The Next Always Page 7

  “Sure it is. Soon then. Say when.”

  “Maybe next Friday. If I can get a sitter.”

  “Next Friday.” He kissed her, lightly, to seal it. “Don’t change your mind.”

  She stepped away because she wanted to step toward. “Sorry, but the kids. I don’t even know how long we’ve been gone. It got fuzzy.”

  “Not that long.” He took her hand to draw her down the hall.

  “It’s dreamy here,” she began. “I can, if I think about it, layer image over image. It’s the strangest thing, the way I could picture the rooms when you talked about them, even before I looked through the binder. I should’ve brought it with me. I have it at the bookstore.”

  “I could use it. How about we run down and get it?”

  “Ah—”

  “Hang on.” He pulled out his phone as they crossed the main level to the back door. He let them out, relocked, then stood, sheltered with her by the floor of the overhead porch as he called Ryder.

  “Hey, kids okay?”

  “Yeah, no problem. We sold the older two for twenty each to a traveling circus. Let the runt go for a six-pack. Good deal.”

  “We’ll be about five more minutes.”

  “Okay by me. They ate your pizza, man. The runt went for the jalapenos like candy.”

  “Hold on. What do you like on your pizza?”

  “I was going to have a salad.” When he just stared at her with those deep blue eyes, she sighed. “Just pepperoni works for me.”

  “Order up a pepperoni,” he told Ryder. “Five.”

  He clicked off, took her hand again. “I’ll buy you a pizza, a traditional first date. Your kids ate mine.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. It’s giving me the first date. Rain’s slowed down. You can give me the bookstore keys, head right over.”

  “I don’t mind a little rain. Plus it’ll be easier and quicker if I get it. I know just where it is.”

  They circled the building. “Did you know Murphy likes jalapenos?”

  “He’ll eat anything.” She laughed when Beckett made a dash for it, pulling her along. Laughed when the rain cooled her skin, dampened her hair. “Beckett? This is already a really nice first date.”

  BECKETT DOUBTED A traditional first date included a trio of kids begging for quarters, his brothers and the owner of the restaurant playing chaperone—and video games—and people dropping by the now-sprawling table to catch up on news or ask about the inn.

  But it suited him fine.

  Plus the casual, crowded circumstance would keep everybody from speculating. He didn’t mind town gossip; hell, it was part of the fuel that ran the engine. He’d just as soon not have his personal life discussed over breakfast at Crawford’s or scooped up like a banana split at The Creamery.

  He and his brothers put business on hold until Clare packed her kids up.

  “One more game. Please!” Liam, the designated negotiator, put on his best begging face. “Just one more, Mom. We’re not tired.”

  “I’m tired. And I’m out of quarters, plus you have to pay off your current debt cleaning your room tomorrow.”

  She watched his eyes slide toward the Montgomerys and narrowed her own. “Don’t you even think about tapping that source again.”

  “Sorry, pal.” Beckett lifted his hands. “Nobody bucks a mom.”

  “Aw, come on,” Liam began before his mother’s eyes narrowed a bit more.

  “I think you meant to say something else to Beckett, and to Ryder and Owen, and Avery.”

  He sighed, hugely. “Thanks for the quarters and the pizza and stuff.”

  “I’ll take you down in Space Crusader next time around, shortie,” Ryder told him, and Liam brightened with the challenge.

  “No way! I’m taking you down.”

  “Come on, troops.” Avery pushed to her feet. “I’ll walk out with you.”

  After a chorus of ’byes and thanks, and some foot dragging, Clare wrangled the boys to the stairwell door.

  When the noise level dropped, Owen reached for his briefcase, where he’d stashed the files again.

  “Hold on,” Ryder told him. “Let’s take this up to Beck’s. God knows who else might drop by and challenge us to a few rounds of Monster Bash.”

  “Good idea.” Owen rose, pointed at Beckett. “Go pay the tab.”

  “Hey.”

  “I called it first. We’ll meet you up there.”

  By the time he made it up, his brothers—both had keys—had raided his kitchen for beer and chips before making themselves comfortable in his living room.

