The Welcoming (2 page)

“And scenery's good for business.”

She frowned a little. “It doesn't hurt,” she said, and glanced back at him. “Are you really interested in seeing whales?”

“It seemed like a good idea since I was here.”

She stopped the van and pointed to the cliffs. “If you've got patience and a good set of binoculars, up there's a good bet. We've spotted them from the inn, as I said. Still, if you want a close look, your best bet's out on a boat.” When he didn't comment, she started the van again. He was making her jittery, she realized. He seemed to be looking not at the water or the forest but at her.

Roman glanced at her hands. Strong, competent, no-nonsense hands, he decided, though the fingers were beginning to tap a bit nervously on the wheel. She continued to drive fast, steering the van easily through the switchbacks. Another car approached. Without slackening speed, Charity lifted a hand in a salute.

“That was Lori, one of our waitresses. She works an early shift so she can be home when her kids get back from school. We usually run with a staff of ten, then add on five or six part-time during the summer.”

They rounded the next curve, and the inn came into view. It was exactly what he'd expected, and yet it was more charming than the pictures he'd been shown. It was white clapboard, with weathered blue trim around arched and oval windows. There were fanciful turrets, narrow walkways and a wide skirting porch. A sweep of lawn led directly to the water, where a narrow, rickety dock jutted out. Tied to it was a small motorboat that swung lazily in the current.

A mill wheel turned in a shallow pond at the side of the inn, slapping the water musically. To the west, where the trees began to thicken, he could make out one of the cabins she had spoken of. Flowers were everywhere.

“There's a bigger pond out back.” Charity drove around the side and pulled into a small graveled lot that was already half full. “We keep the trout there. The trail takes you to cabins 1, 2 and 3. Then it forks off to 4, 5 and 6.” She stepped out and waited for him to join her. “Most everyone uses the back entrance. I can show you around the grounds later, if you like, but we'll get you settled in first.”

“It's a nice place.” He said it almost without thinking, and he meant it. There were two rockers on the square back porch, and an Adirondack chair that needed its white paint freshened. Roman turned to study the view a guest would overlook from the empty seat. Part forest, part water, and very appealing. Restful. Welcoming. He thought of the pistol in his backpack. Appearances, he thought again, were deceiving.

With a slight frown, Charity watched him. He didn't seem to be looking so much as absorbing. It was an odd thought, but she would have sworn if anyone were to ask him to describe the inn six months later he would be able to, right down to the last pinecone.

Then he turned to her, and the feeling remained, more personal now, more intense. The breeze picked up, jingling the wind chimes that hung from the eaves.

“Are you an artist?” she asked abruptly.

“No.” He smiled, and the change in his face was quick and charming. “Why?”

“Just wondering.” You'd have to be careful of that smile, Charity decided. It made you relax, and she doubted he was a man it was wise to relax around.

The double glass doors opened up into a large, airy room that smelled of lavender and woodsmoke. There were two long, cushiony sofas and a pair of overstuffed chairs near a huge stone fireplace where logs crackled. Antiques were scattered throughout the room—a desk and chair with a trio of old inkwells, an oak hat rack, a buffet with glossy carved doors. Tucked into a corner was a spinet with yellowing keys, and the pair of wide arched windows that dominated the far wall made the water seem part of the room's decor. At a table near them, two women were playing a leisurely game of Scrabble.

“Who's winning today?” Charity asked.

Both looked up. And beamed. “It's neck and neck.” The woman on the right fluffed her hair when she spotted Roman. She was old enough to be his grandmother, but she slipped her glasses off and straightened her thin shoulders. “I didn't realize you were bringing back another guest, dear.”

“Neither did I.” Charity moved over to add another log to the fire. “Roman DeWinter, Miss Lucy and Miss Millie.”

His smile came again, smoothly. “Ladies.”

“DeWinter.” Miss Lucy put on her glasses to get a better look. “Didn't we know a DeWinter once, Millie?”

