Love Inn

  Love Inn

  Copyright © by Kim Smith

  All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and may not be reproduced in any format without written permission from the author.

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  Chapter One

  The March wind whipped around Benton Jessup’s light jacket and sliced cold fingers into his chest as it sought to take warmth from his body. The weather reminded him of Ireland when the winds buffeted them as they stood on the craggy coastline admiring the view of the sea. They’d had such a wonderful honeymoon, drinking frothy mugs with townsfolk and listening to the tales that abounded amongst the scattered cottages and ancient fortresses.

  But they had to come back to Mississippi and the life that she wanted. At least the memories would remain forever. Maybe that was why he had agreed to the Celtic cross now adorning the headstone. Its gray granite cast a faint shadow on the small bundle of pansies he laid on the grave. He didn’t speak. He wouldn’t know what to say anyway. His whole life, past, present, and future now rested beneath the fresh grasses growing over the mounded earth in the little cemetery on their land.

  She would understand his stalwart silence. She had known him through and through. There would never be another woman who would be that close to him. He’d make certain of it.

  Too many burnt bridges during his youth assured he would be lonely for a man nearing forty. His family hadn’t heard from him in almost twenty years. He didn’t care now. She’d been his family. All he’d ever wanted. But his façade, that damned arrogant desire to be a good husband for her had created the vacuum they’d lived in for four years. It hadn’t been easy melding his hobo life with a woman, but he’d done it for her. She’d changed him. She’d promised him a fairytale life with her.

  She’d almost succeeded.

  Now he was left with the mess her happy life had left behind. A fledgling bed and breakfast that she’d begged him to buy for them and a passel of memories of what might have been if cancer hadn’t interrupted. He felt like a fraud.

  Pain flowed over him. He resolutely wiped the tears from his eyes and silently said goodbye as he had been doing every week for the last year.

  Carla’s sister’s battered Toyota was parked around the back of the house when he returned. Nikki had been his shadow since Carla’s death, some sense of obligation between the two of them, some whispered deathbed promise. Typical Carla.

  He didn’t mind though. Nikki was a great hostess, helping him entertain the guests who’d stayed at The Inn over the past months. The now regular bookings had made him understand the enormity of running the place alone. Guests needed to be fed and given amenities if he expected the business to survive. Nikki provided all the little touches that made people want to return, just as Carla had done.

  He still commandeered the grill and overlooked the menu though. His regional specialties had graced the pages of several local magazines and he couldn’t disappoint anyone who longed for his culinary talents.

  Ben pushed open the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. Nikki stood in front of the sink, peeling something. Her blond ponytail swung gently as she swayed to the music playing on the radio. Nickelback.

  He rolled his eyes. She had strange tastes.

  He cruised over and peered into the bowl where running water splashed over vegetables. She usually purchased their fresh foods from the farmer’s market in Memphis, but the last time had given in to temptation and bought some at a health food store, which touted organic fare. They hadn’t been the best he’d ever had. “Did you get any decent tomatoes this time?”

  “Yes. Homegrown, first of the season.” She smiled at him and swatted his hand as he attempted to pinch a bit of broccoli. “Stop that. This is for dinner.”

  “Beats a tuna sandwich. What else?” He looked on the stove. Nothing bubbled from a pot or pan. He’d gotten there just in time apparently.

  “I figured you would be happy to add to the pot. I’m thinking chicken. And pasta,” she added, looking over her shoulder at him. “If that suits you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I want your opinion of the quality of this stuff. I’d like to do this more often over the summer. It’s quick to make, and healthy to boot. Besides, you have a big booking coming in soon.”

  “I do?” He strode to the light oak desk situated in a small nook of the kitchen, leafed through the mail—not really paying attention to any of it—and opened the date book where he kept appointments and reservations.

  “Yes, next week. I was pretty excited when I found out who she is. I looked her up on the Internet.”

  Kitty Beebe, he read. The name meant nothing to him.

  “Okay. If we have a celebrity or something coming here, I guess I should study up on her. Who is she?” he asked, turning toward Nikki.

  She shut off the water, and grabbed a striped dishtowel. “Oh, come on. You can’t mean the name means nothing? Think really hard.”

  He closed the book, stacked the mail, and leaned against the desk. Nothing about Kitty Beebe rang a bell. “Sorry. Guess I’m not up on pop culture to any extent.”

  “Okay, here’s a hint. Galway House.”

  Ben crossed his arms and shrugged, hopelessly lost.

  “Connacht at Midnight?”

  He cocked an eyebrow and shook his head.

  “Gee, Ben, you don’t get out much, do you?” Nikki said with a laugh. She tossed the dishtowel on the counter and strode to the desk. After a moment of searching, she pulled a paperback novel out of the drawer and waved it at him. “Kitty Beebe, also known as Rose Perkins. She’s a famous romance author. Carla read everything she wrote and fretted like a wet hen when she had to wait on the next one to hit the stands. She was Carla’s absolute favorite. Big best-selling writer. I can’t believe you don’t know this.”

