The Next Always Read online

  “Cut it out, asshole.” But he laughed a little despite himself. At least until the door flew open, and both porch doors did the same.

  He smelled honeysuckle, sweet as summer, on the rush of icy air.

  “Well, Jesus.”

  He’d mostly accepted they had a ghost—mostly believed it. After all, there’d been incidents, and Beckett was adamant. Adamant enough that he’d named her Elizabeth in honor of the room she preferred.

  But this was Owen’s first personal, up-close and inarguable experience.

  He stood, slack-jawed, as the bathroom door slammed, then flew open, then slammed again.

  “Okay. Wow, okay. Um, sorry to intrude. I was just—” The door slammed in his face—or would have if he hadn’t jumped back in time to avoid the bust to the nose.

  “Hey, come on. You’ve got to know me by now. I’m here almost every day. Owen, Beck’s brother. I, ah, come in peace and all that.”

  The bathroom door slammed again, and the sound made him wince. “Easy on the material, okay? What’s the problem? I was just . . . Oh. I get it.”

  Clearing his throat, he pulled off his cool cap, raked his hands through his thick, bark brown hair. “Listen, I wasn’t calling you an asshole. I thought it was Ry. You know my other brother. Ryder? He can be an asshole, you have to admit. And I’m standing in the hallway explaining myself to a ghost.”

  The door opened a crack. Cautiously, Owen eased it open. “I’m just going to close the porch doors. We really have to keep them closed.”

  He could admit, to himself, that the sound of his own voice echoing in the empty room gave him the jitters. But he shoved the cap in his coat pocket as he moved to the far door, shut it, locked it. When he got to the second door, he saw the lights shining in Avery’s apartment over the restaurant.

  He saw her, or a flash of her, move by the window.

  The rush of air stilled; the scent of honeysuckle sweetened.

  “I’ve smelled you before,” he murmured, still looking out at Avery’s windows. “Beckett says you warned him the night that fucker—sorry for the language—Sam Freemont went after Clare. So thanks for that. They’re getting married—Beck and Clare. You probably know that. He’s been stuck on her most of his life.”

  He shut the door now, turned around. “So thanks again.”

  The bathroom door stood open now, and he caught his own reflection in the mirror with its curvy iron frame over the vanity.

  He could admit to himself that he looked a little wild eyed, and the hair sticking up in tufts from the rake of his fingers added to the spooked image.

  Automatically, he shoved his fingers through again to try to calm it down.

  “I’m just going through the place, making notes. We’re down to punch-out work, essentially. Not in here though. This is done. I think the crew wanted to finish up this room. Some of them get a little spooked. No offense. So . . . I’m going to finish up and go. See you—or not see you, but . . .”

  Whatever, he decided, and backed out of the room.

  He spent more than thirty minutes moving from room to room, floor to floor, adding to his notes. A few times the scent of honeysuckle returned, or a door opened.

  Her presence—and he couldn’t deny it—seemed benign enough now. But he couldn’t deny the faint sense of relief either as he locked up for the night.

  FROST CRUNCHED LIGHTLY under Owen’s boots as he juggled coffee and doughnuts. A half hour before sunrise, he let himself back into the inn, headed straight to the kitchen to set down the box of doughnuts, the tray of take-out coffee, and his briefcase. To brighten the mood, and because it was there, he moved to Reception, switched on the gas logs of the fireplace. Pleased by the heat and light, he stripped off his gloves, folded them into the pockets of his jacket.

  Back in the kitchen, he opened his briefcase, took out his clipboard and began to review—again—the agenda for the day. The phone on his belt beeped, signaling the time for the morning meeting.

  He’d finished half a glazed doughnut by the time he heard Ryder’s truck pull in.

  His brother wore a cap, a thick, scarred work jacket, and his need-more-coffee scowl. Dumbass, Ryder’s dog, padded in, sniffed the air, then looked longingly at the second half of Owen’s doughnut.

  Ryder grunted, reached for a cup.

  “That’s Beck’s,” Owen told him with barely a glance. “As is clear by the B I wrote on the side.”

  Ryder grunted again, took the cup marked R. After one long gulp, he eyed the doughnuts, opted for a jelly-filled.

  At the thump of D.A.’s tail, Ryder tossed him a chunk.

  “Beck’s late,” Owen commented.

