Mountain Country Courtship. Glynna Kaye

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СКАЧАТЬ for Boston. Nor had his mother or grandma, even when Lillian removed her personal belongings from the apartment above his parents’ garage that the newlyweds intended to call home until they found a place to buy. The two women seemed to find plenty of time to talk about her, though, if rumors of their critical remarks regarding her immaturity and heartlessness held any truth. And little brother Randy had made nothing but a nuisance of himself.

      At least Cameron’s sister, Barbie, caught up in her own autumn wedding plans, didn’t seem to care one way or another whether her big brother and Lillian were married happily ever after—or not.

      Across the garden, Denny pocketed his phone, then turned in her direction. She stood, determined to make another plea on behalf of the inn.

      “Sorry for the interruption. Important call.”

      “Aren’t they always,” she said drily, wondering how far she’d get in her appeal before he was again whipping out that cell phone.

      He motioned irritably to a Navajo willow in the far corner. “What’s with the obnoxious bird, anyway?”

      No, that phone call must not have gone well.

      She laughed. “Maybe he’s happy?”

      Denny snorted, then looked at his watch and nodded to the inn. “I guess I should take a look at the guest rooms upstairs.”

      With Aunt Viola sequestered in the apartment, it didn’t take long to go through the second-floor rooms, half of which weren’t booked despite a long Labor Day weekend fast approaching. The occupants of the other three were out for the day. Although Denny added items to his lengthy list, he seemed preoccupied, as though something else weighed on his mind. Most telling was the fact that he didn’t pull out his phone a single time, not even to check caller ID when she heard it vibrate.

      When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned to him. “So what do you think?”

      “You mentioned earlier you’re aware that garden events keep the inn in the black. So you must be at least somewhat acquainted with the business side of things here.”

      “I kept the books when my aunt was unable to. So, yes, I’m aware that the inn is...holding its own.”

      “By the skin of its teeth. The Pinewood Inn, sadly, has never been a profitable investment for my mother.”

      “You’re implying that it’s been nothing but a charitable endeavor on behalf of Aunt Viola?” That rankled, as Lillian knew how much of herself Aunt Vi had invested in this place trying to keep it going.

      “As you know, my mother was struggling to find her place in the world when your great-aunt befriended her. She offered her encouragement, advice and support when many in town extended little sympathy as her marriage fell apart. My mother was a big-city girl, a fish out of water, and undoubtedly she made plenty of mistakes that didn’t endear her to others.”

      “My aunt is a kindhearted woman.”

      “She is. And deep down, so is my mother. Which is why when Viola retired and asked if she could take over management of the Pinewood Inn, my mother agreed. She was losing money on it anyway—basically kept it open to irritate my father as much as anything. What would it hurt if her dear friend and mentor gave it a try?”

      “Aunt Vi did bring it out of the red.”

      “She did. But it’s still not a moneymaker. Never will be.”

      “We’re not asking you to strip the place down to the studs and start from scratch. We’re asking that broken things be fixed. Dismal furniture replaced. Peeling wallpaper removed. Bedding and window treatments updated.”

      “That involves money, time and hard work.”

      “My aunt and I can provide the hard work.” Or at least she could. “I understand your concern surrounding the financial issues. That concerns my aunt, as well. But Hunter Ridge is her home. The inn. Her garden. Her guests. I’ll personally do anything within my power to enable her to live out the rest of her life, however long that may be, as the inn’s manager. For now, this is Taylor’s home, too. If your mother makes the requested much-needed changes to the property, I know my aunt can turn it around.”

      He shook his head. “Maybe, if she had a hospitality degree and decades of experience at other reputable properties to bring to the table... I admit I’ve seen highly successful enterprises make it under good management in the most unlikely places. But those were spearheaded by professionals with an innate savvy for the hospitality business.”

      “She may not have a degree, but we’ve both read every book on innkeeping we can get our hands on. And growing up, I traveled extensively with my parents and know what they liked and didn’t like about those brief or extended stays. What I liked and didn’t like. Aunt Vi traveled in her younger days, too. I strongly believe that kind of personal experience will transfer well here—if the property itself works for her and not against her, as it’s been doing.”

      “I admire her—and your—pluck, but it’s risky. Successful inns are customarily located in areas that have something to draw people there. Location, location, location, as you’ve surely heard before.”

      “Hunter Ridge is rousing itself after that economic downturn a decade or so ago. Your mother’s played a role in that—initiating leasing properties to a new artisan dynamic that is taking root and transforming the formerly isolated face of the community. Here at the inn’s garden, we’ve showcased a number of local artists this past summer. It’s a market waiting to be tapped into. And if we don’t do it, someone else will.”

      “This garden is a prime selling point. But the inn has only six guest rooms available.” He gave her a regretful look. “I don’t see how that can generate enough return on investment to make it worthwhile.”

      “So what you’re trying to tell me is that you’re going to recommend to your mother that she close the inn.”

      “What I’m trying to tell you is not to get your hopes up that the inn will ever be much more than it is today—even when we’ve completed the renovations.”

      Even when...?

      She momentarily closed her eyes, gave a slight shake of her head. “I’m sorry, but I’m confused. You are or you are not going to advise your mother that the inn be closed? That my aunt’s managerial contract should not be renewed?”

      * * *

      “I’ve expressed to my mother my professional opinion that the doors to the inn should be closed.”

      Denny stared into the still-bewildered gaze of the woman standing before him. Saw the hope that had briefly lit her eyes evaporate. She was disappointed in his stance because she truly didn’t understand what it took to run a profitable hospitality establishment.

      He hadn’t been toying with her when pointing out the dismal prospects of the inn and the gloomy odds of making a success of it. He’d only wanted her to clearly understand that the endeavor was a waste of money—his mother’s. And a waste of time—his. Who was his stepfather, anyway, to insist on throwing good money after bad, just to make his wife “happy”?

      And to keep Denny out of the way to give Vic a boost.

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