  He took the book, frowning at the near nude woman on the cover in the arms of a roguish looking male. “And she’s coming here?”

  “Yes. I took the call and booked it. She gave a credit card number to hold her spot and asked if she could stay longer than the usual weekend.”

  “Why?”

  “Said she’s working on a new book and needs inspiration. Thought your little place would do it for her. Was recommended by someone who stayed here.”

  “Well howdy. A real live one, eh?” He placed the book on the top of the mail. “I bet she’ll stay long enough to spend enough money with us to buy that fancy espresso machine Carla wanted.”

  Nikki patted his arm as she passed him going back to the sink. “Already did.”

  ###

  The weather turned mid-South nasty overnight. Heavy thunderstorms were expected and he shook his head as the black clouds scudded across the sky. It would be a gully washer, and if tornadoes didn’t accompany them, they’d be damn lucky.

  He maneuvered the wrought iron chairs, moving them closer to the house and under the awning where they would be out of the rain when it came. The back patio with his container garden and Carla’s decorating touches was one of the most sought out places at The Inn, even in the chilliest weather.

  He examined his plants.

  Nothing hurting for now.

  If the temperatures took a dive though, he would have to bring them into the mudroom to keep them from getting nipped. Springtime could be so unpredictable. Carla always loved it tho
ugh, saying it was the best time of the year. She’d plant flowers and herbs and tend them all through the iffy weather.

  Ben entered the kitchen through the back door, closing it softly behind him. Nikki hadn’t arrived yet, so he went to the refrigerator and took out eggs for his breakfast. While he worked he wondered about the guest writer. Would she be locked in her room the whole time? What would she want for her supper?

  He continued making an omelet and considered inventing something with a southwest flair for breakfast while Kitty Beebe was in residence. He always tried to find a new recipe and try it out on new guests. They never seemed to mind.

  This guest intrigued him.

  He had to admit it was all Carla’s fault. She’d found something magical within the pages of the books the Beebe lady wrote. He was jealous that there was a part of his wife’s life he hadn’t been privy to.

  He strolled to the desk and picked up the novel.

  Maybe I’ll read it and find out.

  Ben tucked the paperback into the waistband of his jeans and humming some mindless tune, returned to the stove. When he had filled a plate with bacon, omelet, and toast, he carried the lot to the table. He placed the book by his plate, deciding to at least read the blurb on the back cover. He poured a cup of coffee, fragrant with a slight taste of vanilla and settled in. The slick cover made him think higher of paperbacks than he used to. He hadn’t really found time to read since he was a youngster.

  Sipping the hot liquid, he scanned the back cover. The author’s picture smiled at him, showing off porcelain skin, auburn hair, and rich blue eyes. He could dive into those eyes and take a swim.

  The first blurb made him forget the attractive face staring back at him.

  …Rose Perkins has the ability to make you live the life of her characters…

  He roughly pushed the book aside, suddenly made aware of why he hadn’t read anything for so many years. He had no desire to live life like the heroes in a romance novel. He’d had quite enough of the role of chivalrous male when Carla had been alive.

  Ben stood and scowled at the book, then his plate, before stalking off in the direction of his man cave. His appetite for everything disappeared.

  Damn all women.

  ###

  Kitty Beebe longed for adventure, and the winding dirt and gravel road she was traveling lived up to her expectations for such. She had seen three rabbits, two foxes, and a suspected deer that thankfully remained out of her way. But sparkling eyes flit toward her headlights as she maneuvered the rented Ford along.

  She considered turning back more than once as the car plunged into potholes, but the promise of country solitude and lavender scented sheets in the quaint bedroom of the bed and breakfast beckoned her onward. Her weariness got swallowed back a dozen times as she tried to focus on moving the car through the harsh environment.

  Being from Ireland meant troublesome roads were nothing new. The fact was, she wanted to taste Americana at its finest in the most historic places she could find. The advertisement in the popular Southern magazines caught her interest. Now as she bumped and jerked along toward her destination, she felt the serenity of the region ooze over her like a balm.

  My ridiculous restless spirit, again.

  Marge, her agent, had called her a gypsy. Well, she wouldn’t deny that traveling and seeing new and exciting places appealed. They were the very fodder for her career. New places made the best settings for her heroes and heroines to find love, laughter, and life together. She sent them all through a bit of hell first though.

  She smiled to herself. Yes, that element was what characters needed to be interesting.

  Kitty wondered what sort of dire circumstances would befall her latest creations. They hadn’t spoken entirely to her yet, but she wasn’t worried. They would, and when they did, she would be ready and waiting at The Inn.

  If she ever found it.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed aloud, as the road widened suddenly. The avenue of majestic oaks heralded her destination. She nodded at the elaborately decorated and well-lit sign: Welcome to The Inn.

  There were only a few cars parked around the front of the house in the guest parking. It was only ten p.m.

  Would the lady who ran the place still be awake?

  Tourism was light in March, Nikki Butler had told her. Things didn’t pick up until May when the children were out of school and families began their summer trips.

