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“Actually, I’ve already seen the kitchen with Izzie. It seemed that your chef was having an issue with his childminder, though, so we didn’t stay.”
Nate closed his eyes for a moment. Of course Jacob’s unreliable ex would flake out on them today. “I assure you, Jacob is usually—”
“Izzie said it happens all the time.”
“Izzie was mistaken.” Nate bit the words out, already planning the talk he was going to have with the receptionist. Nancy had to have left him the grounds for a reason and, so far, the best he could come up with was to make sure that he stayed here to help Carrie. Or, the thought had come late one night, to stop her, if she tried to change too much about what made the Avalon home for so many people.
They had to stand together, now Nancy wasn’t there to stand for them. And Izzie needed to get on side, quick.
“Why don’t we head upstairs, then?” he suggested, and Carrie nodded. “Great.” Nate shepherded her in the direction of the stairs. “I’m not sure how well you know the inn,” he said, desperate to change the subject.
Carrie made a noise that was almost a snort. “I practically grew up here.”
Which didn’t explain why she hadn’t been back since he’d arrived, Nate thought. Didn’t explain why she hadn’t been there when Nancy got sick.
He pushed the thoughts away. He had to work with this woman—for now, anyway.
None of them knew what she had planned here. They were all nervous; the Seniors most of all. They had the most to lose, Nate supposed. If Carrie Archer decided to sell the inn or turn it into flats, or any other inconceivable idea, he’d get by. He’d work for the new owners, if they wanted him, or he’d get a new job. He still got offers often enough. People who wanted to be able to show off their new garden and say, ‘Oh, yes. We got that chap who used to be on the telly to sort it for us. You know, the Singing Gardener.’ At least, the ones who didn’t mind the fact that he hadn’t had a programme in almost two years. He’d manage well enough, he supposed.
Only he didn’t want to ‘manage’. The Avalon Inn had become home, from the moment he’d pitched up on Nancy’s doorstep and said, “Remember me?” Nancy had let him in, made him hot chocolate and sent Izzie to make him up a bed in the summerhouse. That was two years ago too. He’d headed straight to Wales from the meeting with the producers, the meeting where he’d said, ‘No, no more. Enough. I want to do it my way.’ He hadn’t really expected them to decide his way wasn’t good enough.
He didn’t want to leave the Avalon Inn, even if it felt strange every single morning, heading up to the house and not finding Nancy drinking coffee in her office or berating Jacob in the kitchen. But he didn’t want it to change, either. It was comfortable. It was home. And Nate liked it just the way it was.
Which meant he had to work with Carrie Archer to keep it that way.
“Well, if you know the inn then you’ll know we’ve got twelve bedrooms here, each individually decorated. Shall we start at the eastern-most end?” he suggested.
The bedrooms didn’t meet with Carrie’s approval, either. By the time they reached number twelve, the largest of the rooms, her renovations list stretched onto its sixth page, and Nate could feel a serious headache building behind his eyes.
“It’s not what you were expecting,” he said, watching Carrie add bridal suite—total makeover! to her list.
Carrie sighed. “It’s just there’s such a lot to do.”
Nate thought, not for the first time that afternoon, it might be better for all of them if Carrie Archer just sold up and left. Why bother keeping the inn if she planned to destroy everything that made it Nancy’s Avalon?
Except Nancy had left him here to stop that, hadn’t she? And he owed Nancy, even now she was gone. He couldn’t just walk away. Not until he’d repaid Nancy for all she’d given him.
She’d nailed his feet to the floor, and he was damn sure she’d known exactly what she was doing when she wrote the bloody will. She wanted him to settle down.
After all this time, he’d thought she’d have known he wasn’t the settling type.
The rickety stairs up to Nancy’s bedroom gave out ominous creaks under their feet, but for once Carrie didn’t comment. Didn’t say anything at all until they were enclosed in the stuffy attic room, the autumn sunlight creeping through the window and making the dust motes glow.
“I haven’t been up here in years,” Carrie said, touching each of Nancy’s trinkets and treasures in turn as she moved around the cluttered room. When she reached the bed and spotted her bag in the middle of it, she stopped and looked over at the window and the dressing table instead.
