The Next Always

CHAPTER FOUR




ARMED WITH A NOTEBOOK SHE’D ALREADY ORGANIZED and divided, Clare crossed Main Street. Helping out with room descriptions wouldn’t take much time or trouble, but it made her feel a part of the project. In a minor role. Plus, she’d help select and supply some of the books and DVDs.

She wondered what the inn’s library would look like. Would there be a fireplace? Oh, she hoped there’d be a fireplace. Maybe, if she inched her way in, they’d let her help set it up.

She stepped in through the back, into the bangs, buzzes, and echoes. She heard a voice say “f*ck yourself, Mike” in easy, casual tones—and the answering “I would, but your sister did such a good job of it last night.”

Laughter rolled out just ahead of Beckett.

He stopped, stared at her, then blew out a breath. “Lady in the house,” he called out. “Sorry.”

“No problem. I thought there were already ladies in the house.”

“Mom and Carolee are checking out the third floor. And they’re used to it anyway. So, okay. Ah . . .”

He looked distracted, she realized, and busy. And just a little confused.

“If this isn’t a good time, I can—”

“No, just shifting gears. We can start right here.”

Relieved she wouldn’t have to bottle her excitement for later, she turned a circle.

“Where is here?”

“You’re standing in The Lobby—double glass doors where you came in—they’ll look out on The Courtyard. Tile floor, nice pattern, with a tile rug centered to highlight the big round table under the chandelier. The light’s kind of contemporary and cool, and organic. Looks like white glass pieces that melted. Mom wants big, showy flowers on the table. Couple of slipper chairs there.”

“Tell me you’re keeping the brick wall exposed.”

“Yeah. The chairs, the tile have a French feel to them, straw green upholstery, bronze rivets on the chairs, so it’s a blend of rustic and French. Mom’s still fiddling with the table for the chairs. Maybe another chair in the corner, and I think we’ll need something on the facing wall.”

She studied it, tried to get a picture. “A little server, maybe.”

“Maybe. Artwork to be determined, but we’re going local all the way, and we’ll have a list of the art and artists in the room packages, with pricing.”

“That’s a great idea.” He rattled everything off so fast she assumed he was in a hurry. She scribbled down notes as quick as she could, trying to keep pace. “So this is really a pass-through? A place to sit down with a cup of coffee or tea, maybe a glass of wine? You didn’t say anything about a desk or counter for check-in, so—”

“That’s Reception. Entrance for that’ll be right off the sidewalk. I’ll take you around. Jog left from here, and into The Lounge.” He gestured, vaguely, toward a short hallway. “It’s crammed with equipment and materials right now. It’s long, a little narrow. It used to be the carriageway.”

“A lounge, for . . . lounging?”

“Hanging out. Kind of a contemporary pub feel, I guess. We’re going leather sofa and chairs. Big, comfortable, rolling ottomans for the wing chairs. Mom went for yellow.”

For the first time, he smiled, seemed to relax.

“I thought Ry was going to have her committed.”

“Buttery yellow, buttery leather.” She tried to imagine having a yellow leather sofa, thought of the kids. Just couldn’t do it. “I bet it’s going to be fabulous.”

“She and Carolee swear it’ll have that upscale pub feel. Some kind of card or game table, with lime green leather club chairs,” he continued. “Thirty-two-inch flatscreen. Three ceiling lights—organic feel again—oak leaves. We’re still filling in the details.”

“I can’t believe how far ahead you are, and how you can furnish a place when it’s still under construction.” She scribbled in her notebook as she spoke. “I should’ve known Justine wouldn’t go for chintz and gingham.”

“She wants a jewel, every facet sharp and shiny. We’re going to give it to her.”

Struck, Clare looked up. “It’s nice, the way you are. All of you. It’s what I want for me and my boys. The affection, the teamwork, the understanding.”

“I’ve seen you with your boys. I’d say you already have what you want.”

“Some days I feel like the ringmaster in a three-ring circus inhabited by demons. I imagine your mother felt the same.”

“I think if you asked her, she’d say she still does.”

“Comforting and scary at the same time.”

Yes, he looked busy, distracted—and flat-out sexy on top of it. But she’d been wrong about the confused. He knew every sharp and shiny facet of the jewel they were creating.

She remembered she’d dreamed about him one night not long ago, and, flustered, turned away.

“What’s down there?”

“The ADA room and the front entrance to the dining room.”