  “You’re the one who decided we needed to meet before dawn.” Ryder took a huge bite of doughnut, washed it down with coffee. He hadn’t shaved, so dark stubble covered the hard planes of his face. But his gold-flecked green eyes lost some of their sleepy scowl thanks to the caffeine and sugar.

  “Too many interruptions once the crew’s here. I looked around some on my way home last night. You had a good day.”

  “Damn straight. We’ll finish punch-out on the third floor this morning. Some trim and crown molding, some lights and those damn heated towel racks still to go in a couple rooms on two. Luther’s moving on the rails and banisters.”

  “So I saw. I’ve got some notes.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I’ll have more, I expect, when I finish going over two, and head up to three.”

  “Why wait?” Ryder grabbed a second doughnut, started out. He tossed another chunk without bothering to glance at the dog who trotted with him.

  Dumbass fielded it with Golden Glove precision.

  “Beckett’s not here.”

  “Dude’s got a woman,” Ryder pointed out, “and three kids. School morning. He’ll be here when he is, and can catch up.”

  “There’s some paint needs touching up down here,” Owen began.

  “I got eyes, too.”

  “I’m going to have them come in, install the blinds throughout. If three gets punched-out today, I can have them start on the window treatments by early next week.”

  “The men cleaned up, but it’s construction clean. It needs a real cleaning, a polish. You need to get the innkeeper on that.”

  “I’ll be talking to Hope this morning. I’m going to talk County into letting us start load-in.”

  Ryder slanted a look at his brother. “We’ve got another two weeks, easy, and that’s not counting the holidays.”

  But Owen, as usual, had a plan. “We can get three done, Ry, start working our way down. You think Mom and Carolee—not to mention Hope—aren’t going to be running around buying more stuff once we get things in place?”

  “I do figure it. We don’t need them underfoot any more than they already are.”

  They heard a door open from below as they rounded up to the third floor.

  “On three,” Owen called down. “Coffee’s in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, Jesus.”

  “Jesus didn’t buy the coffee.” Owen brushed his fingers over the oval oil-rubbed bronzed plaque with the word Innkeeper engraved on it. “Classy touch.”

  “The place is full of them.” Ryder gulped more coffee as they stepped inside.

  “It looks good.” Owen nodded as he toured through, in and out of the little kitchen, the bath, circling the two bedrooms. “It’s a nice, comfortable space. Pretty and efficient—like our innkeeper.”

  “She’s damn near as pain-in-the-ass fussy as you are.”

  “Remember who keeps you in doughnuts, bro.”

  At the word doughnut, D.A. wagged his entire body. “You’re done, pal,” Ryder told him, and with a doggie sigh, D.A. sprawled on the floor.

  Owen glanced over as Beckett came up the stairs.

  He’d shaved, Owen noted, and looked bright-eyed. Maybe a little wild-eyed, as he imagined most men did with three kids under the age of ten and the school morning chaos that created.

/>   He remembered his own school mornings well enough, and wondered how his parents had resisted doing major drugs.

  “One of the dogs puked in Murphy’s bed,” Beckett announced. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Works for me. Owen’s talking about window treatments and loading in.”

  Beckett paused as he gave Dumbass a quick head rub. “We’ve still got trim to run, painting, punch-out.”

  “Not up here.” Owen crossed to the first of their two suites, The Penthouse. “This is what I’m talking about.” He moved through, saw muted colored crystal lights, creamy trim, and the big splashy bath with its stunning tile work. He paused at the floating wall, nodded at the long counter and double vessel sinks, stepped over, scanned the large glass shower, the generous rain head, the body jets, turned toward the wide white tub.

  “We could outfit this suite. Hope could move her stuff in across the hall. How about the Westley and Buttercup room?”

  “It’s done. We hung the bathroom mirror and lights yesterday.”

  “Then I’ll tell Hope to break out the mop, get this level shined up.” Though he trusted Ryder, he’d check the room himself. “She’s got the list of what goes where, so she can run down to Bast, tell them what to deliver up here.”

  He made notes on his clipboard—shipment of towels and linens, purchase of light bulbs and so on. Behind his back, Beckett and Ryder exchanged looks.

  “I guess we’re loading in.”

  “I don’t know who we is,” Ryder corrected. “It’s not me or the crew. We’ve got to finish the damn place.”

  “Don’t bitch at me.” Beckett held up his hands. “I’ve got to make the changes to the bakery project next door if we’re going to shift the crew from here to there without much of a lag.”

