The Next Always (38 page)

“Brought them into the bookstore,” she confirmed. “Trapped me.”

“You know, Justine’s pretty pleased that you and Beckett are going around together. She’s fond of you and those boys.”

“I know. And speaking of them, I have to get home, relieve Mazie.”

“So, the minute I turn my back, you move in on my territory.” Beckett stepped out, gave Willy B a light punch on the arm.

“I’ve got no defense against a pretty woman. Sure looks good over there.” He lifted his bearded chin toward the inn. “Tommy’d be real proud.”

Willy B had been his father’s best friend, since both of them had been boys. Had wept unashamed at his funeral, Beckett remembered. And very likely missed Thomas Montgomery as much as his wife and sons.

“Yeah, I think he would be. I think he’d have enjoyed a night like this.”

“He’d’ve loved it. Wouldn’t mind a chance to see what’s what inside that place.”

“Anytime you want,” Beckett told him. “You know that.”

“I’ll be stopping by then, ready to gawk.”

“Willy B.” Justine came to the doorway, hands on hips. “You get back in here and mingle.”

“Oh now, Justine.” He blew out a breath. “No point arguing. Hope to hell I don’t knock something over.”

“He’s the cutest man,” Clare stated when he trudged back in.

“He’s six-five and probably goes two-sixty or better. How can he be cute?”

“He just is. I’ve got to get home, as much as I’d like to stay. Don’t forget, I’ll be by at seven tomorrow.”

“Wait, wait.” He took her arm, shook his head. “You’re not driving home by yourself.”

“Beckett, it’s not even a mile, straight down on Main.”

“I’ll follow you, make sure you get in all right, give Mazie a lift home. You heard what Willy B said. No point in arguing.”

She considered it foolishly overprotective, especially when he insisted she come with him to his truck in Vesta’s lot so he could drive her the short distance to her van in back of TTP.

She knew he waited while she locked up so gave the porch light a quick flick off and on. He tapped the horn before easing out of the driveway and making the turn to drop Mazie at home.

From across the street, a few doors down, Sam watched the house, noting how the front washed with light as Clare went to the door—as the babysitter came out a few minutes later.

He considered and stewed, saw the backyard flood with light. Letting the mongrels out, he mused.

Dogs and security lights. Were those for his benefit? Did she think he was a fucking burglar?

It was no way to act, no way to treat him. Montgomery’s doing, he decided. She was just too soft, too accommodating to tell that interfering bastard to mind his own business.

He’d take care of that. Take care of her.

He knew what she needed. A man of means, of style, of stature. One who could put those kids in a good boarding school so she didn’t have to work so hard. A man who could take her places, show her off.

She’d see. He’d make her see.

He settled in, watching the routine of lights going off, going on.

He sat for nearly an hour, watching her lighted bedroom windows, and longer still after the windows went dark.

When he drove away, he had a plan.

SINCE MOST OF
the men were busy, Beckett helped muscle the first tub to the second floor. In any case, he wanted to see how Lizzy liked it. Once they’d set the white slipper tub in place, he lingered. Light, warm colors, he thought, studying the tile work, a more traditional feel than some of the rooms. A nice contrast, he decided, with the deep tone of the old rubbed-bronze fixtures, and the charm of the telephone-style floor faucet for the tub.

He waited, but apparently Lizzy was withholding judgment until the plumber finished it off.

He went down—and up again countless times, hauling tubs, toilets, faucets, shower systems. All meticulously labeled, he noted, by either his brother or Hope.

On what he prayed was nearly the last trip, he saw Hope outside the on-site storage unit with a clipboard.

“Didn’t know you were here.”

“I’ve been down at the other storage. We finally have room in there. I’m checking off here, then I’m going to go through, make sure all the fixtures are in the right rooms.”

“They’re marked,” he reminded her. “We’re putting them in the right rooms.”

“So you say.” She grinned at him. “I have to see for myself. There are a lot of pieces to each pie. Shower system, sink faucets, bath faucets, towel warmers, P-traps, vanity mirrors, robe hooks.” She lifted one elegant eyebrow. “Should I continue?”

“No, because I’ve muled that and more in and up.”

“It’ll be worth it.” She lowered her clipboard, adjusted her intricately tied scarf. “Besides, you’ll be able to relax on your hot date tonight.”

“Where am I going?”

She laughed. “For me to know and you to find out. Oh, I had this idea.” She opened a purse the size of a small planet, pulled out what looked like a little diary or journal, with stylized fairies on the cover. “I’m going to run this past your mother, but I thought we could put a journal in each room—themed to it. I got this on loan from TTP. Guests could write comments in them.”

“Fine with me.”

“Good. And I thought we could get a nice registration book. I know we’re not doing that sort of thing, but if we could find a classy one, put it on the desk in The Library, it’s another way for guests to write something. And I got this sample today.”

She reached inside the planet again, pulled out a cream-colored folder. “For the rooms—we put a nice welcome note in here on the stationery—from the staff, the list of art when we get that worked out, a menu from Avery’s, other information.”

“You’re having entirely too much fun with this.”

“I really am, and just wait until I start buying office supplies. Oh, and while I’ve got one of you, I thought of a few things last night.”

