Chapter 2
The last hotel on earth Ben Carter wanted to run was his grandparents’ country inn with its dark basement of steep stairs and mountain of boxes.
The stairs from the basement of Hearts Bend Inn to the small private office space Granddaddy and Granny had used for the last sixty years seemed to grow steeper with each load of boxes Ben carried up.
But if he could, Ben would happily talk to Granny about the price of milk, or anything she wanted, just to see her face again.
He’d been so busy the last five years, launching new and marquee hotels for the prestigious Viridian Jewel Resorts around the world, that he’d not come home enough. He’d not helped out. Which in his mind made him a bad grandson. Especially after all his grandparents had done for him.
He set the box down next to the old desk. He could still see Granddaddy sitting here in the solo light of the lamp, balancing the books.
He should have been here for Granny. Should have seen that she needed help before and after Granddaddy passed.
They’d run the inn together for sixty-one years, so he’d figured she didn’t need him.
Never mind she kept telling him everything was fine.
Go on and live your life, Benji. Open those big, beautiful luxury hotels.
He’d believed her because he’d wanted to believe her.
Grabbing a handful of old tax returns from the box, he fed the paper shredder.
As the machine hummed, he stared out the window toward the vegetable and herb garden on the east side of the inn.
Sunlight streamed in, brightening up the whole room.
Even if this place was a mess, at least it was a cozy mess with plenty of light.
The shredding work was mindless, but it gave him time to consider what else needed to be done. He’d been compiling an extensive to-do list since he arrived two weeks ago.
He only had the summer to get things settled, make decisions before he had to be in Sydney.
The Emerald, a stunning world-class resort and the newest hotel for VJR, would be their marquee property in the South Pacific.
This hotel would open up Asia to them, and Ben was heading the team.
It had to go well. He was lucky his boss had let him come home to square up the estate.
But he must be back in Australia by September first. The last month was critical. As it was, he spent his evenings answering emails and texts from his boss and the team.
He fed another pack of papers through the shredder. He was exhausted.
Mr. Graham, Granny’s lawyer, was stopping in today. He’d insisted on coming to the inn for coffee and cookies and for what Ben suspected to be bad news.
His phone vibrated in his back pocket. Jordan, his second-in-command in Sydney, had texted a picture.
It was the promotional angle of the fifteen-story building.
The lights inside glowed against the dark sky, the huge white domes of the Sydney Opera House lit up in the background.
Perfect. Things were coming together, which eased a bit of his stress.
The inspector was set to give them the CO in a few weeks, and if possible, he wanted to be there. Setting up the lobby, the kitchen, the dining hall, the rooms, the spa required a lot of time and attention to detail.
If everything went well, and it would, Hong Kong was next. Investors were already lined up.
Thanks to his grandparents, the hotel business was in his blood.
All his years at the Hearts Bend Inn checking in customers, waiting tables in the small dining room, mopping the kitchen, cleaning rooms, changing bed sheets, and fixing plumbing with Granddaddy looking over his shoulder had set him up for his career with Viridian.
The Emerald would solidify his career. He would not, could not fail. The irony of dealing with details for the Emerald while standing in his grandparents’ old-fashioned place in the middle of Podunk, Tennessee, was not lost on him.
His phone pinged with another text from Jordan.
Don’t forget we have a video call with the Hong Kong investors next week.
As if he could forget. The call fell right in the middle of the night for him, but he’d be up and dressed to impress.
It’s on my calendar.
The quicker he figured out what to do with this inn, the quicker he could return to his life. His calling. To Sydney.
He finished the shredding and broke down the empty box. When he tossed the cardboard toward the pile against the wall, he managed to knock a frame off the desk.
Sorry, Granny.
Ben retrieved the old frame and set the picture in its spot of honor. The loving couple beneath the glass were a snapshot of love, of a blissful marriage, of home. Granddaddy, in his Army uniform, hugging Granny outside the inn. Happiness, love, commitment—all written across their faces.
Granddaddy had left his mark on the world as a decorated Korean War vet and retired from the Army after twenty years. He’d been a loved and respected citizen of Hearts Bend and the hero of Ben’s life.
Ben gathered the tipping stack of cardboard and carried it to the dumpster hidden behind a fence and stand of trees. As he returned to his office, he paused just outside the kitchen doors and peered into the inn’s lobby and dining area.
