The inn was full for the second weekend in a row, and Bridget had to admit, it was nice having Abby there to help out in the morning.
“How are we doing with coffee?” she asked, poking her head into the dining room to answer the question for herself. Every seat at the table was taken by a guest—mostly couples in town for a romantic getaway—but Jack had not yet come downstairs.
She contemplated bringing him up a tray as she lifted the empty carafe and carried it back into the kitchen, but then decided otherwise. The man was in town to work, and he knew what time breakfast was served. It wasn’t her place to impose upon him.
It was her place, however, to make sure that another pot of coffee was brewed before guests got cranky.
Emma sat at the kitchen table, eating a blueberry muffin from Angie’s, though Bridget noticed a croissant was on her plate, too. She smiled. The girl knew how to look out for herself, and heaven forbid the croissants all got eaten before she had a chance to snatch one.
Abby noticed her eyeing Emma’s plate. “You know, you don’t need to keep placing orders from Angie’s,” she said.
Bridget didn’t want to point out that she hated to sever the relationship with the café lest Abby lose interest in this job one day soon. She had a good thing going with Angie’s. They delivered right to the inn, and before seven thirty each morning, too.
“I don’t think it hurts to have some pastries as an option,” she said mildly.
“Why spend the money?” Abby pointed out. “Besides, I can make muffins, if that’s what you want.”
Oh, dear. Bridget started a new pot of coffee and gave her sister a sheepish smile. “I’m already committed to Angie’s, so…I hate to take away the business.”
“The business!” Abby scoffed as she began whisking eggs in a large bowl for another frittata. “Angie’s is hardly struggling. It’s always packed!” She muttered something about “despite their dry scones” under her breath.
“Well…I’ll think about it,” Bridget said, falling back on the excuse she always gave Emma when she was put on the spot and didn’t want to make a decision one way or another, or really, didn’t want to say “No” and have to deal with the fall out.
Abby just raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed.
“What time is Daddy picking me up?” Emma asked, clutching her muffin with two hands.
Bridget looked at the clock. “In about two hours, honey,” she said.
“Oh good! I’m going to wear my pretty flower dress,” Emma announced, and pushed back her chair to scamper off before Bridget could call after to her to wash the blueberries from her fingers.
Bridget sighed and began clearing up Emma’s plate. Feeling Abby’s stare from across the room, she looked up to see her sister’s cocked eyebrow.
“An entire muffin and scone gone to waste…” Abby clucked her tongue.
Bridget sighed. Honestly! “I’ll save this for her for later.”
The coffee had finished brewing, and Bridget was grateful for an excuse to leave the room. She poured the brew into the carafe and walked it back into the dining room, smoothing her shirt over her hips before she entered, just in case Jack had decided to surface.
But no. It was the same crowd. The two young couples, and the older couple, who held hands when they came down to breakfast that morning. Bridget couldn’t help it; when she saw that, her heart felt almost heavier than it did the time her only guests were newlyweds.
“Ms. Harper,” said the husband, as he stood to meet her at the buffet table. “May I have a word?”
Bridget felt her heart sink. It wasn’t often that a guest complained, but when they did, it always felt like a personal attack. This inn was her home. The place where she’d grown up, the place she’d fought to keep when they all feared it may no longer stay in the family once it was confirmed that Mimi would remain in Serenity Hills. She’d sunk every dollar she’d ever earned into taking over the house and turning it into a business. It wasn’t just a job. It was, well, a dream.
A dream come true, she thought with a smile.
“I’d like to talk about the breakfast.”
And there went her smile.
Bridget felt her back teeth graze. She knew she should have listened to her gut. Abby wasn’t a trained chef. She was a home cook. And all of this…it was another of her passing hobbies. So what, the eggs were raw? A shell had been found in the frittata? Heaven forbid a hair had turned up.
Bridget suddenly felt sick with dread.
“This breakfast is one of the finest meals I have had in quite some time,” Mr. Lawry surprised her by saying.
