Unpacking Secrets (Spruce Hill #1)

1. One

One

Juliet

T his cannot be real, I thought as I studied the building in front of me.

A family legacy I’d never heard of, an inheritance from a grandmother I’d never known. That initial sense of disbelief still hadn’t quite worn off, even as I stood before the charming Tudor-style inn. My gaze traveled from the steep, gabled roof down to the perfectly landscaped flower beds on either side of an arching wooden door.

This building—this business—was now mine.

After a phone call changed the course of my life, I was the new owner of the Lakeside Inn, a bustling bed and breakfast in the middle of Nowhere, New York.

Scratch that.

Once rated one of the safest towns in America, Spruce Hill lay tucked away between Lake Ontario to the north and the Finger Lakes to the south. My internet search the week before had produced little more than a few wineries outside of town, the inn itself, and a conspiracy site about a string of unsolved murders in the surrounding area back in the eighties and nineties.

Since the safe town rating was more recent, I decided to ignore that bit of trivia.

After two long days of driving and an overnight stay at a creepy motel outside of Chicago, I was tired, hungry, and quite possibly delirious. The inn, with its white stucco exterior and dark exposed beams, made me feel like I'd crossed an ocean rather than a handful of states.

It was cute and quaint and, mind-bogglingly, it belonged to me.

I pressed my hand hard over my mother’s ring where it rested against my sternum, drawing a deep breath that lifted the opal into my palm. Missing her was like missing a limb. It had always been us against the world, but now it was just me and the aftermath of a truth she’d kept hidden my entire life.

Her ring and the unexpected, strangely cryptic note she’d left for me to find in a nightstand drawer, telling me to contact the owner of this inn, were the only tangible proof that this wasn’t a dream.

Unfortunately, when I did as she directed, I learned the owner—my grandmother, who I’d thought long dead—had passed away only a matter of months after my mom.

My childhood home, tucked in a quiet suburb outside of Minneapolis, was officially sold to a young couple expecting their first child. Most of my worldly possessions were crammed into suitcases in my car, with only the most sentimental items taking up space in my best friend’s guest room closet until I was settled and ready for her to ship them to me.

My gaze turned to Lake Ontario, nestled right up against the pretty gardens behind the inn. Sunlight glittered across the gently waving surface, accentuating each ripple drawn by the spring breeze.

I took a step down the path to explore further, but I was interrupted by a sudden jingling of keys and a robust laugh.

“Well now, you must be our long lost friend. I’m Gerard Walker, caretaker here at the inn.”

A portly older man appeared from behind the corner of the building. His English accent was soft, faded after what I imagined must be decades far from home and remarkably soothing to my nerves. He was the perfect caricature of a grandfather, with his twinkling eyes and a shock of white hair.

When he held out a hand, I felt like a child, playacting at business ownership. I forced down the uncertainty to shake his hand with as much confidence as I could muster.

“Yes, I’m Juliet Morrison.”

“Juliet,” he repeated, his voice heavy with emotion. “It’s a delight to finally make your acquaintance. By heavens, you do look like Nan. That wild red hair, those freckles. And you have her eyes, blue as the morning sky over the lake.”

It was strange, hearing my unknown grandmother referred to in such a familiar fashion. Until my mother’s letter set off this chain of events, I hadn’t even known Nan existed. Though I pasted what I hoped was a polite smile on my face and wracked my brain for an appropriate response, the awkward silence stretched.

Finally, Gerard cleared his throat and gestured toward the inn. “Why don’t I show you around?”

“Sure, that sounds great,” I said with relief.

I followed his stout frame to the inn’s heavy wooden door. It looked practically medieval, I thought, expecting a dim interior filled with long oak tables and serving wenches. Instead, the door opened into a sunny, cozy sitting room. The patterned wallpaper was a bit old-fashioned, but then, so was the floral upholstery. It could have been straight out of a country living magazine.

“Nan and our housekeeper, Gemma Gregson, decorated the place themselves,” he told me as we walked into the room. “They wanted it to feel like a family home, rather than an impersonal hotel.”

“It’s beautiful.” I touched a petal in the bouquet of silk flowers on a side table.

“I, ah, assume the lawyer explained the management situation to you?” he ventured. His hands were clasped tightly together as he watched my perusal of the room, as though my opinion of the place actually mattered.

