Out in the Country (15 page)

“What have you got there, Graham?”

“We’ve been going through all the boxes the movers left in the garage,” Graham explained, “and we came across some old drawings of Adam’s. His first blueprints, when he realized he wanted to be an architect.” Smiling in memory, Graham smoothed one of the papers out. “He did this when he was about twelve, I reckon.”

Lynne gazed down at the boyishly yet carefully drawn lines; it took her a moment to realize what it was. “It’s the inn,” she said in little more than a whisper, and Graham chuckled.

“He always had it in him. This was his plan to renovate the inn, you see.” He pointed to a dotted line bisecting the upstairs hallway. “He was going to put the ensuites in there--not far off, was he?”

“No...” Lynne’s voice, no more than a murmur, died away to nothing as she stared at the fading blueprint. This should have been a happy moment, she knew, a time for them all to remember Adam with love and fondness, and know they were doing the right thing... what he wanted.

Yet for some reason she couldn’t summon the smile or the sentiment, and instead found a shocking well of sorrow open up deep inside her, so that her throat felt tight and her eyes stung. “This is...” she swallowed, unable to complete the sentence and offer Graham the offhand compliment he was expecting. “Sorry.” She blinked hard, tried to smile. Fortunately no one was looking at her; they were all focused on the blueprint, or so she hoped, because she couldn’t see much through the sheen of tears. She swallowed again, hard, and rose from the table. “I just need to...” She didn’t bother finishing the sentence--she couldn’t--but instead hurried out of the kitchen, to the front door and the out to the front porch where she stood, one arm wrapped around the porch post as she breathed in deep lungfuls of
air in a desperate attempt to compose herself.

It didn’t
work.

The tears came anyway, streaming down her face, and her shoulders shook with the effort of keeping the sobs inside. Why was she crying like this? she wondered even as the tears kept coming, pouring hotly down her cheeks. Adam had died nearly two years ago, yet this kind of grief felt fresh and raw.

“You don’t need to hold it in.”

Her whole body stiffened as she heard John’s voice behind her. She didn’t dare turn around to see him, and for him to see the mess she was in. “Don’t,” she whispered, and she heard the porch boards creak as he took a step closer.

“I saw how those blueprints affected you in there. Sometimes that can happen... the strangest thing touches off your grief.”

“What do you know about grief?” Lynne demanded, knowing the question was unfair yet asking it anyway. She felt vulnerable and exposed with the tears still trickling down, and she didn’t like it.

“Not as much as you do,” John replied steadily. “But I was engaged once, back in my twenties. My fiancée died in a car accident a month before our wedding.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It was a long time ago,” John said quietly. “Yet even now, I remember something--how she laughed or the colour of her eyes--and feel that sorrow again, as fresh as ever.” He was close enough now to touch her, which he did, laying a hand on her shoulder. “It never goes away completely, does it?”

Lynne let out a shuddering breath. “No, it doesn’t. I wish it did.” She wiped at her face before John silently handed her a well-pressed handkerchief. She took it with a murmured thanks. “Sometimes it feels like I’m dragging around this heavy weight, this shackle, and I can never get rid of it. And at other times his memory is so precious, and the idea that I don’t want to grieve seems cold and callous, and I’m ashamed of myself.” She’d never told anyone that before, never revealed so much to another person--another man--other than Adam. “You must think me very strange.”

“I would think you strange if you didn’t feel something like that,” John replied quietly. “Grief is normal, but it doesn’t feel normal, does it? It feels wrong, somehow. It feel strange.”

“Yes, it does.” Her face now mopped and her eyes mostly dry, Lynne turned around, folding the handkerchief back into a sodden square. “I’ll wash this and give it back to you--”

“Don’t worry about it, Lynne.”

“Did the others notice why I’d gone?”

“Not really.”

Lynne swallowed. “But you did.”