It felt strange to see another woman in Nancy’s space, Nate realised. He’d never expected, when he arrived at the Avalon, that he’d spend much time in the cramped attic Nancy had chosen for herself. Quite aside from the fact that he had to duck his head just to stand in there, he’d never felt very comfortable in such a personal space. Still, towards the end, Nancy had grown more and more tired in the afternoons, but remained too stubborn to succumb to the idea of afternoon naps. Instead, she’d called work meetings in her room, lounging on top of the jewel-coloured patchwork bedspread while Nate folded himself into the white wicker chair at her dressing table, taking notes on all the things she wanted done around the inn.
And her family hadn’t noticed she was ill. Not even her beloved granddaughter.
“I don’t imagine it’s changed much,” he said, staring at the string of silver bells hanging from the window frame.
Carrie’s head jerked up at his words, but Nate could tell she didn’t really see him. Her attention flicked away again, drawn to a photo on Nancy’s dressing table, a picture of a child in a summer meadow. Carrie, he assumed.
“She loved that photo,” Nate said, feeling something catch at the back of his throat.
“It was the most perfect day.” Carrie’s voice sounded very far away. “We chased butterflies through the field and had ice cream on the terrace. Just me and her. She even let me use the cut-glass cocktail glasses for ice-cream bowls.”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Nate realised he might have something in common with Carrie Archer after all. She missed her grandmother. Maybe even as much as he did.
“I’m sorry,” Nate said. He stepped closer to her automatically, though he stopped himself from reaching out to touch her.
But then, he didn’t move away, either.
“Why didn’t you call us?” Carrie’s question was abrupt, and Nate could hear real pain in her voice, this time. “When she got sick. We could have...”
“She didn’t want anyone to know.” Nate’s jaw felt tight, making him force the words out. “She didn’t want...pity, I suppose. She wanted to face it alone.”
“She let you help,” Carrie said, sounding bitter.
Nate shrugged. “I’m paid staff. It’s different.” He sighed, and tried to find the right words to explain. “You know what she was like. She didn’t want to interrupt your lives with her problems.”
“You should have told us anyway.”
The accusation in Carrie’s voice broke Nate’s reserve. She could not, would not blame him for this. “If you’d visited—hell, if you’d even paid attention when you called—you’d have known. It was blindingly obvious to anyone who loved her.”
Stark silence followed. Carrie flicked her gaze to the photo and it stayed there, as if she were living in some half-forgotten yesterday. “She sounded tired.” Her voice sounded very small, now. “But I thought... She was old, Nate. I just thought it was age. I saw her when she visited Dad’s at Christmas and she seemed fine. And I thought if something was really wrong that she’d tell me...”
“She was a stubborn old thing,” Nate said fondly. Carrie huffed a laugh and put the photo on the dressing table. But when she looked up and met his eyes, she still seemed to be watching something very far away in time.
“Do I know you?” she asked, her voice faint.
Nate blinked, and was just considering the best way to deal with what appeared to be some sort of weird stress-related amnesia, when Carrie shook her head, her cheeks pink, and went on, “I’m sorry, I mean, have we met before? You just look familiar, somehow.”
Letting out a breath of relief, Nate grinned. “You know, a lot of people say that to me.”
Carrie smiled back, faintly. “Guess you’ve got one of those faces. What about the people downstairs? Stan, and Moira and...”
“Cyb,” Nate finished for her. “The Seniors... They’re old friends of Nancy’s.”
Carrie nodded slowly. “Ye-es, that’s what Izzie said. But what are they doing here?”
Nate resisted the urge to wince, while he tried to think of the best way to put it. Perhaps best to start out softly, he decided. “Well, they’re all very attached to the inn, and they live locally. And I know they were all looking forward to meeting you.”
All of which was scrupulously true, if slightly misleading. Nate liked to avoid outright lies whenever possible. But he wasn’t above a bit of misdirection.
Carrie seemed to be buying it, anyway. She ran a hand down her skirt to straighten it, and Nate could almost see her packing away her feelings and getting back to the task in hand. “Right, then. I’ll have plenty of time for this later. What do you want to show me next?”
It was too late, though, he thought. He’d seen that she cared. There had to be a way he could use her emotional attachment to preserve Nancy’s inn.
“Why don’t we head down to the drawing room?” he suggested. “Like I said, Nancy left some papers and things to be given to you. Might as well make a start sooner as later.”
And if words from beyond the grave didn’t guilt Carrie into doing the right thing by the Avalon, he’d just have to find something else that would.
