The Room with the Second-Best View (2 page)

“Well.” She set her fork down on the edge of her plate and eyed him with a calm gaze that didn't fool him one bit. He noted the rigid way she held her arms, indicating that her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. “A few of the wedding guests need a place to stay, and of course the closest hotel is twenty miles away. So I thought since we have three perfectly good
en suite
rooms sitting empty—”

“Wait a minute.” He stiffened his spine and deepened his glower. “Are you suggesting that we invite complete strangers to stay
here
? With us?”

“We
are
opening a bed-and-breakfast, Albert.” She picked up her fork and coolly scooped up a few green beans. “Hosting strangers goes with the territory.”

“Not until we retire. That was our deal, Millie.” He ducked his head to catch her eye. “You agreed to the timing, remember?”

“Of course I remember. This is only a little early.”

“Two years and eight days,” Al announced. “I have a countdown on my computer.”

She lifted a calm gaze toward him. “It's not like I'm suggesting we put up a sign and start taking reservations. I think of this as kind of a practice run.”

“What's to practice? You already know how to make beds and cook breakfast.”

Her answer was an exasperated sigh that came out more like a grunt. “I knew you would make an issue out of this. It's not as if you'll be inconvenienced. I'll do all the work. You won't even know they're here.”

“I'll know.” He cast an irritable glance toward the ceiling. “We'll hear them tromping around up there. Flushing toilets in the middle of the night, waking us at all hours.”

Millie loaded her fork with apples. “Besides, it's not like they'll be complete strangers. They're Susan's and Justin's relatives.”

“They're strangers to me.” Now he sounded petulant, an attitude he detested. A mouthful of beans shut off further whining and gave him a moment to come up with an effective argument.

Truthfully, a few overnight guests didn't sound all that intrusive. He'd be at the office during the day, and they'd probably spend their evenings with the bride and groom. What bothered him was the larger issue. If this practice run turned out well—and knowing his capable wife, it would—Millie would press to do it again. Next time the guests might be relatives of someone at church coming to town for a family reunion. Or a long-lost high school friend who needed a place to stay for a few days during horse racing season. If he agreed to this first intrusion, he could be subjecting himself to any number of strangers parading through his home, eating his food, shattering the peace of his morning coffee routine on the veranda. Before he knew what was happening he'd be the pudgy proprietor of a fully functional bed-and-breakfast, his pants too snug from devouring delicious bribes of cake and pie.

No. Sometimes a man must stand his ground. Stiffen his spine. Put his foot down.

He swallowed and looked Millie directly in the eye. “No.”

A split second later he wished he could recall the word. Wrong tone. Wrong tack. An arctic blast invaded the cozy kitchen. Had frost appeared on her eyelashes, he would not have been surprised.

“Pardon me?” She set her fork on the edge of her plate.

A decision lay before him. He could backpedal, try to climb out of the icy hole he'd just stepped into, and attempt to restore marital harmony. No doubt a wiser man would do exactly that. But that would mean conceding the argument, something he was not prepared to do. Time to reveal a bit of that stubborn streak she so often accused him of having.

“We have a plan, Millie. An agreed-upon timeline.” He picked up his glass, adopting a casual attitude he did not feel.

“So that's it? I have no say in the matter?”

“You had plenty of say when we bought this place.” He waved his tea glass toward the kitchen doorway and the sprawling house beyond. “
We don't need six bedrooms
, I said.
We need room for the children at Christmas
, you said. A deliberately misleading statement, I might add. You wanted to open a bed-and-breakfast all along, a fact that you kept from me.”

At least she had the grace to lower her eyes. “I don't see why you have to drag up old arguments that have nothing to do with the current discussion.”

“But they do. The timing for the opening of your hotel—”

“Bed-and-breakfast.”

He heaved a sigh. “
Bed-and-breakfast
, then. You specified the timing. It was your idea to take our time fixing this place up and then open when we retire. Your plan, not mine. Plans are plans. They shouldn't be changed at the drop of a hat.”

For a long moment she studied him, her eyes narrowing as though
testing his resolve. Al kept his posture rigid, jutted his chin, and met her gaze.

With a stiff nod, she retrieved her fork. “Fine. Have it your way.”

It took a moment for her words to register. Was she really conceding defeat already? He cocked his head, not quite ready to believe her. “Do you mean you agree with me?”

“Not at all. I think you're being a stubborn old poop.” She lifted a forkful of green beans and carefully flicked away a piece of bacon. “But I love you, and I don't want to argue with you, so let's just drop it. Eat your dumplings.”

Temporarily speechless, Al watched her cut an apple slice neatly in two. He didn't believe her, not for an instant. Oh, not about loving him. They'd been together for too long, lived too much life together, to doubt their love for each another. But he knew his Millie. She possessed a stubborn streak every bit as inflexible as his. This retreat was temporary, a dodge so she could regroup and come up with another approach.

He turned his attention to his plate. Might as well enjoy the dumplings and pie while they lasted.

“You didn't tell him?” The creases in Violet's forehead traveled upward toward steely gray curls peppered with brown.

“That I've already invited Justin's Aunt Lorna to stay?” An uncomfortable flush rose into Millie's cheeks. She'd been so certain that Albert would see the wedding as an opportunity to practice their hosting skills, she'd agreed before asking him. Now she faced the unenviable task of telling her boss that plans had changed and she'd have to find another place for the relatives to stay.