“I was watching you.” He smiled faintly. “I like to watch you.” He reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Your emotions play across your face like sunlight on the water. I’m learning them all.” It was such an intimate thing to say, Lynne knew she should blush. But she didn’t. She just tingled.

“John...” she whispered, and stopped, not knowing what more to say.

“Lynne,” he replied in his slow, steady voice. He smiled, his hands coming to curl around her shoulders. “Lynne,” he said again, and drew her closer.

Lynne knew he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her, and the realisation--coming so quickly after her fresh bout of grief--shocked her. She shook her head and stepped back. “No. I’m sorry. I’m not--no.”

John stepped back too, spreading his hands wide. “I’m not very good at picking my moments, am I?”

“I’m sorry.” Lynne managed a smile. She was surprisingly unembarrassed. After the way he’d seen her cry, this new intimacy wasn’t so frightening. “I like you,” she confessed quietly. “A lot. But I’m not ready. Maybe I should be, but I’m not.”

“I don’t think there are any ‘shoulds’ in this situation,” John told her gently. He touched the last drying tear on her cheek with his thumb. “And you probably know by now that I like you too.” His thumb lightly pressed against her skin before he dropped his hand. “A lot. But I can wait.”

Lynne swallowed. “I don’t know how--”

“Long? That’s all right. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you, I hope.”

Lynne shook her head, a tremulous smile starting. She shivered suddenly, and John turned back to the front door, holding it open. “It’s freezing out here. Why don’t we go back inside, and I’ll give my vote on those scones?”

“That sounds good,” Lynne answered, and turned back inside to the house’s welcoming warmth.

By Thanksgiving it had snowed twice, and the ground was blanketed in soft, pillowy whiteness, the trees’ stark branches encased in glass-like ice. Everything looked enchanting, Lynne thought as she ran through her to-do list one more time. Perfect for a family celebration. Molly was arriving by train in Rutland that afternoon, and Lynne could hardly wait to see her daughter.

The last few weeks had been incredibly busy as she and Jess rushed to continue the work of renovating the house in order for a Valentine’s Day opening. In her darker moments, when the plumber called in sick or a country living magazine told her it was too late to buy advertising space, she wondered if they were crazy. Wouldn’t it be better to wait and open with plenty of time to spare?

“In theory, yes,” Jess had told her one evening when they were both curled up by the fire in their usual places, Jess reading recipe books and Lynne flicking through various magazines they were thinking of advertising in. “But the fact is, we’re probably going to have to work out a few kinks after opening anyway, and if we have a big fanfare about it we’re more likely to fall flat on our faces. I’d rather nudge the bed and breakfast into the light gradually.” She made a face. “I’m good at baby steps.”

“So am I,” Lynne laughed, and a pregnant silence followed. Jess hadn’t shared about the few dinner dates she’d had with Mark--or the unexpected message left on the answering machine by a certain Doug MacCready--and Lynne hadn’t told Jess about John. Lynne supposed Jess felt the same way she did; just like with the inn, they were nudging their love lives gradually into the light.

Yet now, as she looked around the downstairs of the inn, the air rich with the spice of potpourri, fresh flowers in the hall and a fresh batch of scones--the pumpkin had won the day--on the kitchen table, everything so warm and inviting, Lynne rather thought they could be ready. She felt ready, and excited, to share her inn--her dream--with the world.

“Of course,” she said aloud, “we need running water upstairs.”

A few hours later Lynne stood at the train depot in Rutland, stamping her feet and hugging her arms around herself as a biting wind came down the rail line. Then the train pulled into view, sleek and silver, and a few minutes later Molly was stepping down, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

“It’s so good to see you!” Lynne enveloped her daughter in a hug, silently noting her pale, strained face, the delicate skin under her eyes as violet as a bruise. Molly looked exhausted, she thought, and worse, dispirited. She gave her an extra squeeze before releasing her. “You look like you could use some serious down time.”

“I could,” Molly agreed, smiling wearily, and they headed to the car.