  D.A. lounged on the floor enjoying leftover pizza.

  Ryder sent Beckett a slow smile. “So, you’re hitting on Clare the Fair.”

  “I’m not hitting on her. I’m exploring the possibility of seeing her on social terms.”

  “He’s hitting on her,” Owen said around a mouthful of chips. “You’ve still got that thing you had for her back in high school. Are you still writing bad song lyrics about heartbreak?”

  “Suck me. And they weren’t that bad.”

  “Yeah, they were,” Ryder disagreed. “But at least now we don’t have to listen to you playing your keyboard and howling them out down the hall. You have noticed she comes with three additions.”

  “It’s come to my attention. So what?”

  “Just checking. I like them. They’re not brats or robots.”

  Beckett dropped down in a chair, picked up the beer his brothers had set out for him. “I’m taking her out next week. I figure dinner and maybe a movie.”

  “Old school,” was Ryder’s opinion. “Predictable.”

  “Maybe, but I think old school and predictable may be what’s called for. I get the feeling she hasn’t dated much since she came back to Boonsboro.”

  “Ask Avery. They’re tight as spandex.”

  Beckett gave Owen a considering nod. “Maybe I will.”

  “I’d skip the movie and just go for dinner, the kind of place where they’re not looking to turn your table in an hour. More face time.”

  “Might be better,” Beckett agreed.

  “Now that we’ve helped launch Beck’s love life, can we get down to it?”

  In response to Ryder, Owen pulled out the files on Hope again. “You can check her out whenever, get a little background before we meet with her. If she lives up to the hype, she’d be a real asset. Next deal.” He tossed out brochures. “We have to settle on the gas logs for Reception, and the gas fireplaces for J&R, W&B and The Library. Thompson’s is going to come in, take another look, and we’ll talk about where to bury the tank, how to run the lines. That’s set for Monday. We’re going to meet about The Courtyard—the pavers, the design, and how to deal with accessing the tank, the fencing, the plantings, the whole shot. That’s for Tuesday.”

  “I’ve been working on that some,” Beckett said.

  “Which is why you need to be there. Tuesday, four o’clock. Mom and Carolee are in on that, too.”

  “We’ve got to deal with some practicalities,” Ryder put in. “Like how we’re going to set all the HVAC units, and getting them in, set, inspected, and passed before cold weather sets in.”

  “Yeah, we do. And that’s why you need to meet with Mike at Care Services next week. We’ve got down-the-line details to start. And I’ll be meeting with Luther about the railings. But we have to settle on the design and the finish. Then there’s the design for the entrance doors,” Owen continued.

  They divvied up work areas, merged some. Then got into a long, protracted argument over mechanics, which required shifting to Beckett’s office and studying blueprints.

  By the time Beckett booted his brothers out the door, he figured he could re-create the blueprints—structural and mechanical—in his sleep.

  And really, for one night, all he wanted to do was think about Clare.

  He’d kissed her. Something he’d wanted to do for nearly fifteen years. Now, in about a week, he’d have her all
to himself for an evening. A nice, quiet dinner, Owen had that right. A little wine, some conversation.

  What did two people who’d known each other most of their lives talk about?

  Then again, there was a lot about her he didn’t know.

  He stood at his window looking out at the dark, shrouded inn and wondered what he’d find out. And what would happen next.

  WORK-RELATED HEADACHES DOMINATED the next day, starting with a visit from the building inspector who, according to Ryder, arbitrarily reinterpreted codes, requiring a change in exterior doors already installed.

  After spending half the day in Hagerstown straightening it out, Beckett came back to the site only to learn the tile supplier had mis-ordered the flooring in one of the guest room baths, and apparently—oops—forgotten to order the entire supply of another pattern. And now claimed their installer couldn’t begin the job for six weeks.

  He’d have booted that nightmare to Owen, but his brother already had his hands full in a meeting with the mechanics about the building’s sprinkler system.

  He retreated to his home office, and spent the next hour giving the salesman who’d screwed up a bigger headache than his own.

  In that, at least, rode some satisfaction.