“Which one’s the ADA room?”

“Marguerite and Percy.”

“Scarlet Pimpernel. Speaking of French.” She flipped through the notebook. Tilting his head, Beckett noted she’d headed sections with the room names. “Can I see it?”

“You can try. It’s got material stacked in it, too. It’s the smallest,” he said as he led her down the short hall. “We had to work with the footprint of the building, and the ADA code. Going with two full-sized beds, night table between, with this great old ornate lamp that was my grandmother’s.”

“You’re putting family things in here?”

“Here and there when they work. Mom wants to.”

“I think that’s lovely, and special. The beds go in front of the windows?”

“Right. Cane headboards, and we’ll dress up behind them with treatments—for style and privacy. Cane benches with fancy fabric pads at the feet, fancy bedskirts. Some sort of big, ornate mirror for this wall as you come in. Cream walls and crown molding, soft blue ceiling.”

“A blue ceiling.” For some reason it struck her wonderfully romantic. She wondered why she’d never thought of painting her ceilings anything other than flat white.

She supposed she’d forgotten how to be romantic.

“It sounds very French. I never asked what you’re doing as far as dressing the beds.”

“After considerable, occasionally heated debate, we’re going with high-end sheets—white or what is it, ecru, depending on the room. Down alternative, all-weather duvet—covered by another sheet rather than spread or quilts or whatever. Lots of pillows, with neutral-tone linen shams, possibly a bedroll, and cashmere throw things.”

“Cashmere throws? I’m so booking a room. Peacock feathers.”

“Is that some sort of curse?”

“There should be peacock feathers somewhere. I know they’re supposed to be bad luck, but they just feel French, and opulent.”

“Note to self. Peacock feathers. It’s the most problematic space, but I think it’s going to turn out.”

“I love it already. Where’s the bath?” She managed to step in, over buckets, some lumber.

“Watch your step,” he warned, taking her arm. “No tub, but a big luxury shower. We’ll do the rain head, the body jets—ORB.”

“Orb?”

“Sorry. Oil-rubbed bronze. All the public areas have that accent. Crystal vessel bowl sink on an iron bracket. It’s big and it’s beautiful. Cream and pale gold tiles, fleur-de-lis accents.”

“Mais oui,” she said and made him grin.

“I found some iron wall shelves, scrolled. The code and the space equal some limitations.”

“That is not good copy. Something more like ‘special needs meet spectacular comfort. The grandeur of a bygone age with all the comforts—no, pleasures. All the pleasures of today.’ ”

She started to make more notes, backed up a step, rapped into a stack of paint cans.

“Careful.” He wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her as she grabbed his arm to keep from overbalancing.

For the second time that day they stood close, bodies brushing, eyes locked. But this time the light was dim, filtered through the blue tarp. Something near to moonlight.

Being held, she thought, a little dazed. She was being held by a man, by Beckett, and in a way that didn’t feel friendly or helpful. In a way that made something coil inside her, a long, slow wind.

Something that felt exactly like lust.

It spread in a swamping wave as she watched his gaze slide down to her mouth, hold there. She smelled honeysuckle. Moonlight and honeysuckle.

Yearning, she eased closer, imagining that first touch, that first taste, that first—

His gaze snapped back to hers, jolted her out of what seemed like some strange dream.

My God, she’d nearly—

“I need to get back.” She didn’t squeak it out, but she knew it was damn close. “I have the . . . the thing to do.”

“Me, too.” He stepped back like a man moving cautiously away from a live wire. “I have the thing.”

“Okay, well.” She got out, out of the room with its false moonlight and air that had so suddenly smelled of wild summer vines. “So.”

“So.” He slid his hands into his pockets.

Safer there, she imagined, or she might jump him again.

“I’ll play around with some ideas for the rooms I’ve seen.”

“That’d be great. Listen, I can let you have the binder. We have a binder with cut sheets and photos of lighting and furniture, bath fixtures, like that. The one here has to stay on-site, but I have one at my place you could borrow for a couple days.”

“Okay.” She took a breath, settled a bit more. “I’d love to look through it.”

“I can drop it off at the bookstore, or by your place sometime.”

“Either’s fine.”

“And you can come back, when you’ve got time, if you want to go through more of the space. If I’m not around, Owen or Ry could take you through.”

“Good, that’s good. Well, I’d better go. My mother’s going to drop the boys off at the store in a little while, and I still have . . . things.”