Bridget’s eyes shot open. “Oh. Well…thank you!”
“No, thank you!” Mr. Lawry said, grinning. “My wife and I travel quite a bit, and we always seek out country inns as opposed to stuffy hotels.” He wrinkled his nose and peered at her over the rim of his wire-framed glasses. “I can tell you that your food is the best I’ve had in quite some time.”
“My!” Bridget was momentarily speechless.
“Keep up the good service,” he said, patting her arm, before he went back to the table.
Bridget’s heart was racing as she walked back into the kitchen. It wasn’t often she received a complaint from one of her guests, but in fairness, it wasn’t often that one of them bothered to extend a compliment, either.
Abby caught her smile and looked at her suspiciously. “You’re acting strange,” she said, as she tossed some vegetables into the egg mixture.
“I just received one of the nicest compliments,” Bridget said, walking over to the island. “And it was about your breakfast.”
Abby’s cheeks turned pink. “Really?”
Bridget felt a wave of shame, but only for a moment. Abby could cook, she was beginning to realize that. But could Abby commit?
“Keep up the good work,” Bridget said with a grin, and went off to fold guest towels—a task she’d normally have to put off until after breakfast had finished, but not now that Abby was around.
She’d enjoy the perk while it lasted, she told herself.
***
There was rustling in the halls. Muffled conversations he could hear through the door, even though it was made of solid wood.
Jack pulled his hands from his keyboard and ran them through his hair. He was finally making progress, really getting somewhere, and he couldn’t lose momentum now.
A door slammed in the distance. A woman laughed.
And Jack…lost his thought.
He sat back, cursing under his breath. It was fine, really. He’d been going at this for hours and a break was in order. A shower at the very least. And coffee. He checked his watch.
Of course. Everyone was at breakfast, starting their day. He half laughed when he thought of the way he’d look if he were to join them. Undershirt, jeans, a five o’clock shadow, and no doubt his hair was standing up in every direction. He couldn’t go down like this. Not until he was presentable.
Right. He walked into the bathroom to start the water when he saw the towel at his feet, and another loosely draped over the shower curtain rod. The bathroom was in nearly worse shape than his perpetually unmade bed.
He should just take the DO NOT DISTURB sign off the door. Let the maid come in and straighten things up a bit. But he couldn’t risk that happening when he was finally getting into the zone, tapping into that place that used to come so easily.
And so, it had come to this. He was out of towels. His room was in a worse state than his apartment. The surface of the desk was covered in papers and notes, and his suitcase was still open on the floor, his clothes spilling out. His bed showed signs of fitful sleep. And now he’d be forced to clean up before he even allowed anyone on staff here to change the sheets.
The noise in the hall had died down, and the few sounds he could make out told him that everyone was settled downstairs. Slowly, he opened the knob, keeping his body as a shield to any potential view of his room, hoping to make a quick dash to the linen cabinet at the end of the hall, when he saw her.
Bridget was standing all but two feet away, her smile guilty, if he didn’t know better.
“Hello there,” he said, wondering just how long she’d been standing there. And why. Weren’t most of the guests downstairs, needing breakfast? Surely it was her busiest time of the day. And yet here she was. Standing in the hall. Looking so uncomfortable he could only assume there was a reason for her being here.
“Oh. Hello. I was just…” Bridget’s eyes darted. “Do you need any soap?”
Jack studied her in amusement. “Soap?” So that was the excuse she was going with, huh? He’d had women invite him over for all sorts of reasons in his time: to kill a spider, to help assemble a piece of IKEA furniture. The intention was always the same.
His smile faded when he considered that Bridget’s intention was far from offering him soap.
Bridget was sweet. And kind. And a single mother.
And he was…all wrong for her. All wrong for anyone.
“Or towels?” she tried. “Fresh towels. They’re in the linen cabinet now. I was just restocking them…” Now her brow pinched as she seemed to catch sight of something over his shoulder.