The lawyer. Right. After calling the inn and being informed the owner had died, I received a call from a lawyer the next day. I still hadn’t wrapped my head around it.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “Mr. Escobar said that the inn practically runs itself and I’m basically the owner in name only. He promised that all of the employees would be staying on, which I hope is true, because I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

Clearly relieved, Gerard said, “Yes, yes, that’s exactly so. Nothing to worry about, dear girl, we all know what we’re doing. I act as caretaker of the grounds and the building itself, then there’s Sally, our chef, and Mrs. Gregson, the housekeeper. My grandson, Henry, took over the reservations and accounting for Nan when she got sick, but she ran the place singlehanded for years, until bringing Mrs. Gregson onboard just before your mother was born.”

“That’s the entire staff?” I asked, surprised.

“We pull in additional waitstaff and an extra maid or two as needed, depending on the season. Soon enough, we’ll need a new groundskeeper, but these old knees haven’t let me down yet. Henry is out running an errand, but he’ll be back soon. I’ll introduce you. The others are around here somewhere.”

I nodded, more overwhelmed by the small, intimate staffing than I would've been by a large crew. My status as the outsider cemented then and there.

“Henry has a head for numbers. I’m sure he’d be happy to show you the revenues, in case you’d like to step into Nan’s shoes down the road.”

My mouth dropped open before I could stop it. “Oh. I mean, that’d be fine,” I stammered.

I had zero interest in learning about profit margins or managing the inn. The lawyer made it sound like I would essentially act as a figurehead in this operation. I was an artist with zero experience running a business—somehow, I doubted cashing out customers or reshelving books at my last job would translate to useful skills for the owner of a bed and breakfast. I’d enjoyed the job for the freedom it gave me to pursue art in my spare time while still paying my bills.

Never in my life had I been so unprepared for anything.

Gerard smiled reassuringly. “Of course, dear, whatever you wish. Everyone is very excited to meet you.”

“Great,” I replied, trying to smile back. I followed him down a hallway, studying the old photos hanging there along the way.

“The inn was built in 1850, though it was a private residence until Nan purchased the property in 1971 to convert it to a bed and breakfast. She and her husband lived in the owner’s quarters until she got pregnant with your mother, then they made an offer on the adjoining property where the cottage sits. Sally lives in the owner’s quarters now, so there’s always someone on site for emergencies.”

I hadn’t thought to research the history of the place, not when my own history was so up in the air, but now I wanted to know everything. “So you offer breakfast to guests, and they’re on their own for lunch and dinner?”

“That’s how we’ve done it for years, but we recently started offering dinner service for guests, by reservation only, in addition to our usual breakfast. Sally is very talented and Nan hoped to eventually expand to offering a full dinner menu. Her illness delayed those plans a bit, but we’re working hard to get them rolling again.”

A gray-haired woman in a floral dress hurried toward us and grasped my hands in hers as she gave me a full once over. “Oh, goodness, you must be Juliet. I’m Gemma Gregson. We spoke on the phone the other day. Well, if you aren’t just the spitting image of Nan!”

The comment struck me speechless for a second time.

“Ah,” I began, searching for something to say in response.

I needed to brainstorm a better way to react to those exclamations. Fortunately, my reticence didn’t slow Mrs. Gregson down one bit. The older woman reached out to touch a lock of my hair, though she caught herself and dropped her hand before making contact.

“That red doesn’t lie,” she said, clucking her tongue. “Melissa was blonde as blonde could be, but she had a temperament that was better suited to a redhead, as I’m sure you must know.”

How bizarre it was to hear strangers refer to my mother by name. I still didn’t know how to respond, so I simply smiled. Fortunately, Mrs. Gregson overlooked my silence and turned to Gerard.

“The doorknob in the pantry is loose. Sally asked me to send you to fix it, if you have the time? I can show Juliet around.”

“You’re in capable hands,” the older man said with a wink. “I’ll take you over to the cottage when Gemma is satisfied you’ve seen every nook and cranny of the inn.”

I mumbled my thanks as he ambled away.

Mrs. Gregson beamed at me. “Well, then. This is the dining room, of course. Breakfast is served from seven to eleven each morning. Sally likes to put out some buffet items when we have a full house, but she also has a standard made-to-order menu, as well as a daily special.”