  When he finished, he grabbed a Coke, swallowed some aspirin, then headed back across the street. He caught Owen in the parking lot.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “I’m going to put in some time in the shop. Look, Ry told me about the tile screwup. I’ll kick some ass in the morning.”

  “Already kicked. Emergency meeting. Where’s Ry?”

  “Third floor, last I checked. Hey, I’d better tell you about the gallery space next to the bookstore, and Mom’s latest brainstorm.”

  “Not yet. Let’s go.”

  They found Ryder on the third floor, installing one of the custom panels in the window well. “Fits like a glove,” he said, “and looks fan-fucking-tastic.”

  D.A. thumped his tail in agreement, and probably hoped someone had food on them.

  “That’s one thing that’s gone right today.”

  “Tell me about it.” He glanced over at his brothers. “Did Owen tell you?”

  “I’m telling Owen, and you. First, don’t get into a pissing contest with the building inspector even if he’s being a dick.”

  “Hey, listen—”

  “No. You were right, but you cross cocks with County, it can just bog up the whole project. The exterior doors meet code, were approved and signed off on previously. They stay. But let Owen or me handle the dirty work, if it looks like it’s going dirty. Next—”

  Ryder set down his nail gun. “Give me that Coke.” He snagged it out of Beckett’s hand. “If you’re going to lecture me, I deserve a nice little treat.”

  At the word treat, D.A.’s tail thumped harder.

  Ryder merely glanced at him. “Mine.”

  “Next,” Beckett continued. “I reamed the salesman. Asshole tried to tell me he meant to order that entire run, how it’ll only take a week to get in. Which is bullshit,” Beckett said before both of his brothers could. “Everything we ordered from them’s taking weeks.”

  Owen grabbed the Coke from Ryder. “They came recommended, made a damn good pitch, and swore they could handle the job. Lesson learned.”

  “I’m not blaming you—much. The vendor screwed up, big-time. They’re expediting the replacement tile and the one he didn’t order—at their expense, and we’re getting a ten percent discount for our inconvenience. I talked to the owner.”

  “Nice work,” Owen commented.

  “I learned from Dad, too. The salesman’s ass is in a sling where it deserves to be, the company’s on notice, and you’re going to follow up every day to make sure they don’t screw up again.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “And they’re not doing the install.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait—”

  “You didn’t just spend two hours on the phone listening to excuses, wheedling, and bullshit, while the owner tried to evade and stall. We don’t deal with that kind of company. We’ll stick with them for the tiles because it’s a worse headache to start over with what we’re missing, but I’m damned if they’re getting any more work out of us.”

  “I’m with Beck,” Ryder said.

  “Just hold on. We’ve got a lot of specialty tile—glass tile, imported, intricate patterns. We need installers with experience handling that kind of work, and a good-sized crew.”

  “I’ve got the owner of another company coming in to look the job over. He’s one of the guys who dropped off a business card. He’s local, he’s hungry, and he gave me three references to check out. He checked out. He’s on his way. You talk to him,” he told Owen. “If you don’t think he can handle it, you find somebody else. But we’re finding somebody else. It’s a matter of principle.”

  “You know how he is when he’s got his panties in a twist,” Ryder pointed out. “Besides, he’s right.”

  “Great. Fine.” Owen scrubbed the heels of his hands over his face. “Jesus.”

  Beckett pulled out the aspirin bottle he’d stuck in his pocket on his way out the door.

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, what about Mom and brainstorms?”

  Owen swallowed aspirin, chased it with Coke. “You might need these again. Now that The Gallery’s moved out of that space, Mom wants a gift shop to tie in with the inn.”

  “I know that.”

  “You don’t know she wants it now.”

  “What do you mean, now? She can’t have it now.”

  Owen gave him a look of pure pity. “You tell her. She’s over there now with a paint fan, a notebook, and a measuring tape.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Beckett rubbed the back of his neck. Just when the headache had eased off. “You guys are coming, too. I’m not dealing with her alone.”

  “I like it here,” Ryder claimed. “Doing carpentry. I like the quiet.”

  “Then bring your hammer. We might need it.”

