Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (28 page)

“I haven’t had much to do with the hotel. I’m not sure I’m the best person to—”

“He said . . .” Dad struggled to rise to a sitting position. Blake helped rearrange the pillows behind him. “He said one of the things he likes most about our hotel is we have the amenities of an urban hotel in the comfort of a small-town location
with
the feel of a family establishment. It’s important.”

Blake rubbed his hand over the stubble covering his cheeks, fatigue pulling at his mind and body. He wasn’t the right person to represent the family in a meeting with Laurent. These days he felt more familiar with the running of the Kingsley Inn than his own family’s business.

And if Autumn knew . . .

“Will you meet with him, son? One p.m. at the hotel. My accountant will be there as well.”

He exhaled, the sigh coming from deep inside. This was why he’d come home. To be the responsible, dependable man Ryan would’ve been. To make up for lost time. “Of course, Dad. I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Dad leaned back against his pillows. “Now tell me about the Kingsley girl.”

Dad might as well have jumped from his bed and done a headstand. “What?” It’s not like Blake had made an attempt to hide the amount of time he’d spent working with Autumn from his parents. But he hadn’t figured it’d be a popular topic of conversation either.

“Come on, my health may need a little fine-tuning, but I’m not an idiot, son. You spend fifty percent of your time at her inn and the other fifty percent dragging her around town helping with the festival.”

“Not dragging. We made a deal. I help her, she helps me. That’s all.”

“You mentioned her inn on that news show.”

He’d seen that? “Yeah, about that. Sorry—”

Dad’s laughter was hearty, despite his slight rasp. “And then there was your little road trip to Illinois.”

Yeah, he seriously needed to get on that finding-his-own-place thing. Although it probably wouldn’t make much difference. Whisper Shore operated like one big society page in an old-school newspaper. “Dad, I know what you’re insinuating—”

“Oh, I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just plain asking. You two a couple?” A hint of sunrise filtered through the window blinds, washing over Dad’s face in stripes.

“We’re not.”
Right? Then what was that kiss?

“Well, if that changes, just know I . . .” Dad broke off for a moment, expression thoughtful. “I still regret how I reacted to Ryan and Ava’s relationship. And I won’t be making that mistake again. I never should’ve blamed her. But I think maybe it was easier pretending she pulled him away from the family, dragged him to all those parties . . . than acknowledging the truth. That the son I loved was making his own poor choices.”

Blake rubbed his eyes, sleep tempting every muscle in his body even as the import of this conversation weighed on him. “I think I did the same thing, actually. I think it’s why I didn’t listen . . .”

His words jammed. He’d never told Dad or Mom . . . never told anyone, really, about that conversation with Autumn. But suddenly he needed to let it out. Confess.

He looked at Dad’s pale cheeks and grayed eyes. Since coming home, father and son had enjoyed a newfound bond. What he was about to say might ruin it all. Still . . .

“Back before Ryan’s accident, Autumn came to talk to me. Her sister asked her to. Ava knew about Ryan’s painkiller addiction, and she suspected it had escalated into heroin.” Blake had later learned that was common for prescription medicine addicts who ran into trouble securing meds. “Ava didn’t think I’d listen to her, so she sent Autumn.”

He could still picture Autumn, her obvious discomfort. She’d been trying to be a good sister.

If only he’d followed her example. “I completely ignored her, Dad. I told her it was ridiculous.”

Autumn had stood there, agitation expanding until she finally gave up.

And maybe it was the memory of that failure—
his
failure—more than anything that convinced him things couldn’t work between them. Because he’d always remember how she’d given him a chance to help . . . and he’d brushed her off.

He looked at Dad now, waiting for the sigh of disappointment that was sure to come. But instead, Dad reached for his water glass. “Son, I think you need to know,
Ava
came to us. To your mom and me. We had the exact same opportunity as you. We had the exact same incredulous doubt as you.”

Blake swallowed a gasp. “She did?”

“We didn’t believe her, but we called him that same night. Asked if what his girlfriend told us was true. He denied it all, and I’m pretty sure that’s the night he broke things off with her.”

Shock bullied through him . . . and the tiniest taste of relief. Didn’t negate his own failure to help, but it certainly changed the flavor of his guilt.

“Thing is, Blake, your mother and I decided several years
ago to stop focusing on what we’d lost and instead focus on the now. Dredging our shortcomings and regrets gets us nowhere. It’s why I decided to run for office—do something new, you know?” Dad shifted in his bed once more. “And that’s why I asked about Autumn. I want you to know you can have a ‘something new’ too.”

His father’s words cushioned the intensity of these past minutes. Dad cared, so much more than Blake had ever taken the time to grasp. “I do. That festival, the job the council mentioned. I’m finally focusing on my career.”

Dad should like that, right? Why, then, the slight frown? “Yes, but . . . are you sure you’re not just launching yourself at the first thing in front of you? Isn’t that how you ended up in the Randi Woodruff mess?”

“What do you mean? It’s a good prospect, settling down and working a good job. Finally contribute something to this town.”

Dad lowered against his pillows. “I’m just asking if it’s what you really want. Maybe I’m asking if you even know what you really want. I’ll tell you this—whatever it is, it can’t begin and end with trying to make up for a past you’ll never change.”

The statement cut through him, probably sharper and more biting than Dad had intended. He had no idea that he’d just told his son his entire reason for coming home was pointless.

That the one goal he’d set for himself was unattainable.

“Just think about it, will you? What do you want, son?”

And it was so clear then, the truth:
I don’t know.

He was still a drifter.

“Where have you been?”

The strain in Harry’s tone skirted the edge of annoyance.
Autumn’s snow-covered boots tracked puddles into the inn’s lobby, which probably wouldn’t help the man’s attitude. But she didn’t have time for moods or complaints, joking or otherwise.