* * * *
It was only once they started touring the rooms that Carrie realised how inaccurate her original impression had been. Not only had the Avalon Inn changed, it hadn’t been for the better.
She’d remembered the bedrooms as cozy and charming, but the ones Nate showed her were just shabby. The dining room looked tired, and no one would want to hold their wedding reception on a carpet so hideously patterned. Even the drawing room and library were filled with lumpy chairs and paperback novels missing pages or covers.
She couldn’t help but think that Anna would hate every inch of the place, if she saw it. The Avalon Inn would never be good enough for a Wedding Wishes booking. In fact, as it stood, Carrie was very afraid it wouldn’t be good enough for anyone’s wedding. Which left her plans stuck rather behind square one.
And, if that weren’t bad enough, Carrie’s bag sat in Nancy’s bedroom, not the tiny boxroom she’d made her own in childhood. Nothing was as it should be.
Carrie had arrived expecting a dream wedding venue. What she’d got instead was fast approaching a nightmare. And apparently the decor was only a part of it.
“There’s a lot to be done,” Nate said, dropping into the leather wingback chair opposite hers, framed by the bay window of the front drawing room. The Seniors appeared to have scampered off to wherever they came from, probably for tea and a nap, much to Carrie’s relief. She looked up from the notebook where she’d been creating her Avalon Inn To Do List as their tour threw up new problems and jobs.
“So I can see,” she said, adding, patch drawing room chairs when her left hand found a hole in the leather of her seat.
“More than just the cosmetic,” Nate clarified. He pulled open the file drawer in the desk beside him, and handed her a thick wodge of paper. “This is a survey of the inn your gran had done last year.”
“You’ve seen this?” Carrie asked Nate, leafing through the pages.
Nate nodded. Of course he’d seen it. Nancy had obviously trusted him. Still, the idea of someone else knowing her inn better than she did made Carrie want to grind her teeth. Especially since it looked as if the surveyor hadn’t found a single part of the inn that didn’t need something done to it.
“New windows, rotting terrace... Possible roof issues?” Carrie sighed. “Well, this is going to be fun.”
Nate winced. “Yeah. Looks like your redecorating might have to wait.”
Carrie couldn’t quite decide if he sounded pleased. “It all needs doing, sooner or later.” Nate might not like the idea of updating the inn, but, if Carrie managed to find a way to pay for the structural work, she’d need to give the place a thorough facelift to have any chance of earning the money back.
“There are some other papers, too,” Nate said, his voice softer. He held a small pile of letters out before him, and Carrie reached across, feeling some resistance when she tugged them out of his hands.
On the top sat an envelope marked ‘Carrie’. She’d have recognized the handwriting anywhere in the world. But here at the Avalon, there was only ever one person it could be from.
Carrie swallowed around the lump that had taken up residence in her throat and wondered how long it would take her to work up the courage to open it. She put it to one side, and turned to the next paper in the stack—a copy of Nancy’s will.
There, in black and white, signed by her grandmother herself, was the proof that Nancy hadn’t believed that Carrie could save the Avalon on her own. With the proviso that Nathanial Green be given full control of the gardens, for as long as he wishes it.
Perfect. Well, at least he didn’t get any say in what happened inside the inn. However much he obviously thought he should.
Nate braced his hands against the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet, his gaze still fixed on the will in her hands. Carrie glanced up. He looked even more absurdly tall when he was the only one standing.
“Well, you don’t need me here for this,” he said, just as Izzie stuck her head around the door from the bar, saying, “Nate? Jacob’s got some kind of childcare crisis, and he’s supposed to be giving me a lift home. Can we...?”
“Yeah, sure,” Nate said, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll walk you out. I need to talk to Jacob about menus for next week, anyway.” He stopped by the door and turned back to where Carrie waited patiently for him to realize his mistake. “If that’s okay with Carrie. I mean, Miss Archer.”
For the first time, Carrie felt properly in charge. But it was spoiled rather by the sarcastic lilt Nate put on the words ‘Miss Archer’. “Fine. I’ll see you both tomorrow, Izzie.”
The receptionist disappeared into the bar, but Nate still hovered in the doorway. “I don’t know if anyone mentioned, but I live on-site,” he said, as if he couldn’t decide whether telling her was a good idea or not. “I’ve got the summerhouse, down by the woods. So I’ll be around later if you want to discuss anything.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Carrie told him, and he nodded and left.