  They’d owned the commercial space beside the bookstore for a few years. It had, over time, seen many incarnations. The latest, a little art gallery and framing shop, had moved across the river to a bigger location.

  Now, as he could clearly see through the display window beside the door, his mother was in the nearly empty space holding a paint fan up to the wall.

  Shit.

  She looked over as they came in.

  “Hello, boys. What do you think of this yellow? It’s pretty, it’s warm, but quiet enough not to distract from the art.”

  “Listen, Mom—”

  “Oh, and that wall there? That really needs to be taken down to a half wall. It’ll open up the space, lead nicely into the little kitchen area. We can leave that pretty much intact, use that for kitcheny things. Pottery, cutting boards, what have you. Then we’ll leave that doorway open leading down to what’ll be the office. Maybe do a beaded curtain or something for some jazz. Then upstairs—”

  “Mom. Mom. Okay, this is all great, but maybe you haven’t noticed we’re up to our necks across the street.”

  She gave Beckett a smile, a pat on the cheek. “This isn’t much. Mostly cosmetic.”

  “Taking down a wall—”

  “That’s just a little wall.” She bent down to rub D.A. when he leaned lovingly on her leg. “It mostly needs paint, and the bathroom there needs a new sink, that sort of thing. Freshen it up. You can spare a couple men while the floors are going in.”

  “But—”

  “We don’t want to leave this space empty, do we?” She put her hands on her hips as she turned a circle. “We’ll need a counter there, for the cash register, for checkout. Small again, nothing fancy. You can build that, can’t you, Owen?”

  “Ah . . . sure.”

  “Coward,” Beckett muttered as their mother walked back to study the closet-sized powder room.

  “Bet your ass, bro.”

  “Pretty littl
e wall-hung sink, a new toilet, nice little mirror and light—done. Paint and pretty lights out here and upstairs. Oh, new exterior paint. We’ll go with what complements what we’re doing on the inn.”

  “Mom, even if we could split some of the crew, get this done, you have to get somebody to run it, stock it and—”

  “Already there. Don’t you worry about any of that. I’ve talked to Madeline—from our book club. You know Madeline Cramer,” Justine continued in her cheerful steamroll over objections. “She used to manage an art gallery in Hagerstown.”

  “Yeah, sure, but—”

  “She knows all sorts of local artists and craftsmen. We’re going to do all local art and crafts, showcase what we have, who we are.” Sunglasses perched on her head, paint fan at the ready, Justine beamed at the space. “It’ll be wonderful.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. He couldn’t argue at all, Beckett realized. He was outgunned. “We’re only going to be able to send somebody over to work when we can clear them from the inn job.”

  “Well, of course, sweetie. Ry, do you have time to help me figure out the wall there?”

  “Sure.”

  “Won’t this be fun?” She turned that cheerful beam on all of them. “We’ll add a fresh, new business to town, give local artists a wonderful venue, and have a nice little lead-in to the inn before it’s done and open.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Any of you have dates tonight?”

  “Who has time?” Owen muttered. “No, ma’am, not me.”

  She got shakes of the head from the other two, sighed loud and long before bending to address Dumbass. “How am I going to get girls and grandchildren unless they start hunting them up? Well, why don’t you all come to dinner? I’ll pick up some fresh corn on the way home, make you a feast.”

  And rope them into refining details on her latest brainstorm, Beckett thought. But what the hell.

  “I’m in.” He glanced around as Clare poked her head in the door.

  “Hi. Family meeting?”

  “Just adjourned,” Justine told her.

  “Oh, it looks so sad in here now. I’m sorry to see The Gallery go, but I know she’ll love having a bigger space over in Shepherdstown.”

  “It won’t look sad for long. You’re just what I need.” Justine held the paint strip up again. “Tell me what you think of this color for the walls.”

  “I love it. Sunny. Warm, but not overbright. Do you have a new tenant already?”

  “We’re the new tenant. I guess you haven’t talked to Madeline recently.”

  “Not since our last book club meeting.”

  While his mother filled Clare in—surely satisfied with Clare’s enthusiastic