  “I could use a lag,” Ryder muttered, but headed down behind Owen.

  Owen paused at Elizabeth and Darcy, gave the propped-open door a study. “Beckett, you might want to talk to your pal, Lizzy. Make sure she keeps this door open and the terrace doors shut.”

  “It is open. They are shut.”

  “Now. She got a little peeved last night.”

  Intrigued, Beckett lifted his brows. “Is that so?”

  “I guess I had my personal close encounter. I did a walk-though last night, heard somebody up here. I figured it for one of you, messing with me. She thought I called her an asshole, and let me know she didn’t care for it.”

  Beckett’s grin spread wide and quick. “She’s got a temper.”

  “Tell me. We made up—I think. But in case she holds a grudge . . .”

  “We’re done in here, too,” Ryder told him. “And in Titania and Oberon. We’ve got to run the crown molding and baseboard in Nick and Nora, and there’s some touch-ups in Eve and Roarke, and the bathroom ceiling light in there. It came in, finally, yesterday. Jane and Rochester in the back is full of boxes. Lamps, lamps, more lamps, shelves and God knows. But it’s punched out.

  “I’ve got a list, too.” Ryder tapped his head while the dog walked over to sit at his side. “I just don’t have to write down every freaking thing in ten places.”

  “Robe hooks, towel racks, TP dispensers,” Owen began.

  “On the slate for today.”

  “Mirrors, flatscreens, switch plate and outlet covers, door bumpers.”

  “On the slate, Owen.”

  “You’ve got the list of what goes where?”

  “Nobody likes a nag, Sally.”

  “Exit signs need to go up.” Owen continued working down his list as he walked to the Dining Room. “Wall sconces in here, and some touch-ups to the paint. The boxes we built for the fire extinguishers need to be painted and installed.”

  “Once you shut up, I can get started.”

  “Brochures, website, advertising, finalizing room rates, packages, room folders.”

  “Not my job.”

  “Exactly. Count your frigging blessings. How much longer for the revised plans on the bakery project?” Owen asked Beckett.

  “I’ll have them to the permit office tomorrow morning.”

  “Good deal.” He took out his phone, switched it to calendar. “Let’s nail it down. I’m going to tell Hope to open reservations for January fifteenth. We can have the grand-opening deal on the thirteenth, give it a day for putting it all back together. Then we’re up.”

  “That’s less than a month,” Ryder complained.

  “You know and Beck knows and I know that there’s less than two weeks of work left here. You’ll be done before Christmas. If we start the load-in this week, we’ll be done by the first of the year, and there’s no reason we won’t get the Use and Occupancy right after the holidays. That gives two weeks to fiddle and fuss, work out any kinks, with Hope living here.”

  “I’m with Owen here. We’re sliding downhill now, Ry.”

  Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Ryder shrugged. “It’s weird, maybe, just weird thinking about actually being done.”

  “Cheer up,” Owen told him. “A place like this? We’re never going to be done.”

  On his nod, Ryder heard the back door open, shut, the sound of heavy boots on tile. “We’ve got crew. Get your tools.”

  OWEN KEPT BUSY, and happy, running crown molding. He didn’t mind the regular interruptions to answer a call, return a text, read an email. His phone served as a tool to him as much as his nail gun. The building buzzed with activity, echoed with voices and Ryder’s job radio. It smelled of paint and fresh-cut wood, strong coffee. The combination said Montgomery Family Construction to him, and never failed to remind him of his father.

  Everything he’d learned about carpentry and the building trade he’d learned from his father. Now, stepping off the ladder to study the work, he knew his father would be proud.

  They’d taken the old building, with its sagging porches and broken windows, its scarred walls and broken floors, and transformed it into a jewel on the town square.

  Beckett’s vision, he thought, their mother’s imagination and canny eye, Ryder’s sweat and skill, and his own focus on detail—combined with a solid crew—transformed what had been an idea batted around the kitchen table into a reality.

  He set down his nail gun, rolled his shoulders as he turned around the room.

  Yeah, his mother’s canny eye, he thought again. He could admit he’d balked at her scheme of pale aqua walls and chocolate brown ceiling—until he’d seen it finished. Glamour was the word of the day for Nick and Nora, and it reached its pinnacle in the bath. That same color scheme, including a wall of blue glass tiles contrasting with brown on brown, all sparkling under crystal lights. Chandelier in the john, he thought with a shake of his head. It sure as hell worked.