“I’ll see you.”

“Yeah.”

He watched her go, waited for the door to close behind her with his hands still in his pockets, and balled into fists. “Idiot,” he muttered. “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

He’d scared her so she could barely look at him, so she couldn’t wait to get away from him. All because he’d wanted—just wanted.

His mother liked to say, to him, to his brothers, they were old enough so their wants wouldn’t hurt them.

But they did. This kind of want left a jagged hole in the gut.

He’d stay away from her for a few days, until those jags smoothed out. And until she felt easier around him again. He’d have one of the men run the binder over to her—keep clear.

His wants might hurt, but he was old enough to control them.

He caught the scent of honeysuckle again and, he swore, the faintest whisper of a woman’s laugh.

“Don’t you start on me.”

Annoyed, he clomped upstairs to harass the crew.




NOT READY TO face the bookstore and her staff, Clare bolted to Vesta. Behind the counter, layering cheese on a pie, Franny, Avery’s second in command, shot her a smile.

“Hey, Clare. Where are my boyfriends?”

“With my mom. Is Avery here?”

“In the back. Is something wrong?”

God, how did she look? “No, nothing. Just . . . just want a minute with the boss.”

Striving for casual, Clare strolled around to the closed kitchen area where Avery cut fresh dough into tins for rising. Steve, the dishwasher, rattled around at the big double sink, and one of the waitstaff grabbed glassware from the wire shelves.

“I need to talk to you when you have a minute.”

“Talk. I’m not using my ears for anything right now.” Then Avery glanced over, saw Clare’s face. “Oh. Talk. Give me five. Go grab something cold out of the cooler for both of us. I need to get some supplies from downstairs anyway.”

“I’ll just go down and wait.”

She grabbed a couple of ginger ales and went out the door to the back stairwell. Outside again, and under the building—she could hear people talking and laughing on the porch above—and into the sprawling, low-ceilinged basement with its stacked cases of soft drinks, bottled beer, wine.

Cooler, she thought. Cooler here. And opened the ginger ale to drink long and deep.

Moonlight and honeysuckle, she thought in disgust. Just another fairy tale with her. She was a grown woman, a mother of three. She knew better.

But really, had she ever noticed, really noticed, how strong and wonderfully shaped Beckett’s mouth was? Gorgeous—she knew that, too. All the Montgomerys were, but had she ever noticed how deeply blue his eyes were in the moonlight?

“There wasn’t any moonlight, you idiot. It was an unfinished room crowded with paint cans and lumber and tarps. For God’s sake.”

She’d gotten caught up in the romance of it, that’s all. Buttery leather, blue ceilings, peacock feathers, and cashmere throws.

It was all so fanciful, so outside her own reality of practical, affordable, childproof. And it wasn’t as if she’d actually done anything. Wanting to for a minute wasn’t doing.

She paced, then whipped around when the door opened.

“What’s up?” Avery demanded. “You look like the town cops are hot on your trail.”

“I almost kissed Beckett.”

“They can’t arrest you for that.” Avery took the unopened can of ginger ale. “How, where, and why almost?”

“I went over to see a few more rooms, and we were in Marguerite and Percy—”

“Ooh-la-la.”

“Cut it out, Avery. I’m serious.”

“I can see that, sweetie, but almost kissing a very attractive, available man who’s got the hots for you doesn’t rate disaster status.”

“He doesn’t have the hots for me.”

Avery drank, shook her head. “I beg to differ, most strongly. But do go on.”

“It was just . . . There was all this stuff in there, and I bumped into something, tripped a little, and he reached out to steady me.”

“By which part?”

Clare tipped her head back, stared at the ceiling. “Why am I talking to you?”

“Who else? But really, which part? Did he take your hand, your arm, your ass?”

“My waist. He put an arm around my waist, and I . . . I don’t know, exactly, but then we were there, and his mouth was there, and that funny light, and honeysuckle.”

“Honeysuckle?” Avery’s face lit up. “You saw the ghost.”

“I did not, first because there are no ghosts.”

“You’re the one who smelled honeysuckle.”

“I only thought I did. I just got caught up. Romantic room—or it will be, the way he described it, the light, and I felt . . . I felt what I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I didn’t think, I just leaned in.”

“You said almost.”