It was a beautiful place, sweet and charming, cozy in all the right ways. Granny had done the best she could keeping up the general appearance of the inn, but Ben knew, sure as he breathed, the bones beneath were brittle and in need of repair.
In the lobby, the cherry antique reception desk sat on the far wall facing the front door.
And it was empty. As was the huge dog bed behind the desk.
His great-aunt, Myrtle May, Granny’s sister, was supposed to be there answering the phone, checking email for reservations. But she was nowhere in sight.
“Myrtle May?” Ben glanced down the hall, then to the front porch. How many times had he reminded Aunt Myrtle May to not leave the front desk vacant?
Maybe it was his high-end hotel training, but it made sense to always have someone at the front desk, ready to take reservations and greet the guests.
No wonder business was slow.
Meanwhile, the warm aroma of sweet cinnamon and sugar filled the inn. Walt’s cookies. Best in the world—at least Ben thought so. But don’t tell that to any of the pastry chefs he’d worked with around the world. Or to Haven’s Bakery just down the road.
The inn offered lunch and those amazing cookies all afternoon, along with sweet tea, hot tea, and coffee. Which was a sad shame, because Walt’s coffee had to be the worst tasting cup of mud in the state. Note to self: find a new coffee source.
The grandfather clock next to the piano on the opposite wall chimed the top of the hour. Eleven gongs echoed through the lobby. The lawyer would be here any minute.
Since Myrtle May was out, Ben slid behind the desk and pulled up the reservations. At Ben’s recommendation, Granddaddy had installed an online system, despite Granny’s protests, and insisted everyone, even Walt, learn to use it.
Myrtle May had the calendar open showing only a handful of reservations, which explained the bank balance. With so few bookings, it was a wonder the inn survived. Since the inn was in a trust and Ben was now the owner, he had to pay all the bills after Granny’s funeral.
Maybe he needed to just haul all the boxes to an incinerator and get on with the finances of the inn.
The bell over the front door jingled, and Lawrence Graham, Granny’s attorney, was ushered in with a strong gust of wind. The sunshine from ten minutes ago had disappeared behind an angry cloud.
His warm dark eyes caught Ben’s as he adjusted his suit and tie while he approached the reservations desk. “Weatherman says we’re in for a real doozy tonight. Best tighten down the hatches. How’re you doing, Ben?”
“Exhausted, if I’m honest. I hope you have good news for me.” Coming around the desk, Ben shook the older man’s hand.
Mr. Graham had been his grandparents’ lawyer since Ben could remember. He was tall, dark-skinned, smart, and looked almost the same as he had twenty years ago, only with a graying head of hair.
“Good news? Not so sure, but I’ve plenty of good advice.” He pointed toward the western windows. “Best check that big oak right outside. It’s bending in this wind, and I’m sure it’s rotten. Told your Granny five years ago to get rid of it, but she refused. Said her Benji used to climb that tree.”
“I did. Granddaddy and I built a tree house in it,” Ben said, moving to the window.
The tree stood tall, swaying in the gusty breeze, looking steady and strong.
He had practically lived in that tree after his parents left him with his grandparents the summer they returned to Papua New Guinea to serve with the Pacific Isle Mission.
“I had my first kiss in that tree house. Cami Jackson.”
“Did you, now?” Mr. Graham’s chuckle was full of sentiment.
She’d been cute, fun, and destined to be a great artist. She would come from Nashville with her mother and sit in the shade of the inn’s cottages with her easel and paints.
In fact, Cami’s mom had painted the large picture behind the desk.
Granny had always said she was just holding it for the family.
One day they’ll come for it.
“We were in the tree when we suddenly heard this loud crack. Next thing you know, we’re falling to the ground, arms and legs flailing.”
Man, had that been fifteen years ago already?
Mr. Graham chuckled. “Did she ever speak to you again?”
“She did, believe it or not. Until her mom passed and she stopped visiting the inn.”
“Sentiment aside, my boy”—Mr. Graham headed for the coffee station—“best take that tree down before it goes down and does some damage.”
He made quick work at the coffee station, pouring a cup of Walt’s coffee. Did Ben apologize now or wait until Mr. Graham pumped his fist against his burning chest?