Love Inn (3 page)

He listened to their chatter as he heated up more bacon, syrup and pancakes.

“What made you become a writer?” Nikki asked.

Kitty laughed. “The weather in Ireland oftentimes keeps me indoors with little else to do but write. There’s also something to be said for naturally induced inspiration when it happens around you, like it does there.”

“Which explains so many English gothic writers, I suspect.”

“My father was a farmer and taught me a love of the land, though ours failed and I never touched a till again until after his death some years ago. Sadly, the land has been mostly parceled off until only the house and garden remains. So, without the land to save me, I took up the pen and wrote my way into fame and fortune.”

Nikki’s reply was lost as the bacon sizzled in the skillet. He decided to go and retrieve the suitcases from Miss Beebe’s car. “Miss Beebe, would you like for me to get your luggage out now?”

She frowned. “It’s Kitty, and we’re getting on so well, let’s forget the Mr. and Miss formalities. I’ll run up and get the keys for you.”

He nodded, glancing at her. “Okay. Kitty it is.”

Nikki pierced him with one of her sisterly looks once the woman’s footsteps had faded. “I see it but I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

“A glimmer of appreciation for a member of the opposite sex oozing out of your body.”

“Don’t get carried away. She’s a guest here.”

“She’s also attractive and single.”

“I didn’t think a doctor noticed details about people. I thought all you saw was their condition, their disease.”

She snorted. “I see a condition all right. Might be a tumor. Might also be a bulge in your pants.”

He swatted at her with his dishtowel and returned to the stove and her breakfast.

Chapter Three

Kitty was alone, the way she liked it when she planned out a new book.

Outside her window, rain sluiced down in sheets driven on a sharp wind that had begun around noon. A dreary gray afternoon had ensued and she found it inspiring.

But this story was not coming easily this time.

She knew so little about it still. Only that it was going to be full of love, loss, pain and rebirth. Using Ben as her model, there was more than enough inspiration for such a story. She had only to look around at the vestiges of his wife’s influences at The Inn to know they had had a wonderful life together.

Love and loss, pain—it all went hand-in-glove for her stories, as it would for this one.

She paced back and forth in front of the window. The water ran down the glass in rivulets and pooled on the ground below. She watched as geese huddled around a small lake out in the middle of the grounds facing her. Didn’t geese mate for life?

A scene formed in her head and she dropped down at the desk, pen on paper, words appearing. In just a moment, she was halfway down the page.  Finally, she stopped and sat back, pleased with the burst of writing.

I should have found this place years ago
.

###

In his shop, on the far edge of the property, Ben slammed the hammer down too close to his fingers and swore. He needed to finish fixing the towel rack and get back to the house. He didn’t have time to waste drooling over a woman. Especially one who was so centered on everything he wanted to forget.

In his head he went over the list of things still left to do. The meat market would carry those flank steaks he’d be using for fajitas. The southwestern flavors and spices might liven up dinner. If he could find small decorations to add to the tables, it would be almost like eating in a Mexican restaurant.

If the Beebe woman liked it, her expression of approval might bring more business to The Inn, and cement his chance at having a four star rating. He scowled. Keeping her off his mind was becoming nearly impossible.

Something about her mysterious air, the creative side of her, jangled a similar place in him. She’d lost her land and been reduced to writing, yet found she was good at it. It remained to be seen if he would find the same successes with his endeavor, but loss had given them the same choices to make. Their goals were the same. Pick up the pieces and succeed at something else.

At the moment, his goal was to make Kitty Beebe tell all her New York friends that The Inn was the best bed and breakfast in South. But could he get his guest to succumb to his charm, his talent. . .his obsession?

Change. That was what he needed. Change to his approach, his execution.

He would make the Beebe woman fall in love with this place, with his very country until she didn’t want to return to Ireland.   If he were to succeed at that, it meant giving up his resolve to stay out of a woman’s way.

It meant putting himself directly in her path and he knew what direction her path would be.

It was written on every page of her books.

Dejected, he paced to the doorway of the shop and peered out. The rain hadn’t let up since daybreak. The early spring green of the grasses was just appearing and he watched as birds fluttered in the ground beneath one of the oaks, playing. They were probably mating.

He turned away, even more unsettled. It had to do with Kitty. The first attractive woman who had not been a newlywed seeking an overnight stay on the way to a bigger, more fun honeymoon and he was in a dilemma.

Maybe Nikki was right. Maybe his interest had nothing to do with the fact she was a guest at The Inn. And her book hadn’t helped anything.

He’d read some of it while trying to go to sleep. The reminder of the Ireland he’d experienced with Carla was uncanny, and uncomfortable. Since then, he’d only wanted more. He fought the urge to pick it up every time he had spare time.

What kind of woman could create such beauty and desire within a man just with simple words?

The reminder of that exact woman who rested in the house across the lawn made him collect the woodwork and dart out into the pelting rain.

###

When Kitty finally came down for a bite to eat, she found him surrounded by bowls lining the island counter. His dark ringlets mussed, some parts standing up, some not, like he’d been tugging on them.

She understood when she saw the damp shirt and muddy shoeprints. She hoped it was the sizzle of the skillet that made her feel so warm and not the instant attraction she felt. The impulse to reach up and calm the wild curls like she would a child smote her.

She seated herself at the bar, and focused on his handiwork. Delighted to see a variety of vegetables, sliced diagonally, and strips of chicken and beef.  “Will it be fajitas then?”

Ben looked up at her, his dimple deepening. “Yep. Hope you like them spicy.”

He placed all the vegetables and meat together in the skillet and a cloud of steam rose filling the air with its fragrance. He worked it around in the pan, adding a bit of water or shaking something from a plastic container into it.

