tears choked her words. “Have you ever tried to dice onions with your left hand? Or crack eggs, for that matter?”

Another drop of goo, which Al now identified as uncooked egg, dripped to the floor. An eggy mess covered the countertop around a bowl into which she had managed to get most of the eggs.

He inspected the cut on her forefinger. Only a shallow nick that had already stopped bleeding. Judging by the condition of the paper towel, he'd feared worse.

“Why didn't you wait for me?” He tore off another paper towel and used it to clean her left hand.

“I thought I could handle it myself.” Her downcast expression tugged at his heart. “How many omelets have I made over the years?”

“Hundreds.”

“At least. And the one I serve to my first guest is going to be awful.” She sniffled. “We don't even have any mushrooms.”

“I saw some out behind the gazebo yesterday. Want me to get them?”

A hint of his Millie appeared in the beginnings of a grin. “Don't be silly. They're probably poisonous toadstools.”