“Because just before contact, he looked at me like I’d kicked him in the balls. Just stunned.” Even now, with Avery, mortification and that sneaky wave of lust flooded her. “And I stopped, and we both made excuses. After, he kept his distance, like I was radioactive. I embarrassed him, and myself.”

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think if you’d followed through, neither of you would’ve been embarrassed, and instead of running over here looking as if you’d mugged an old lady, you’d have danced over singing.”

Really, really, why was she talking to Avery about this?

“First, Beckett’s a friend, just a—No, first, I don’t have room for dancing and singing. My priorities are my boys and my business.”

“Which is as it should be, and which—as I’ve said before—in no way precludes what we’ll now call dancing and singing.” The teasing smile gone, Avery rubbed a hand on Clare’s arm. “Jesus, Clare, that part of your life’s not over. You’ve got a right to sing and dance, especially with someone you like and trust. You felt something, and that’s significant.”

“Maybe. But now that I’m thinking again, I really think it was just that false romance. The room in my head, the light, the imaginary scent, and being touched. It’ll be all right,” she decided. “Beckett’s not the sort to take it too seriously. It was all so quick, he’s probably already forgotten it.”

Avery started to speak, then decided to keep her opinion to herself. For now.

“Anyway, the rooms are going to be fabulous, and he’s lending me the binder with cut sheets and pictures. I’ll be able to pump it up to Hope when she comes up. Honestly, Avery, she’d have to be crazy not to jump at the chance to work there.”

“I bet,” Avery said, and thought she had a couple of crazy friends.




BECKETT DECIDED TO give Clare a little time, a little space, so she wouldn’t think he thought anything about what he supposed he’d call The Moment. He sent his copy of the project binder over to the bookstore with one of the crew and the message he’d pick it up there in a couple of days—no hurry.

He skipped his traditional stop-in for coffee for a few mornings, and split his workdays between the inn and another project in nearby Sharpsburg. By the time he made it back to Boonsboro, the crew had knocked off for the day, and his brothers were locking up.

“Just in time.” Ryder strolled over with D.A. at his heels. “We’re heading across the street for a meeting over beer and pizza.”

“My favorite kind of meeting. You talked to Avery’s friend?” he asked Owen.

“Yeah. If you want the details, you can buy the beer.”

“I bought the beer the last time.”

“I bought the beer the last time,” Ryder corrected.

“He bought the beer the last time.” Owen jerked a thumb at Ryder.

“Maybe.” Beckett tried to think back as they made their way down the sidewalk under the scaffolding. “When’s the last time you bought the beer?”

Owen gave him a satisfied smile, tipped down his sunglasses. “I’m excused for six turns since I scored the man lift. I’ve got two more left.”

He remembered the agreement struck when Owen had negotiated an excellent deal on a used lift. The machine saved them the time and sweat to warrant it. He started to question, then let it go. If Owen said he had two more rounds clear, Owen had two more rounds.

Beckett glanced down toward Turn The Page as they crossed the street, half listening to his brothers discuss water heaters. He should probably give it one more day, he considered. Stay clear, give her time to go through the binder, keep it all easy, friendly.

As if The Moment hadn’t happened.

But it had. It damn well had.

“Have you got a problem with that setup?” Ryder demanded.

“What? No.”

“Then stop looking pissed off.” Ryder secured the dog beside the front porch of the restaurant. “I’ll bring you dinner,” he said, then pulled open the door.

They stepped into Vesta at the early-dinner hour. Families and small packs of teenagers crowded in the booths, a few couples scattered at two-tops twirling pasta or studying the menu while two regulars sat on stools at the counter for an after-work beer.

Along with his brothers, Beckett exchanged hails and waves.

“Order me a Heineken,” Owen said, then peeled off toward the closed kitchen.

“Let’s sit in the back,” Ryder suggested. “If we sit out here, we’ll end up talking to everybody.”

“Fine.” Beckett hooked a waitress, ordered the beer, then walked down the hallway to the back dining room. A couple of high school boys competed on the video games with the requisite insults.

“The tile’s shipped,” Ryder said when Beckett joined him at a table. “Or most of it. A couple of the patterns are still on back order. We’re scheduling the delivery in two weeks. Owen contacted them about the install. They can start the end of the next week if the job they’re on stays on schedule. Early the following if not.”

“That’s good for us.”

“I want to schedule the install of the rest of the flooring right behind it. This heat’s bound to break. We can put the crew back on the pickets, get the exterior painting started.”