Lynne kept the conversation light as they drove back to Hardiwick, sensing that Molly wasn’t ready for an instant heart-to-heart. She wasn’t sure she was, either.

Back at the inn Molly took in the freshly painted rooms with a surprised smile. “Wow, Mom, everything looks great. You must have been working hard.”

“As have you,” Lynne returned. “Come into the kitchen.”

The kitchen, Lynne had realised a while back, was both the hub and heart of the house. She and Jess had already decided to serve breakfast family-style at the big pine table, rather than turn the dining room into a crowded sea of tables for two. There was something innately and wonderfully comforting about the room, with the sun pouring in from the French doors to the back porch, the wide pine floorboards mellow and golden in the light, and the air full of homey and delicious smells from Jess’s cooking.

Molly sank into a chair, accepting a scone and mug of tea gratefully. She looked around the room, Jess swiping the counter with a damp dish towel and Lynne sorting through the post, both looking
so at home, and smiled. “I’m glad I came,” she said, and Lynne detected a tiny note of surprise.

“I am too. You should see the turkey Jess bought--it barely fits in the freezer.”

“Twenty-two pounds,” Jess confirmed, and Molly arched her eyebrows.

“Do the three of us need all that turkey?”

Lynne exchanged a quick glance with Jess before replying. “Well, no, but it’s not just the three of us. Kathy and Graham are joining us, of course, as well as a few other people who aren’t with family.” She couldn’t help but let a telling pause fall into the conversation before adding, “Mark Sheehan, who runs The Mountain Café, and John. Our neighbour, Agnes McCready, and her nephew Doug are joining us too.” A full table, Lynne thought, and saw Jess’s cheeks turn a pretty rose.

“Wow.” Molly ran a hand through her hair. “Well... great. You’ve really made a life for yourselves here.”

“We’ve been let in,” Lynne said simply. “Hardiwick is a wonderful place.”

The next evening, as they all gathered around the dining room table that groaned under the weight of the food Jess had prepared, she was forcefully reminded of that. It was an easy Thanksgiving for counting blessings; the only difficulty lay in naming them all.

Just as they joined hands to say grace, the turkey gleaming and brown in the center of the table, an ominous noise sounded from upstairs. Lynne couldn’t tell whether it was a clank or pop; perhaps something in between.

“What--” Jess began. John was already rising from the table. Lynne followed him into the hall, and then gasped in shocked dismay at the sight of water gushing out of an exposed pipe in the wall and streaming in an unrelenting river down the stairs.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Well?” Jess braced one hip against the kitchen counter as she waited for Lynne to tell her the news from the insurance company. Lynne turned the letter over in her hands, her face lined with worry.

“I’m almost afraid to open it.”

Jess gave a little shrug. “We’ve paid our premiums. Is there any reason why they shouldn’t cover the cost of the damage?”

Lynne managed a smile, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure they’ll think of one.” With a sigh she tore open the letter. “Just when everything was coming along so nicely...” It had been both of their refrain for the last week, ever since Thanksgiving dinner had been interrupted by a virtual flood from a burst pipe in the upstairs hallway. Friends and family had helped mop up the worst of it, and John had managed to plug the pipe while they rang for the emergency plumber. Still, even just a few minutes’ of unregulated water
pouring through the hall had left them with sodden, ruined carpets, encroaching mildew, and some structural damage.

“Well?” Jess said again, impatience biting at her. Haltingly Lynne read her the letter. Jess couldn’t make out all the technical jargon, and after a minute she shook her head. “What’s the bottom line?”

“The bottom line,” Lynne said heavily, “is that they’ll pay for repairs to the flooring and pipes, which is essentially what was covered under our policy.”

Jess frowned. “What about the carpets? And the wallpaper? And cleaning--”

“That,” Lynne said, “we’ll have to do for ourselves.” She dropped the letter on the kitchen table. “This will set us back a few weeks at the very least,” she said grimly. “We’ll have to delay the opening, maybe to March--”