A dozen or so tables dotted the hardwood floor, each decorated with a lace tablecloth and a small candle in the center. The dark paneling on the walls gave way to a stretch of tall windows overlooking the gardens and the lake, bringing in a fantastic amount of light even as afternoon faded to evening.

“This view is really something,” I said softly.

“Isn’t it? Even in the winter, our guests love it. We encourage them to spend time wherever they wish, and we keep that cupboard stocked with board games and books for them to enjoy.” She gestured toward an armoire tucked into a corner. “It’s not unusual for the tables to be taken up outside of breakfast hours. Shall we continue the tour?”

Just as I turned to follow her toward the door, my gaze stalled on the artwork scattered throughout the room. Mrs. Gregson noticed my interest and guided me toward the wall opposite the windows.

“These are all local landmarks,” she said, gesturing to a small watercolor. “Most of them are Nan’s contributions, like this one, but we have a handful of work from other local artists as well.”

For a long moment, I studied the painting, each daub of color calling to me like a whispered voice, familiar but foreign. I’d never developed any talent for watercolors myself, but I loved them, the gentle power of every soft stroke.

Tearing my gaze away, I managed a smile for Mrs. Gregson. “Can I see some of the rooms, if any are free?”

With a tender look, Mrs. Gregson led me out of the dining room and continued the tour. We stopped briefly in the impressively modern kitchen at the back of the inn to meet Sally, then headed upstairs to peek into one of the unoccupied bedrooms on the second floor.

“The inn has ten suites in total,” my tour guide informed me, “each with its own full bath. We get a good number of honeymooners, anniversary trips, that sort of thing. Our busiest seasons are spring and summer, but we do quite well throughout the entire year.”

Making a noncommittal noise in my throat, I followed her silently throughout the interior of the inn. Everything was lovingly decorated; I had yet to spot a single thing that looked mass produced.

My grandmother had clearly put her heart and soul into this place.

For the first time since learning about Nan’s existence, I was struck by a deep, penetrating sorrow. Part of me felt like I had no right to grieve for someone I’d never met, but the timing of it all seemed so tragic.

Mrs. Gregson glanced out a window at the top of the stairs. “Oh, good. Henry is back. I’ll bring you by the office to meet him, then Gerard will take you over to the cottage.”

The cottage. My new home. A flutter of anticipation rose up inside of me through the shadow of grief. My throat was still too tight for speech, so I just nodded.

Against that eager flutter, I tried to ignore the ball of dread in my belly at the thought of meeting Henry, though whether because Gerard had mentioned me taking over the job or because he must be closer to my age than the rest of them, I wasn’t sure.

Maybe he was a sweet, nerdy type who liked numbers more than people. Maybe he was older than I envisioned, a middle-aged dad who valued family above all else.

Those images didn’t reassure me as much as I would've liked.

Mrs. Gregson ushered me down the stairs and toward a little office tucked away across the hall.

“Good afternoon, Henry,” she called, peeking around the doorframe.

I sucked in a steadying breath and followed her into the room.

“This is Juliet Morrison. Juliet, this is Henry Walker, our general manager.”

The man behind the desk was not at all what I expected. He was absurdly handsome, with deep olive skin. Locks of hair so dark it bordered on black hung just long enough to fall over a brooding brow. His beautiful hazel eyes were a rich shade of green flecked with amber, but they regarded me with a coolness that ratcheted my anxiety to the next level.

I guessed he was somewhere in his mid-thirties, give or take a few years. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal sculpted forearms. This guy was definitely neither a geek nor a middle-aged dad. In truth, he looked polished and elegant, which made me feel frumpy and intensely unsuited to owning a business of any kind.

Mrs. Gregson, still lingering in the doorway, remained blissfully oblivious to his frosty gaze. She cheerfully called out something about leaving the young folks to it and disappeared before I could beg her to stay.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I said, offering my hand as I summoned a polite smile.

When he leaned back in the chair instead of clasping my palm, increasing the distance between us, I let the hand drop and clenched it into a fist.

“Right,” Henry replied shortly.

His pointed scrutiny traveled over my haphazard road trip outfit. Embarrassment welled inside me as he surveyed the paint-splattered jeans and old college sweatshirt I’d thrown on that morning. The clothes were casual and comfortable for driving hours on end, but not exactly the height of sophistication.