Flinching, Jack shifted the weight on his feet until he could only hope that more of his torso was covering the view. He pulled the doorknob as close as he could without fully stepping out into the hall. Stepping out meant getting closer to her. And he couldn’t do that. Shouldn’t.
But strangely, it wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to.
“I’d love a set of fresh towels,” he said, deciding to let her stop squirming and hoping that would send her off, away, where she couldn’t see what a mess he’d made of her nice guest room or linger any longer, filling him with thoughts and urges he had no business to have.
She visibly exhaled as she smiled. “I’ll bring those right over.”
“No bother. I’ll get them myself. Seems you have enough on your plate.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the staircase, where from outside his room he could hear the clear buzz of the crowd in the dining room.
He already missed how quiet the inn was just a matter of twenty-four hours ago. And not only because it allowed him to think straight. Then it had just been him and Bridget. And Emma, of course. And now…he was one of the crowd.
“It’s a full house, yes.” Bridget blew a strand of hair from her forehead, but it remained firmly in place.
Without thinking, Jack reached out and brushed it away for her, his hand freezing when her eyes caught his. His heart hammered in his chest when he realized how natural it had felt to do that, how familiar this house, and she, were becoming to him.
He dropped his arm quickly, then, just to be sure, shoved both of his hands firmly into his pockets.
“It smells delicious. Maybe once the crowd subsides I’ll head down.”
Bridget’s gaze flickered. “Would you prefer me to bring you up a tray?”
He knew that room service—or family dinners, for that matter—were not part of the daily package he’d agreed to pay for. “I don’t want to put you out.”
“Nonsense,” she said with a grin that was so friendly, he felt instantly at ease. “Abby’s making frittata today. I’ll get you a serving and a croissant for the side, if my daughter hasn’t eaten the last of them.”
He laughed. “She’s welcome to it. She’s a sweetheart.”
“An excited sweetheart,” Bridget said. “Flower Fest is today.”
He rolled back on his heels. “Ah, yes. Of course. Seems that’s all anyone can talk about.”
“Why not come then? I don’t know about you, but the fresh air always helps me to think.”
“Maybe.” He had to admit that the idea was becoming more attractive, and it would be interesting to see what the hype was all about. “First I’d like to try to get some work in.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Your tray will be outside your door in a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” he said, hoping she caught the sincerity in his voice, because he had a lot more to thank her for than just a meal or two.
***
Bridget had barely finished cleaning the kitchen—with Abby’s help, which did make things run a little quicker—when Emma appeared in her favorite flower dress, pink sneakers, and a handbag whose strap she’d hooked crosswise over her body.
Her hair was brushed and her smile was nearly as bright as her eyes.
In moments like this, Bridget struggled to fight the heartache. Her little girl was eight years old. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the weight of her in her arms as a baby, a toddler. She could still remember the way Emma wrapped her hand around Bridget’s two fingers on her way into her first ballet class. And the way she giggled, straight from the belly, whenever Bridget read her favorite picture book aloud.
Now Emma read her own books. And she waved good-bye to Bridget on her way into school or dance class. How much time was left before that didn’t even happen at all?
She walked over to her daughter, and without a word, gave her a long, hard hug.
“I’m going to miss you today,” she admitted, even though she knew that Emma would be back by noon tomorrow, as designated by the courts.
“I’ll get a flower wreath for you,” Emma promised.
Bridget grinned, feeling better already. Emma may have grown, but she was still her sweet little girl. Bridget just hated to miss a moment.
“Did you pack your overnight bag for Daddy’s?”
Emma nodded. “He’s going to let me sleep in the tent.”
“Inside the house, I hope!” Bridget hated this part of it. Not having any say in how Ryan chose to parent when she wasn’t around.
“Of course, silly! There are bugs outside!” Emma wrinkled her nose, and Bridget laughed.
Really, she shouldn’t worry so much. Ryan might be a bit casual when it came to his parenting standards, but Emma had a mind of her own, and one which Bridget happened to think was practically perfect.
“And what’s in the bag?” She tapped the handbag that was stuffed so full, the purple zipper looked like it might pop.