Calmly, he brought the filling out of the skillet and drained it on paper towels before placing it on a plate with tortillas, Spanish rice and refried beans. On another plate he had scoops of sour cream, guacamole, and freshly made salsa.

He nudged the plates closer to her. “You’re welcome to sit and eat there. No need for the table. It’s just us.”

She smiled. “Mind your step, Ben. You’re spoiling me.”

He crossed his arms and waited.

She took a bite. “Smashing!”

“It’s a new idea I’ve been thinking about. Does it need anything? Are the spices in the meat and veggies heavy enough, or too heavy?”

She shook her head. “Don’t change a thing. You’ve done a splendid job. I’ve been to Mexico and had the authentic cuisine. This is much better.”

He sighed and began cleaning up. She watched him as she ate. His youthful appearance convinced her that all men were just little boys wrapped up in a grown man’s clothing. They splashed in puddles, petted muddy animals and didn’t care if they got dirty or not in the meanwhile. They also captured a woman’s heart without even trying.

“Ben, is there a library nearby where I could do a bit of research?” she asked, breaking the silence.

He stopped wiping the counters and glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, about fifteen minutes from here, in Haven Hill. Would you like for me to take you?”

She smiled. “That would be wonderful, but I must warn you, I take a long time when books are available.”

He shrugged. “No problem. I’m a browser myself.” Then, he gave her his full attention. “Are you writing anything on the Civil War era? That’s all I ever hear people talk about when they ask about the area and what it’s famous for.”

She shook her head. “No. I believe that’s been done. I’m more interested in the flora and fauna of the region at this point. Helps in my setting.”

“Oh, okay. Well, there’s no better way to get that kind of research than just going around looking at it. If you could wait on the library…”

“Are you volunteering to show me the sights?”

He grinned, wiping his hands on a towel. “Sure. I know where all the fun stuff is.”

The thought of spending time on the land around the small resort excited her. The thought of exploring it with her host excited her more.

“It’s a date, then? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

He gazed out the window of the door leading to the back patio. “I guess so. Today we’d just get soaked and probably the sniffles.”

Nothing appealed to her more than sharing a raincoat and umbrella. “I love the rain, personally. Ireland has a great deal of it.”

He returned to his task of cleaning the kitchen. “Yes, I remember.”

She watched the wistfulness briefly cross his face before disappearing beneath a mask of hardness. Whatever had happened in Ireland had been too painful to forget.

###

Ben finished his kitchen chores and went to put the towel rack in place. His guest had gone out on the patio, which was enclosed to keep the rain off. Most people ended up out there. Rain or shine, it was a good place to sip a beverage and just do nothing.

He’d guiltily watched her as she sat as still as a mime. Her hair blew around her face as the wind picked up strands and threw them as if burned by their very fiery essence. He found himself wondering if her hair was soft, fragrant.

It was then he decided he needed to work on the towel rack. Watching her could become an obsession and he didn’t want to go there. He couldn’t believe he had volunteered to take her to see the sights.

“The sights? What sights? What in God’s green earth were you thinking?” he asked himself aloud.

There were very few places of interest at The Inn. The cemetery. The pond. The horse barn maybe, if you wanted to ride. He hadn’t ridden in weeks. The horses got fed, and groomed, the stalls kept clean, but beyond that they had been neglected as they often were during the colder months.

No sights a famous writer, especially one from Ireland, hadn’t seen a few times already. He would have to work hard to come up with places of interest, something special that she would share with her friends. He could even make it a regular plan for visitors if it went well.

He folded and hung the embroidered fingertip towel over the newly positioned rack. Kitty Beebe was excited about the fact he was going to be her tour guide. He’d seen it in her disturbing blue eyes.

He heard the phone ring as he finished hanging the towels. The handset was on his desk in the kitchen. He jogged the short distance and picked it up.

“Benton?” It was Nikki.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I’m not going to make it back for a few days. I have a patient with blockage but I have to get her stable before I can go in. I hope you’re okay out there. How’s Miss Beebe?”

He scratched his cheek. “So far so good. She loved my fajitas.”

“Good. Maybe you can whip up a batch for me. Don’t scare her to death with all your weird recipes, okay? I bet she has a plain set of taste buds.”

He wanted to tell her that the Irish woman’s tastes were anything but plain, but refrained. It would only make her ask more questions. Questions that he didn’t have any answers for. Instead he made promises to keep the light on and got off the phone.

When he turned around, Kitty was standing a short distance behind him.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” he apologized, thankful he hadn’t said anything to Nikki that could be misconstrued.

“I’ve made a habit of moving quietly,” she explained, smiling. “I lived with old people a long time. They didn’t take to quick jerky movements or loud unexpected noises.”

He nodded. “Did you work in a retirement home or something?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “Goodness no! I lived with my elderly parents until they died. God rest their souls.”

He tilted his head, embarrassed. “Oh. Well, I was way off on that, wasn’t I? Would you like some tea?”

“That would be lovely.”

He took out the pot and placed it on the stove, turning the heat up. “This will only take a minute. So, what exactly would you like to see tomorrow? I thought maybe a trip to see the horses, maybe ride if the weather turns.”

She followed him to the island but didn’t take a seat, instead standing beside the chair, watching him.

“I haven’t ridden a horse in a very long time. I don’t know if I remember how. I need a setting for the two characters in my book to meet so I’m willing to see anything you have to show me. I never know what will be the perfect spot.”

He thought a moment. There was the place where he and Carla had taken a blanket and had a picnic lunch before the builders had finished with The Inn. It was up on a rise behind the house, and the view from there of the whole area was pretty nice. Riding the horses up there would be good exercise for them.

“I think I have something in mind,” he beamed. “Hope you brought boots. Horses and heels don’t mix.”