“Not that I recall.” Millie, always ready to flirt, continued to beam at Roman, though he was hardly more than a myopic blur. “Have you been to the inn before, Mr. DeWinter?”

“No, ma'am. This is my first time in the San Juans.”

“You're in for a treat.” Millie let out a little sigh. It was really too bad what the years did. It seemed only yesterday that handsome young men had kissed her hand and asked her to go for a walk. Today they called her ma'am. She went wistfully back to her game.

“The ladies have been coming to the inn longer than I can remember,” Charity told Roman as she led the way down a hall. “They're lovely, but I should warn you about Miss Millie. I'm told she had quite a reputation in her day, and she still has an eye for an attractive man.”

“I'll watch my step.”

“I get the impression you usually do.” She took out a set of keys and unlocked the door. “This leads to the west wing.” She started down another hall, brisk, businesslike. “As you can see, renovations were well under way before George hit the jackpot. The trim's been stripped.” She gestured to the neat piles of wood along the freshly painted wall. “The doors need to be refinished yet, and the original hardware's in that box.”

After taking off her sunglasses, she dropped them into her bag. He'd been right. The collar of her shirt matched her eyes almost exactly. He looked into them as she examined George's handiwork.

“How many rooms?”

“There are two singles, a double and a family suite in this wing, all in varying stages of disorder.” She skirted a door that was propped against a wall, then walked into a room. “You can take this one. It's as close to being finished as I have in this section.”

It was a small, bright room. Its window was bordered with stained glass and looked out over the mill wheel. The bed was stripped, and the floors were bare and in need of sanding. Wallpaper that was obviously new covered the walls from the ceiling down to a white chair rail. Below that was bare drywall.

“It doesn't look like much now,” Charity commented.

“It's fine.” He'd spent time in places that made the little room look like a suite at the Waldorf.

Automatically she checked the closet and the adjoining bath, making a mental list of what was needed. “You can start in here, if it'll make you more comfortable. I'm not particular. George had his own system. I never understood it, but he usually managed to get things done.”

He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “You got a game plan?”

“Absolutely.”

Charity spent the next thirty minutes taking him through the wing and explaining exactly what she wanted. Roman listened, commenting little, and studied the setup. He knew from the blueprints he'd studied that the floor plan of this section mirrored that of the east wing. His position in it would give him easy access to the main floor and the rest of the inn.

He'd have to work, he mused as he looked at the half-finished walls and the paint tarps. He considered it a small bonus. Working with his hands was something he enjoyed and something he'd had little time for in the past.

She was very precise in her instructions. A woman who knew what she wanted and intended to have it. He appreciated that. He had no doubt that she was very good at what she did, whether it was running an inn . . . or something else.

“What's up there?” He pointed to a set of stairs at the end of the hallway.

“My rooms. We'll worry about them after the guest quarters are done.” She jingled the keys as her thoughts went off in a dozen directions. “So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About the work.”

“Do you have tools?”

“In the shed, the other side of the parking area.”

“I can handle it.”

“Yes.” Charity tossed the keys to him. She was certain he could. They were standing in the octagonal parlor of the family suite. It was empty but for stacks of material and tarps. And it was quiet. She noticed all at once that they were standing quite close together and that she couldn't hear a sound. Feeling foolish, she took a key off her ring.

“You'll need this.”

“Thanks.” He tucked it in his pocket.

She drew a deep breath, wondering why she felt as though she'd just taken a long step with her eyes closed. “Have you had lunch?”

“No.”

“I'll show you down to the kitchen. Mae'll fix you up.” She started out, a little too quickly. She wanted to escape from the sensation that she was completely alone with him. And helpless. Charity moved her shoulders restlessly. A stupid thought, she told herself. She'd never been helpless. Still, she felt a breath of relief when she closed the door behind them.

