No time to worry about that now. She scrambled from the room. Aged floorboards creaked as she hurried through the sprawling dining room, its tarnished chandelier wobbling overhead, and the formal sitting room, long and spacious. Its antique furniture might be worn, but every piece was dusted and polished—from the twin trestle tables and lamps with rose glass shades to the wooden legs of the tufted green chaise lounge.
One thing about the Everwood—there was always another room to tidy, another tasseled rug to straighten, another mirror to Windex. How had Lenora ever thought to run this place on her own?
Mara passed between the mahogany pillars that led into the lobby as another knock echoed in the quiet.
She stopped, catching her breath and summoning her composure. She could do this. Smile like Lenora would and give a bright, “Welcome to the Everwood.” Rattle off nightly rates and breakfast hours . . . keep her promise.
“I think you may love this raggedy old B&B even more than I do, dear Mara. Take care of it for me, won’t you?”
With a nod of resolve, she twisted the front door’s lock. For Lenora. “Welcome to the—”
“Took you long enough, young lady.” A tall woman with silver hair piled high, suitcase in one hand and cane in the other, blustered in. “Please tell me this is not your usual modus operandi. Leaving old women out on porches on damp March mornings. Step aside, girl, step aside.”
Mara backed up, bumping into the check-in desk. “I’m so sorry. I was at the other end of the house and . . .” She pasted on a stretchy grin and tried again. “Welcome to the Everwood.”
Horn-rimmed glasses slid down the woman’s narrow nose until she nudged them back up with her cane. “What kind of bed and breakfast keeps its front door locked?”
The kind that too often went whole weeks without guests. Whose owner had left on a trip more than a month ago and still hadn’t returned.
And whose longtime boarder turned temporary caretaker had grown a little too jumpy in her extended isolation. Funny how loud and dramatic the nighttime sounds of a ramshackle house seemed when no one else was around to hear them—wind in the chimney, leaves scuttling over the porch, the way that ancient elm tree out front moaned on gusty days.
It was why Mara had taken to spending her evenings cozied up in the den at the back of the place—the part of the house meant to be the owner’s private living quarters. The den felt homey, made her think of peaceful nights in front of the fire with Lenora, cups of tea, and the gradual unveiling of a whole new life.
No more nannying. No more existing on the periphery of others’ families. No more wishing she had someplace to go on holidays or wondering what it’d be like to settle somewhere for more than a few years at a time.
No more Garrett Lyman.
She hadn’t meant to stay long at the Everwood when she’d first arrived late last summer. Had only known of its existence thanks to a brochure in a rest stop along I-80. But in Lenora she’d found a friend and in the Everwood a safe harbor. And as each week drifted into the next, she’d felt it more and more—she belonged here.
“We don’t get many visitors this time of year,” Mara finally answered the woman. Not that she had been here at this time last year to know for sure.
No, last spring she’d been back in Illinois, still naively believing a little suburb south of Chicago was far enough away from Garrett for peace of mind.
She shoved the thought aside and skirted around the check-in desk. Paisley wallpaper made the space feel cloistered. Tall windows helped with that on sunny days, but today the sky was all rolling shadows. “My name is Mara, by the way. Can I get you checked in, Ms.—”
“Mrs. S.B. Jenkins.” Her suitcase thumped onto the floor. “You seem quite young.”
“Uh . . . thank you?”
Mrs. S.B. Jenkins sniffed. “I mean, too young to run a reputable bed and breakfast. If you make me check in by signing my name using my finger on one of those fancy touchscreen things . . .”
Was that an actual shudder? Mara clamped down on a laugh. “No worries, Mrs. Jenkins. We’re quite traditional around here.” Old-school was the term she’d used when joking with Lenora, who shared this woman’s apparent aversion to technology. The computer at the check-in desk, the software they used to track reservations—both outdated. The Wi-Fi barely functioned. Lenora didn’t even own a cell phone.
If she did, Mara could’ve tracked her down by now and asked her when she was coming back and what to do about the stack of bills piling up in that basket on the corner of the desk.
She could’ve quelled her growing fear that maybe Lenora wasn’t coming back at all. That she’d been abandoned all over again.
No. Not Lenora. Mara pressed the computer’s power button. “Now, how long are you planning to stay?”
“Oh no you don’t. I’m not committing to anything without a tour first. I have a book to finish writing, you see, and I need to make sure this is the adequate atmosphere.”
“All right. I’d be happy to show you around.”
With any luck, she’d have Mrs. Jenkins settled in a guestroom within an hour. Then Mara could scrounge through the pantry, make sure she had enough staples on hand to provide tomorrow’s breakfast. At some point she’d probably have to venture into Maple Valley for groceries. She’d done that twice already during Lenora’s absence, and both times she’d managed to avoid conversation with any locals.
“We’ll start downstairs. The Everwood is full of personality, as you’ll see. The owner is actually an award-winning travel photographer. Some of her original works are hanging in the hallway upstairs.”
“So you aren’t the owner.” Mrs. Jenkins arched one gray eyebrow. “I’d like to meet this award-winning photographer. Where is she?”
Oh, what Mara wouldn’t give to know.
“We missed a room.”
At Mrs. Jenkins’s rasped words, Mara paused in the second floor hallway, hand on the decorative banister cap at the top of the open staircase.
It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes to lead Mrs. Jenkins through the house. First they’d strolled through the entire ground floor, including the only updated room in the whole house—the kitchen with slate gray appliances, bright white cupboards, and a modern subway tile backsplash. Mrs. Jenkins had clucked in approval.
Upstairs they’d peeked inside nearly every room that lined the narrow corridor. All but one—the first door at the top of the staircase.
Which she’d really hoped Mrs. Jenkins wouldn’t notice.
No such luck. “Oh, that room’s nothing special, Mrs. Jenkins.”
The woman walloped her cane against the wall beside the cracked-open door. “Are you hiding something in there?”
“Of course not. I just—”
“It’s not an outrageous thought. Perhaps you have a child, and as I told you I’m looking for quiet and solitude, you thought it best to hide him away.”
“I don’t have a child.”
“Maybe a lover.”
Mara tried to squelch a laugh. Failed. It came out a snort. “Uh, no lover.”
“A dead body then.”
She didn’t even try this time. Her laughter echoed down the hallway. “What kind of writer did you say you are, Mrs. Jenkins? Suspense novels, perhaps? I promise, there aren’t any dead bodies behind that door.”