“The festival starts tonight. I haven’t exactly been lazing around.” Did her words come out as panicked as she felt? Blake had been telling everyone she was the so-called brains behind the festival operation. But the truth of it was, he was the leader. Blake might think this town doubted him, but he had a charisma people couldn’t help but follow.

Autumn? All the volunteers had looked to her out at the town square and she’d only stuttered and fumbled, then escaped under the guise of picking up supplies.

I’m trying, Blake, but failing.

Then on top of it all, Harry had called her, insisting she hurry to the inn. Wouldn’t tell her why over the phone.

“You look frenzied,” he offered now from behind the front desk.

“Thanks, Harry. You’re always so encouraging.” Fire barrels. Somehow she needed to come up with five more fire barrels. And extension cords. “Everything’s going wrong with the festival setup. We’ve bought out the hardware store’s entire supply of extension cords. Please tell me we have some extras here. And . . . ”

She paused at the sound of voices on the stairway. Guests. Guests who shouldn’t see the inn’s manager losing it in the lobby while she melted underneath the weight of her winter coat and the town’s expectations.

Not to mention her own desperate desire to make a man sitting with his father in a hospital waiting room happy.

She gulped down the freak-out wiggling its way toward freedom and turned on a manager-like smile. “Afternoon, Mrs. Mills, Mr. Mills. Watch out for the wet floor.”

Mr. Mills held his mother’s elbow as they made the slow descent. The older woman and her devoted son were two of her favorite winter regulars, pure sweetness and smiles, the both of them. “Been playing in the snow, Miss Kingsley?” Jerry Mills paused as his mother stepped onto the same stair as him.

What Autumn wouldn’t give for the money to put in an elevator. “You know me. Making snow angels, building snow forts.”

Mrs. Mills laughed as the mother-son duo reached the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, Jer, I haven’t made a snow angel in a decade at least.”

The smell of Betsy’s apple cider drifted in, along with the sound of Harry clacking away at his keyboard. Over the Mills’s shoulders, she could see the fire crackling in the den’s fireplace.

And suddenly all she wanted to do was sink into the inn’s embrace—the warmth, the familiarity. Forget the burden of the festival and saving jobs and prepping for France. Just hole up in the three-story haven that, despite all its cracks and wrinkles, had an uncanny ability to soothe her nerves.

Had Dad ever felt this way? In all his desire to slip into his old life of travel and freedom, did he never hear the beckoning whisper of this place?

“Mother, remember your hip.” Jerry’s voice broke through her murmured thoughts. “I don’t think making a snow angel is the best idea.” The man led Mrs. Mills around the water-splotched entryway and toward the front door.

“I’m seventy-four, Jerry James Mills, not one hundred and four. I don’t have a foot in the grave yet.”

“But your hip—”

“Then
you
make one and I’ll watch.”

“You forget, Mother, I’m fifty-four, not . . . four.”

Their voices trailed as Jerry helped his mother over the threshold and onto the porch. Reminded her of Blake walking Mrs. Satterly up the town square gazebo the night of the snowball fight.

“I’d like to see the looks on the faces of our other guests if we find Mrs. Mills and her son making snow angels on the front lawn,” Harry mused from the front counter, chin perched on his fist.

“I’m just happy we have other guests at the moment. Now why the frantic phone call? Doesn’t look like the place is burning down.” And extension cords. Where could she find extension cords?

“Meeting room.”

“Huh?” The small room at the back of the inn with the
Meeting Room
placard on the door hadn’t held a meeting since . . . well, okay, never that she could remember. Instead, it was where they stored old furniture and items guests left behind. Dad used to call the place the “vacation graveyard.”

“Go on back. You’ll see.”

“Seriously, I don’t have time for mysteries. Especially not pranks.”

“Kingsley, trust me. Shut up and go to the meeting room.”

With an exasperated huff, she spun toward the hallway. Since when did employees boss around the boss? She should’ve demanded he tell her what was up before hurrying out. For all she knew, the festival setup had come to a grinding halt, and with the thing set to kick off in less than six hours. . . .

She stopped at the meeting room’s cracked-open door, sunlight leaking through the sliver of an opening. Huh? Usually boxes were piled so high in the room, they blocked the window.

She pushed the door open.

And gasped.

Someone had cleared the room of its clutter, the gray-topped table and six leather chairs around it miraculously visible. A marker board spanned one small wall—had that always been there?—and a coffeepot gurgled from the corner.

“Total transformation, huh?”

Ava appeared from behind a white projection screen set up on the wall opposite the marker board. She walked through the tunnel of light from the wireless projector atop the table and approached Autumn.

“You did this?”

“Not just me. Lucy helped me empty the room, dust, and vacuum, and Betsy brought in the coffeepot.” She held out a laminated and spiral-bound packet. “And you can thank Harry for this, believe it or not.”

“‘Kingsley Inn Report: History, Financials, Proposal.’” She read the title, then met Ava’s eyes. “A proposal for LLI?”

“Dominic Laurent will be here in about ten minutes. Sorry you didn’t have more notice, but turns out the guy has an appointment this afternoon. And the festival is going to keep you busy from tonight on. Better now than never, right?”

Autumn dropped into the first chair in sight. Emotions danced inside her—spinning too merrily to identify by name, but each one engaging her heart. She was finally getting her meeting with Dominic Laurent. Not because of anything she’d done . . . but because of the people around her who loved and supported her.

“I don’t know what to say.” She looked up at Ava, holding her sister’s gaze. “I mean, other than thank you.”

Ava lowered into the seat beside her. “After yesterday . . . Well, I know this doesn’t make up for anything, but . . .” She shrugged, her voice trailing.

Autumn’s own voice came out a whisper. “You do know I just want to be sisters again. Like we used to be.”