She took him downstairs, through the empty lobby and into a large dining room decorated in pastels. There were small milk-glass vases on each table, with a handful of fresh flowers in each. Big windows opened onto a view of the water, and as if carrying through the theme, an aquarium was built into the south wall.

She stopped there for a moment, hardly breaking stride, scanning the room until she was satisfied that the tables were properly set for dinner. Then she pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

“And I say it needs more basil.”

“I say it don't.”

“Whatever you do,” Charity murmured under her breath, “don't agree with either of them. Ladies,” she said, using her best smile. “I brought you a hungry man.”

The woman guarding the pot held up a dripping spoon. The best way to describe her was wide—face, hips, hands. She gave Roman a quick, squint-eyed survey. “Sit down, then,” she told him, jerking a thumb in the direction of a long wooden table.

“Mae Jenkins, Roman DeWinter.”

“Ma'am.”

“And Dolores Rumsey.” The other woman was holding a jar of herbs. She was as narrow as Mae was wide. After giving Roman a nod, she began to ease her way toward the pot.

“Keep away from that,” Mae ordered, “and get the man some fried chicken.”

Muttering, Dolores stalked off to find a plate.

“Roman's going to pick up where George left off,” Charity explained. “He'll be staying in the west wing.”

“Not from around here.” Mae looked at him again, the way he imagined a nanny would look at a small, grubby child.

“No.”

With a sniff, she poured him some coffee. “Looks like you could use a couple of decent meals.”

“You'll get them here,” Charity put in, playing peacemaker. She winced only a little when Dolores slapped a plate of cold chicken and potato salad in front of Roman.

“Needed more dill.” Dolores glared at him, as if she were daring him to disagree. “She wouldn't listen.”

Roman figured the best option was to grin at her and keep his mouth full. Before Mae could respond, the door swung open again.

“Can a guy get a cup of coffee in here?” The man stopped and sent Roman a curious look.

“Bob Mullins, Roman DeWinter. I hired him to finish the west wing. Bob's one of my many right hands.”

“Welcome aboard.” He moved to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee, adding three lumps of sugar as Mae clucked her tongue at him. The sweet tooth didn't seem to have an effect on him. He was tall, perhaps six-two, and he couldn't weigh more than 160. His light brown hair was cut short around his ears and swept back from his high forehead.

“You from back east?” Bob asked between sips of coffee.

“East of here.”

“Easy to do.” He grinned when Mae flapped a hand to move him away from her stove.

“Did you get that invoice business straightened out with the greengrocer?” Charity asked.

“All taken care of. You got a couple of calls while you were out. And there's some papers you need to sign.”

“I'll get to it.” She checked her watch. “Now.” She glanced over at Roman. “I'll be in the office off the lobby if there's anything you need to know.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Okay.” She studied him for another moment. She couldn't quite figure out how he could be in a room with four other people and seem so alone. “See you later.”

***

Roman took a long, casual tour of the inn before he began to haul tools into the west wing. He saw a young couple who had to be newlyweds locked in an embrace near the pond. A man and a young boy played one-on-one on a small concrete basketball court. The ladies, as he had come to think of them, had left their game to sit on the porch and discuss the garden. Looking exhausted, a family of four pulled up in a station wagon, then trooped toward the cabins. A man in a fielder's cap walked down the pier with a video camera on his shoulder.

There were birds trilling in the trees, and there was the distant sound of a motorboat. He heard a baby crying halfheartedly, and the strains of a Mozart piano sonata.

If he hadn't pored over the data himself he would have sworn he was in the wrong place.

He chose the family suite and went to work, wondering how long it would take him to get into Charity's rooms.

There was something soothing about working with his hands. Two hours passed, and he relaxed a little. A check of his watch had him deciding to take another, unnecessary trip to the shed. Charity had mentioned that wine was served in what she called the gathering room every evening at five. It wouldn't hurt for him to get another, closer look at the inn's guests.