She reached in again, pulled out an enormous notebook.

“Beckett!” Ryder yelled down from the second-floor porch. “Are you going to stand around making time with the innkeeper all day, or get any actual work done?”

“Kiss my ass,” Beckett called back pleasantly.

“I’ll let you go.” Hope stuck the notebook back in her bag. “Tell me something first. Is he ever going to call me by name, or am I always going to be ‘the innkeeper’?”

“The only time you have to worry is when he calls you that damn innkeeper.”

“I suppose so.”

She glanced up again, cool stare in place, but wasted it as Ryder had already gone back in.

FOR THE FIRST
time in months, Beckett considered demoing his apartment bathroom and installing a hot tub. He might not have been a gym rat, but he considered himself in pretty damn good shape. Or had, until the day of hauling tubs and toilets, sinks, vanities, and Christ knew what up a couple flights of stairs—multiple times—had done him in.

Everything ached.

A hot tub, he thought as he stripped and dropped sweaty, filthy clothes on the bathroom floor. Maybe a new shower system with body jets like they were putting in the inn.

An in-house masseuse would be a nice touch.

One thing, he told himself as he got into his all-too-pedestrian shower, he’d be modifying his house plans and adding some well-deserved perks to the master bath.

Of course, the way he was going, he’d be an AARP member before he built the damn place. Really had to get on that.

But right at the moment, building anything, including the doghouse he’d promised the kids they’d start next week, seemed like the seventh level of hell.

One of these fine days he’d stick with his drawing board, his CAD, his slide rule, and blueprints, and just tell other people where to hammer, saw, and haul.

“Yeah, that’s going to happen,” he mumbled and tried to imagine hot jets swirling and pulsing around tired muscles. His imagination didn’t quite make the grade.

He remembered to pick up the clothes, ditch the towel in the hamper when he considered Clare might use the bathroom when she came to pick him up.

His back snarled at him—he snarled back.

Since he didn’t know where they were going, he considered wardrobe choices. Probably not jeans, though jeans and a sweatshirt seemed like the perfect choice for his overworked body.

He settled on black pants and a casual shirt with tiny blue and green checks. If absolutely necessary, he could dress it up with a tie and—please God, don’t make me—a jacket.

If she hadn’t already made plans, whatever they were, he’d have nudged her toward a quiet evening in, with delivery and DVDs.

But a woman who worked all week, at home and at business, deserved a fun evening out on a Saturday night.

If she wanted to go dancing, he might break down in tears.

He glanced around the apartment, deemed it reasonably clean, mostly because he hadn’t spent enough time in it recently to mess it up. Between Clare, work, family meetings, dogs, kids, time for sprawling out with beer, chips, and ESPN had dwindled down to next to never.

He paused a moment, asking himself if he missed it, and decided not very much. Being busy had its perks, especially being busy with Clare and her engaging brood, work he genuinely loved, the regular contact with his own family. Time to stop bitching, he decided, and maybe stock up on the BenGay.

The brisk knock sounded just as he considered stretching out on the couch for five minutes. Telling himself to stop thinking like an old man, he opened the door.

Avery and Hope, arms loaded, breezed in and straight by him.

“Pretend we’re not here,” Avery advised as she marched back to his kitchen.

“What—”

“Hi.” Clare paused long enough to offer him a kiss. “We’re just going to set up. It won’t take long.”

“Okay. Set up what?”

“This and that. Enough of this and too much of that for me to carry up by myself.”

“We’re invisible.” Avery cleared off the drop-leaf table he sometimes used for eating. “You can’t see us.”

Hope opened a white cloth, draped the table with a quick billow and snap while Avery pulled a corkscrew out of her pocket. She drew the cork on a bottle of cab, set it on a silver wine holder.

“I thought we’d have dinner in. I hope that’s okay.”

Baffled, Beckett followed Clare into the kitchen to watch her put a roasting pan in his oven. “You want to stay in?”

“Unless you hate the idea.”

“No, but—”

She wore a dress, short and slim in a dark, deep blue, and shiny red shoes with tall, skinny heels.

“You look great.” He caught the scent of something miraculous. “What’s in the oven?”

“Pot roast.”

“Seriously?”

Obviously pleased, she laughed. “I talked to your mother, and she said it was your favorite. Hopefully mine will measure up to hers.”

“You
made
pot roast?”

“And a few other things. If that wine’s breathed long enough, why don’t you pour us a glass. I have a little fussing to do yet in here.”

“Sure, I’m . . .” He trailed off when he saw a familiar shape on the counter. He stepped over, lifted the lid. “Apple pie? Are you kidding me? You baked a pie?”

“Also rumored to be a favorite. I like baking pies when I have time.”

“Clare, this must’ve taken you all day to put together. I didn’t expect—”

“Why?” She tipped her head at him. “Why shouldn’t you expect now and then. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“I guess I did. It’s just . . . wow.”

“You take me out. You take my kids out. You brought them dogs, and put in motion lights at my house. You give us all time and attention, Beckett. I wanted to give some back to you.”

It staggered him. It moved him. “I think this is the best thing anyone’s done for me in maybe ever.”

“I don’t know about ever, but I enjoyed doing it. How about that wine?”