She’d be damned if she needed to ask Nathanial Green for help any time soon.
Chapter 3 (#u658c1680-0321-5e80-857e-9c87286b96f9)
Cyb wasn’t sure she liked the Red Lion very much. She’d never had cause to go there before. Why would she, when the Avalon Inn was so friendly? Even when her Harry was alive, they’d gone away to hotels, or nice restaurants, and to the theatre. Never to a sticky pub on High Street. And didn’t it used to be a hardware store? Surely she remembered Harry buying a new broom there, once. He wouldn’t recognise it now. Of course, he’d been gone a very long time. He might not recognise her either.
No, Coed-y-Capel had changed in fifty years, and Cyb wasn’t all that interested in living in it now. Much better to remember how things were, and recreate them as best as possible at the Avalon.
“Now, then,” Stan said, getting to his feet on the beer-stained floorboards. What kind of a place couldn’t even afford a nice carpet? Cyb tried to pay attention to Stan, as she always did, but really, with all the flashing lights and the pounding music, who could stay focused? “I call to order the first official meeting of the Avalon Inn Avengers.”
Across the table, Moira raised her hand just enough to get Stan’s attention and said, “Can I just be very clear on one point? The Avalon Inn Avengers is a stupid name.”
Stan’s face reddened, but he had good manners so he didn’t shout. Cyb liked that about Stan. He always looked as if he might bellow, but he never did. A good quality in a man. “Your opinion is noted, Moira,” he said instead. “But until such time as we have a better suggestion, or until the group is no longer necessary, we will stick with what we have. Yes?”
Moira nodded but Cyb thought she might have been smiling, just a little bit. Moira didn’t really appreciate Stan. Not the way she did.
“It is clear to me,” Stan said, leaning his hands against the table, “that our way of life, our inn, is being threatened. I’d hoped Nancy’s granddaughter would have better sense than to change what has worked for decades. But now she’s here, and from what I saw today...”
“What exactly did you see today?” Moira asked. “I noticed you’d sloped off when Cyb and I headed home earlier.”
Stan bristled. “I thought somebody should take responsibility for keeping an eye on what was going on at the inn.”
“You mean you followed Carrie and Nate around on their tour.”
“Not exactly.” Stan’s gaze darted away. “But I can report that she didn’t look happy with what she saw.”
Of course, Stan wasn’t perfect. He did get worked up about things, sometimes, when it really wasn’t necessary. A sign of a passionate nature, though, Cyb supposed.
“Carrie seemed perfectly darling to me,” she said, without really thinking, and felt her cheeks getting warm as Stan turned his stern gaze on her. “Of course, we only just met...”
“Exactly. Who is to say that tomorrow she won’t close the inn and start making it all...froofy.” Stan waved a hand on the last word, as if to say you know what I mean. Cyb thought she did, anyway.
She usually did—even when Stan was blustering and fussing, she knew it was all for show.
Moira, however, obviously felt the need to question. As usual. “Froofy?”
Stan sat down with a sigh and turned his full attention to the dissenter. “Tell me, Moira. Do you want to lose your bridge nights? Or our dances? Or your garden patch?” Cyb sucked in a breath at that. Stan really was bringing out the big guns if he was threatening Moira’s garden. But he wasn’t done. “Do you want your grandsons to lose their jobs and for Nate to go back to London?” Cyb shook her head. Threatening Nate and Jacob was a step too far.
“Nancy said she’d take care of all those things,” Moira said, but even she looked doubtful now. “She said she’d make sure we’d all get to stay. Especially Nate. Why else would she leave him the gardens?”
“Nancy said,” Stan echoed. “And I’m sure she did her best. But the inn is Carrie’s now. How much do you think she’ll respect her grandmother’s wishes? Besides, Nancy only left Nate control of the gardens while he wanted it. If he feels pushed out by Carrie…you know what he’s like. The boy will walk. Again.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Izzie said, slipping into an empty chair at the table. Cyb hadn’t even noticed her enter the pub. She, at least, looked as if she belonged there, with her blue jeans low on her hips and her blonde hair swinging across her shoulders. Cyb had looked like that once. Without the jeans, though, of course. “Jacob had to get home so the childminder could leave, so I just got him to drop me off by the park and walked in from there.”
Moira jerked half out of her chair at her other grandson’s name. “Does he need me to—?”