When his gaze returned to my face, I was taken aback by the open hostility in his expression.

“The long lost heiress comes to claim her rightful place,” he bit out. “Aren’t we fortunate you’re here to save us?”

My jaw dropped at his audacity. His deep voice was sharp, lending an aristocratic edge to his derision, even though he didn’t share his grandfather’s posh accent.

“I beg your pardon?” I sputtered.

“I’m sure you must have plenty of experience running a business,” he went on, his tone brittle and condescending.

What the hell?

I scowled at him as my temper flared. It was one thing for me to doubt my own ability to take this on, but this jerk was not going to question my qualifications. He didn’t even know me. Nan’s will, as far as I understood, prevented me from actually running the place anyway, but if Henry Walker wasn’t aware of that, I wasn’t going to tell him—not while he was being an asshole, at least.

I forced my features to relax, though it took a gargantuan effort.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I replied, dripping sweetness. “I didn’t realize you had a degree in hospitality. Maybe a refund is in order—you don’t seem to have learned much from it.”

Something in his expression shifted toward amusement, then the flash was gone. He slid a thick ledger onto the desk and his manner turned business-like as he stood, spun the chair around, and gestured for me to sit.

“My background is in accounting, actually. Here are the records for the past five months, starting January first. The books for previous years are over there on the shelf. The computer system is fairly straightforward, showing reservations and openings for each date. Nan upgraded a couple years ago to accept credit cards, the machine can be a bit finicky but the manual is in the drawer below it. Maybe the heiress will invest in a tablet-based POS system.”

I continued to stand, ignoring the chair, and allowed myself to glare at him while I tried to control my response.

“I’m not here to steal your job,” I snapped.

“No, you’re just here to take over a family business you know nothing about,” he fired back.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I ground out. “I didn’t even know I had a family, nevermind a business to inherit. What exactly is your problem?”

The longer I stood there, the closer my fury got to boiling over. What right did this jerk have to question me? With a sudden, devastating smile, Henry's bad attitude evaporated into . . . well, I wasn’t quite sure what, but I didn’t trust for a second that it was sincere.

“Nothing at all,” he answered. “Some of us have actual work to do. I guess we’re finished here, then?”

“I guess we are,” I replied tartly.

One corner of his mouth curved up again, ever so slightly, and I clenched my hands at my sides to keep from knocking the smile off his stupid, handsome face. With a final scowl, I whirled away from him, catching a whiff of some subtle cologne in the process.

He smells amazing. Too bad he’s such a dickhead.

“Have a nice day,” Henry called as I strode out of the office.

This was not how I imagined my introduction to the Lakeside Inn, not even a little. I was so fired up, I didn’t pay attention to where I was going and ended up in the hallway filled with old photos. Without Gerard or Mrs. Gregson there to distract me, I moved closer to the framed pictures, seeking solace in the unfamiliar faces.

Except . . . they weren’t all unfamiliar.

There was Nan, unmistakable with hair the same flaming red as mine, though she was slender and petite. Beside her was my mother, a teenager at the time, her blonde hair teased and crimped. Her curves were more like my own, even back then, and that resemblance soothed me.

Just as I lifted my hand to touch a finger to the image, Gerard stepped out from a door at the end of the hallway. His face broke into a smile when he saw me, but it faded quickly.

“Is everything all right? Did Henry do something to upset you?”

For a split second, I considered throwing Henry Walker under the bus, but that wouldn’t win me any favor around here. I was the stranger, the newcomer, the—what had he called me? Right, the long lost heiress.

As if I’d been appointed queen of this kingdom rather than its floundering, clueless owner.

“Everything is fine, I’m just tired after the drive. Can you show me to the cottage now?” I asked, forcing a smile that hopefully looked more sincere than it felt.

“Of course, dear,” Gerard replied. “Let’s get you settled so you can relax. I hope you’ll come for breakfast tomorrow, though. There’s nothing like it. You have to experience Sally’s genius for yourself.”

I mumbled an answer that sounded like agreement, wondering if there’d be any way to get out of that particular commitment, and followed along behind him as we left through the heavy front door—fortunately without passing Henry’s office along the way.

Well, Gerard’s grandson was right about one thing. I was here to claim my rightful place. He’d just have to deal with it.