“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Bowie.” Carly appeared in the archway. She forced a smile. The usual glint she had in her eyes, the one he remembered, wasn’t there. She pointed toward the table, where he pulled the chair out for her and she sat. He walked around the table and took the seat directly across from her.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sor—” He stopped when Carly held her hand up.
“There is no need to apologize. Besides, if you do, I’ll have to as well.”
“For what?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion. What could the woman who’d nurtured every single one of her son’s friends need to apologize for?
“For being vacant after Austin.” She paused and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “I should’ve been more welcoming to his friends. Not so shut off. Not so hidden. I could’ve easily reached out to you, and I didn’t.”
“It’s understandable.” And it was. Not only had she lost her son, but her husband as well, many years before. When Austin died, the town changed. Everyone suffered that loss. He was, and remained, such a beacon in the community.
“After being prodded for years, I’ve decided to reopen the inn. However, as you can imagine, the state of it is undesirable and in need of a more modern touch.”
“It’s historic,” he told her. “I bet people will clamor to visit, to stay here.”
She thanked him but shook her head. “The mattresses are lumpy; the fixtures leak. There’s rust in the pipes. And it’s dreary. This inn needs life; it needs love. I want people to come here and be happy, forge new memories which aren’t marred by . . .” Carly didn’t have to finish her sentence; he already knew what she would say . . . death. “I want the guests to come here and feel like they can escape reality, and maybe find something they love in the sunset they see outside their room—a safe, comfortable place where they can find the answers they’re seeking in their life. I know new linens, paint, and furniture can’t change everyone’s outlook on life, but it could point them in the right direction.”
Bowie focused on the woman across from him. The words she spoke used to be the adage of the inn. He wanted to ask her why she’d closed, but deep down he knew. Her son had died, taking away what life she had left. But still the question plagued him, why now? Not that he wanted to ask because right now meant he had a job, one that would pay him well and put him back on the map.
He cleared his throat, tapped his pen against his notebook, and said, “These are all easy fixes.” That was his attempt at trying to steer the conversation back toward the repairs. “How many rooms again?”
“Forty. All in need of some care.”
“Okay, and the timeline?”
There was a loud bang upstairs, and Carly turned herself toward it slightly, barely looking over her shoulder. Bowie saw Simone rush by and head up the stairs, her steps echoing loudly in the all-too-quiet house.
On instinct, he stood. He could hear muffled voices. “Does some . . . someone need help?” he stammered.
Carly shook her head. “I’d like the project done as soon as possible. I have a renovator you will work with. She knows my vision and what I want.” She pushed a magazine across the table, leaving him no choice but to sit back down. Still, his eyes roamed. He surveyed the open expanse where the staircase was, and the area where footsteps now echoed. He hadn’t heard of anyone living with Carly, aside from Simone, not that he would’ve paid attention. His divorce kept him in a fog lately, and anytime someone mentioned the inn or Carly, he ignored the comments out of guilt.
He opened the magazine to the flagged locations and saw what design ideas she had in mind. He would need to measure the rooms, order the lumber, paint, and new fixtures. “I see someone has spent some time watching HGTV?” He laughed as he continued to flip through the pages of room after room with shiplap covering the walls. The wood was easy to work with, even easier to paint.
“It seems popular.”
“It is. What can you tell me about the renovator?” It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to work with someone. In fact, he liked it a bit better than following architecture plans. In his experience, renovators weren’t sticklers for plans and would take suggestions when offered.
“I was thinking some of the rooms could be gray.”
“Gray is very popular.”
“And blue?”
Bowie scribbled her color suggestions down.
“And black?”
His pencil stopped moving across his notepad. He stared at his scribble, trying to comprehend what Carly was saying. She wanted a set of rooms painted black? An accent wall made sense, but full rooms? No, he couldn’t.