Owen slipped in beside them right as the beer arrived.

“You all ready to order?” the waitress asked.

“Warrior’s pizza,” Ryder declared.

“I’m not eating that much meat.” Owen shook his head, sipped his beer.

“Wimp.”

“You go for the super-artery-clogger,” Beckett suggested, then looked at Owen. “Split a large pepperoni and jalapeno?”

“Deal. And some crab balls.”

“Gotcha. How are things going at the inn?”

“We’re moving along,” Owen told her.

She pointed her pencil at him. “Are you going to take that tarp down soon?”

“Sooner or later.”

“It’s a big tease.” She rolled her eyes and went off to put their order in.

“You know that tarp’s building a lot of expectation we may not meet.”

Ryder shrugged at Beckett. “It’s also keeping debris off the street, and the crew out of the worst of the heat. Tell him about the Urban Princess.”

“Hope Beaumont,” Owen began. “She’s smart, savvy. She asked all the right questions, including a lot I hadn’t thought of, or we haven’t gotten around to dealing with. She’s got a sexy voice, one of those dark velvet jobs. Nice.”

“Sexy voice. She’s hired.” Ryder sat back with his beer.

“You’re just jacked because we may have to go outside for the job.”

“It’d be nice to keep it all local,” Beckett mused. “But we need somebody who fits the bill. Besides, if she takes the job and moves here, she’ll be local in ten or twenty years.”

“We’ll know more after Saturday. We’re meeting with her Saturday morning,” Owen continued. “Taking her through the place. I looked her up online.” He took files out of his briefcase, passed one to each brother. “Some D.C. society stuff—her out and about with the guy who dumped her. A solid article in the Washingtonian about the hotel, with some stuff about her, some quotes. Ry’s dubbed her Urban Princess because she’s from Philadelphia originally and won a couple of beauty pageant deals back there.”

Beckett started to open the file, take a look, when the sound of running feet boomed down the hall. Clare’s three boys burst in like convicts on the lam. Breathless, wild-eyed, they chattered about the Mega-Touch before Harry spotted the brothers.

“Hi! Hi! We all got a dollar.”

“How about a loan?”

Liam cracked up at Beckett’s question. “We get to have pizza and play games.”

Murphy walked up to the table, studied the three men. “You can play if you’ve got a dollar. Or I can ask my mom to give you one.”

Because the kid slayed him, Beckett hoisted Murphy onto his lap. “I bet Owen’s got a dollar. Why don’t we . . .” He stumbled to a halt when Clare came in.

She looked a little flushed, a little frazzled.

“Sorry. They’re slippery as soap. You’re talking business,” she said, noting the files. “Why don’t I just move them out until—”

“Mom!” Harry’s response was absolute and horrified betrayal.

“When you sit back here, you expect some noise,” Ryder pointed out. “They’re fine. Have a seat.”

“I was just telling Beck that your friend is meeting with us on Saturday,” Owen began.

“Avery just told me, which is why in that two-second window, the trio escaped.”

“How’s the copy coming?”

“I’ve got some ideas.”

“She’s got great ideas,” Avery confirmed as she came in. “She’s run some by me.”

“Just bits and pieces. I’d like to see a little more, get the feel.”

“You should go over now. Beckett, you should take her over now.”

“Avery,” Clare muttered, trying to disguise the shock.

“No, really. It’s empty. It’s got to be easier and more productive to look at it without the banging.” She smiled, winsomely. “Don’t you think?”

“Sure.” Murphy deserted Beckett to join his brothers in a three-player game. And now he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m interrupting, and I have the boys.”

“We’ll watch them. I’ll get their pizza ordered.” Avery made a shooing motion. “This way we can run your ideas by Hope when she drives up tomorrow. Let me have your seat, Beck, and no charge for the beer. I’ll finish it.” She picked it up, took a sip, smiled. “I’m not working tonight.”

Out of choices, Beckett got to his feet. “Okay?”

“Apparently.” Clare shot Avery a cool look before she turned. “I’m going with Beckett for a few minutes,” she told her sons. “Avery, Ryder, and Owen are in charge. Behave.”

“Okay, Mom, okay.” Harry’s face was fierce as he focused on the screen.

She and Beckett walked through and out of the restaurant together. The wind streamed through her hair as she looked up at the clouds rolling in.

“Storm’s coming,” she said.