She took a teacup from her best friend's soapy hands, rinsed it, and applied a damp dish towel. “The opportunity never presented itself.”

“Hmm.” Violet paused in the act of wiping a saucer and assumed
the stance of one about to utter a piece of sage wisdom. “
Three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, the moon, and truth.
”

Impressed, Millie asked, “Who said that?”

“Beats me, but it's a fact.” She shrugged and plunged the saucer beneath the suds. “Maybe Al will change his mind.”

“Maybe.” Though she intended to try, Millie didn't hold out much hope of convincing him. He'd seemed adamant. Not only that, but he'd struck a guilty chord with the reminder of her subterfuge concerning their purchase of this house. She returned the dry teacup to its place in the cabinet. “I felt sure the dinner would soften his attitude.”

“The way to a man's heart is through his stomach,” Violet quoted.

Millie awarded her a sour grimace. “Apparently not.”

“The pie was delicious.” Violet gave her a sympathetic pat on the arm.

Millie cast a dissatisfied glance toward the remaining two pieces, covered and ready for the fridge. She'd been forced to rescue them from Violet who, after tasting a slice during their ritual Thursday afternoon tea, would have devoured every morsel without restraint. If the evening was as mild as the weatherman promised, Millie and Al could have pie and a cup of decaf on the veranda after supper. Then, when Al was happily satiated with leftover dumplings and pie, she would broach the subject again. Perhaps if she suggested only
one
houseguest, and that one an elderly lady, he'd be more receptive.

When the dishes had been put away and the kitchen table wiped, Violet retrieved her purse from where it dangled on the back of her chair. “One o'clock tomorrow?”

“Better make it two thirty. The celebration committee is meeting down at city hall at one.” Millie shook her head as she draped the damp dish towel over the oven handle. Why in the world had she volunteered to serve on the committee planning the ceremony to commemorate Goose Creek's one hundred fiftieth anniversary? The biweekly meetings were boring and never accomplished anything,
which she found beyond frustrating. If
she
were the committee chair, she'd—

No. Her days were full enough without the added responsibility. For once in her life she was determined to sit back, let someone else be in charge, and cheerfully do as she was told.

Besides, she had her sights set on a loftier goal.

She helped Violet on with her jacket and opened the back door. “I'll get the last of the sanding done tonight. Painting that bathroom shouldn't take more than an hour or two.”

“Then I'll be home in time to watch a couple of episodes of
Dr. Who
.” Violet zipped her zipper all the way up to her chin.

Millie shook her head. “I don't understand what you find so fascinating about that show.”

“
By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.
Ben Franklin said that.” Violet's eyes gleamed. “If a phone box ever appears on my front lawn and a handsome time traveler steps out looking for a companion, I'll be prepared.”

Millie stared at her friend, momentarily at a loss. Sometimes the wisest answer was none at all. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

She opened the door. Rufus, whom she'd thrust outdoors in an attempt to coerce him into enjoying the spring sunshine, nearly knocked them over charging inside. Apparently the lazy beagle had been hovering, waiting for an opportunity to escape the enforced healthy activity. He scurried between them, nails tapping on the linoleum, and collapsed with a sigh onto his padded doggie cushion in the corner.

“You really are as lazy as Albert says,” Millie informed him. Without lifting an eyebrow, he answered with a single languid wag of his tail.

Chuckling, Violet left the house. After the door closed behind her, Millie gave the damp kitchen counter another swipe with the dishrag and then turned to do the same with the table. Violet possessed
many fine qualities, bless her, but thoroughness in cleaning was not one of them.

The kitchen finally tidy enough to suit her, Millie headed upstairs to begin sanding the nail holes she'd spackled this morning before breakfast. On the way she ran an admiring hand along the curved banister as she climbed the stairs, pleased with the smooth feel of the gleaming wood. All the effort to strip, sand, and varnish had been worth every aching muscle and broken nail. When guests stepped into the entry hall through the double front doors, their eyes couldn't help but be drawn up the elegant staircase to rest on the pair of vintage button-backed chairs on the first landing, the mahogany arms ornately carved. She paused to pat the puffy upholstery of the nearest chair. One day she would find a spindly-legged table to set between them. Her mind's eye pictured the exact style she sought in order to create a subtle invitation for her guests to pause, rest, and perhaps pick up the book of poetry resting on the table's polished surface. Faulkner, of course. With a velvet ribbon to mark the poem Albert had read to her the day she'd decided to marry him.

The front bedroom, currently occupied by Justin Hinkle, had been the first one she and Violet finished. She paused in the open doorway to sweep an admiring gaze around the interior. Albert insisted on referring to this room as the Humpty Dumpty Room. Her eyes narrowed when they rested on the place where once a hole had gaped in the wall, and she suppressed a shudder at the memory of mold growing inside. The damage had been minimal and the evidence completely eradicated thanks to Justin's exacting work and several coats of sky-blue paint. The subtle pattern of the bedspread she'd found on the sale rack at Walmart lent an air of elegance to the bedroom furniture left—or abandoned, as Albert liked to say—by the house's previous owners. With a happy sigh, Millie withdrew.