  Kitty parked the car and gathered her purse and an overnight bag from the back seat. She wouldn’t need her other luggage until morning. She shivered at a chill that had set in with the heavy dew and longed for a cup of warm tea. She hoped she could count on the famous southern hospitality to provide it, even if she had to wake someone to get it.

  She climbed the wide steps leading up to the antebellum style house, appreciating its historic feel. She could make out large azalea bushes on either side just beginning to burst into color, and wondered if the innkeeper gardened or hired out.

  She inhaled deeply of the scents of an early spring and placed a firm knock on the white wooden door.

  Nothing.

  She paused, knocked again.

  Still no answer.

  Finally, she dropped the brass knocker heavily.

  That should do it.

  After long moments, only silence returned. She adjusted her bag and tried the knob. It turned easily.

  Maybe they do things differently here?

  It was uncommon these days for anyone to leave doors unlocked, but especially in America. She stood straighter. She was not timid. She was also an expected paid guest.

  She pushed the door open and entered the tall foyer.

  A soft glow came from the single lamp on the small desk in the entryway. A sign- in book was there along with a dish of cinnamon scented potpourri. She hesitated, wondering how to proceed when the shuffle of footsteps on the stairs to her left made her look up.

  He cut a dashing figure as he stood, one hand on the rail, denim jeans hugging tapered hips and no shirt. Her heart skipped a beat.

  A perfect specimen for her new hero.

  Chapter Two

  Ben jerked awake at the sound of the motion sensor. It emitted a dinging sound when an area was breached. Had he left the front door open? His heart pounded in his chest. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The paperback rolled off his chest as he rose.

  He crossed the hall and started down the stairs when she came into view.

  The first thing he saw was her hair, golden-red in the lamplight. It curled around her shoulders like tendrils of flames licking her white sweater and he swallowed hard at the way his body reacted.

  “I’m terribly sorry to disturb your rest,” she said, voice rich and vibrant, full of an accent. “Might Miss Butler be awake? I was to have called before my arrival, but…”

  “…No, it’s me that’s sorry,” he interrupted as he finished descending the stairs and tried not to gape at her height. She was very near eye level to him and he stood six feet in his stocking feet. “She doesn’t live here. She’s my assistant. The number she gave you was most likely mine. I’m Benton Jessup.”

  She nodded, her smile lighting the depths of her sapphire blue eyes. She held out her hand for him to shake it and as he did, recognition struck him.

  “Well, for crying out…you’re… Miss Beebe?”

  The smile widened. “In the flesh, as they say.”

  Embarrassment overcame him. He’d mixed up the day she was due to arrive or she had decided to travel his way early. He covered his chagrin by rolling into action. Scooping up her bag, he said, “You must be exhausted from your trip. Do you have more luggage?”

  “Ah, in the car. No need to fuss about now,” she told him. “I’d really appreciate a nice cup of tea and my bed, if you please.”

  Her accent was enchanting and he felt an odd urge to linger around her just to listen. The feeling unsettled him. “Sure. Coming right up. Follow me.”

  He led the way toward the back
of the house. “The kitchen’s the best room in the house, in my opinion.”

  He excused himself to set her suitcase inside the doorway to the mudroom, easily retrievable once they were ready to go up the back stairs to where she would sleep. He grabbed a long-sleeved tee shirt from the dryer while he was nearby. A bit more presentable, he ambled in and caught her assessing the kitchen, every stone, brick, and log.

  “Lovely. Rustic, and very romantic,” she said.

  He moved to the other side of the mosaic-tiled island. He didn’t want to think about romance. Especially not at the suggestion of a woman who looked like she did, and made her living feeding it to her readers. “What can I get you? I have a few different types of beverages.”

  She sat across from him, and neatly clasped her hands in front of her. “Tea. Hot, not boiling, and a bite of bread and cheese if you have it.”

  “Black pekoe, and green. Or herbal. Honey wheat, white, or hard roll? Pepper jack, sharp or mild cheddar?”

  She gave him one of those smiles again. This time he smiled back in spite of himself.

  “Black pekoe with a drop of cream and a bit of sugar. Honey wheat, sliced if you have it. And I suspect mild cheddar with that will be splendid.”

  He turned away to prepare the food and to collect himself. Something about this woman touched places he thought he had buried. He tried small talk to shorten the silence while slicing the square chunk of cheddar. “I understand you’re planning on writing another book while you’re here?”

  “Yes. A tale woven and spun from the fabric of your wonderful Southern traditions,” she replied, her voice was soft and silky. “I imagine it will ooze with everything from your interesting accents to your love of the land.”

  He finished slicing pieces from a loaf of bread he’d removed from the bread machine that afternoon and placed everything on a royal blue plate. He gave her a small stainless teapot filled with hot water and a teabag already steeping.

  “Interesting accents? Well, I’d say you have that covered better than us,” he said, handing her a blue willow teacup and saucer. “Various Irish accents are much nicer.”