  Nothing ordinary or hotel-like about it, he mused—not when Justine Montgomery took charge. He thought this room, with its Deco flair, might be his favorite.

  His phone alarm told him it was time to start making some calls of his own.

  He went out, then headed toward the back door for the porch as Luther worked on the rails leading down. Gritting his teeth, he jogged through the cold and bitter wind across the covered porch, down to ground level, then ducked in through Reception.

  “Fucking A, it’s cold.” The radio blasted; nail guns thumped. And no way, he decided, would he try to do business with all this noise. He grabbed his jacket, his briefcase.

  He ducked into The Lounge, where Beckett sat on the floor running trim.

  “I’m heading over to Vesta.”

  “It’s shy of ten. They’re not open.”

  “Exactly. If you see Ry, tell him the crown’s up in N&N. Somebody needs to wood putty the nail holes and touch it up.”

  “I don’t know where the hell he is.”

  “No problem.”

  As he started out, Owen pulled his phone off his belt, sent Ry a text. Outside, he hunched against the cold at the light, cursed the fact that traffic, such as it was, paced and spaced itself so he couldn’t make the dash across Main. He
waited it out, his breath blowing icy clouds until the walk light flashed. He jogged diagonally, ignored the CLOSED sign on the glass front door of the restaurant, and pounded.

  He saw lights on, but no movement. Once again he took out his phone, punched in Avery’s number from memory.

  “Damn it, Owen, now I’ve got dough on my phone.”

  “So you are in there. Open up before I get frostbite.”

  “Damn it,” she said again, then cut him off. But seconds later he saw her, white bib apron over jeans and a black sweater shoved to her elbows. Her hair—what the hell color was it now? It struck him as very close to the bright new penny copper of the inn’s roof.

  She’d started changing it a few months back, going with most everything but her natural Scot warrior queen red. She’d hacked it short, too, he recalled, though it had grown long enough again for her to yank it back in a tiny stub when she worked.

  Her eyes, as bright a blue as her hair was copper, glared at him as she turned the locks.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. “I’m in the middle of prep.”

  “I just want the room and the quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.” He sidled in, just in case she tried to shut the door on him. “I can’t talk on the phone with all the noise across the street and I have to make some calls.”

  She narrowed those blue eyes at his briefcase.

  So he tried a winning smile. “Okay, maybe I have a little paperwork. I’ll sit at the counter. I’ll be very, very quiet.”

  “Oh, all right. But don’t bother me.”

  “Um, just before you go back? You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee?”

  “No, I wouldn’t happen to have. I’m prepping dough, which is now on my new phone. I worked closing last night, and Franny called in sick at eight this morning. She sounded like somebody ran her larynx through a meat grinder. I had two waitstaff out with the same thing last night, which means I’ll probably be on from now until closing. Dave can’t work tonight because he’s getting a root canal at four. And I’ve got a bus tour coming it at twelve thirty.”

  Because she’d snapped the words out in little whiplashes, Owen just nodded. “Okay.”

  “Just . . .” She gestured toward the long counter. “Do whatever.

  She rushed back to the kitchen on bright green Nikes.

  He’d have offered to help, but he could tell she wasn’t in the mood. He knew her moods—he’d known her forever—and recognized harried, impatient and stressed.

  She’d roll with it, he thought. She always did. The sassy little redhead from his childhood, the former Boonsboro High cheerleader—cocaptain with Beckett’s Clare—had become a hard-working restaurateur. Who made exceptional pizza.

  She’d left a light, lemony scent behind her, along with a frisson of energy. He heard the faint thump and rattle of her work as he took a stool at the counter. He found it soothing, somewhat rhythmic.

  He opened his briefcase, took out his iPad, his clipboard, unclipped his phone from his belt.

  He made his calls, sent emails, texts, reworked his calendar, and calculated.

  He steeped himself in the details, surfacing when a coffee mug slid under his nose.

  He looked up into Avery’s pretty face.

  “Thanks. You didn’t have to bother. I won’t be long.”

  “Owen, you’ve already been here forty minutes.”

  “Really? Lost track. You want me go?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Though she pressed a fist into the small of her back, she spoke easily now. “I’ve got it under control.”

  He caught another scent and, glancing to the big stove, saw she’d put her