“Oh, a coloring book. Some books. A few dollars from my piggy bank. An activity sheet…”
“Activity sheet?” Bridget didn’t remember ever buying her one of those.
Emma was all too happy to retrieve it. “See?” She unfolded it, happy to present a used kids menu from Dagastino’s Pizza Parlor on Main.
Bridget chuckled. “You’re certainly resourceful.” And, like herself, never one who stayed idle for long.
“Well, run and get your duffle bag and we’ll head out soon,” Bridget said, standing to grab her own bag. Her phone was wedged in the front pocket. A blue light was blinking in the corner.
Bridget felt her heart sink. She didn’t need to look at the screen to know that Ryan had reached out to her. It was what she’d expected. What she’d known all along he would do.
What she hadn’t wanted to believe. Just like she hadn’t wanted to believe the dozens of other things that had led to them eventually splitting up—like the time he’d promised to take her out to dinner for their wedding anniversary, and hadn’t even remembered to give her a card.
Her jaw tight, she pulled out the phone, tapped the screen, and stared at the message on the screen. “I can’t believe this,” Bridget muttered to herself.
“Everything okay?”
Bridget turned to see Jack frowning down at her, the warmth in his eyes almost undoing her. Bridget didn’t do kindness. She hadn’t been able to rely on it. She’d had to fight, every day, for the past eight years since her parents died and she left Ryan, to stay strong, to keep going, to not give in to the long days and setbacks and endless guilt and worry.
“Fine, fine.” But she struggled to hold eye contact and her voice was thick.
“You don’t sound fine,” Jack observed as he set his empty tray down on the counter.
No, she supposed she didn’t. For the second time in two days, her little girl would be let down, and there was nothing she could do to change that.
“It’s nothing,” she said, only then realizing that she was fighting back tears that burned warm. She hated herself for giving in. For letting Ryan hurt her. For crying over something that she had no power to stop. For wanting something that could never happen. That hadn’t been for her.
A traditional family. A childhood for Emma much like the one she’d had. She was halfway there, bringing Emma home to this house, but the rest of it…It wasn’t what she’d planned. It wasn’t what she’d wanted.
“Hey.” Jack’s hand was warm and steady on her shoulder, his grip reassuring and showing no sign of moving.
Bridget wiped her eyes, but the tears fell faster than she could stop them. “It’s…it’s Emma’s father. He was supposed to take her to a movie last night and instead, he dropped her off early. She was so disappointed.” She sniffled hard, her eyes darting to the hallway that led to her living quarters. She couldn’t let Emma see her like this. “He promised to make it up to her today. At the Festival. But he just texted he’s going to be late, and…I won’t be surprised if he cancels altogether.”
Jack swore under his breath. “I’m sorry, Bridget. I wish there was something I could do.”
Bridget shook her head. “There’s nothing anyone can do. Not even me. I try so hard to give her the life I always dreamed for her, and…”
“I’m ready!”
Bridget turned to see Emma standing in the kitchen entry, her duffle bag at her feet, her stuffed unicorn (a gift from Ryan for her eighth birthday) in her arms.
Oh, God. As usual, it would be Bridget left to deliver the bad news. Bridget left to deal with the heartbroken confusion that always filled Emma’s eyes, and the tears that inevitably followed.
“Honey, there’s been a change of plans—”
“There has,” Jack said, his voice loud and firm. Startled, Bridget looked up at him. “Your mother here has been talking about this Flower Festival all week. I didn’t think it was possible, but I’m almost thinking it might be fun. That is, if you wouldn’t mind showing me around a bit. Maybe be my tour guide?”
Emma’s eyes widened in delight. “I can do that! But…” She looked at Bridget for approval. “Will Daddy be waiting?”
Bridget waved a hand through the air. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll understand this once. Maybe we can meet up with him later.” If he keeps to his latest promise.
“Then it’s a plan?” Jack asked, glancing at her sideways.
Bridget had to swallow the lump in her throat before she spoke. “Yes,” she said, sighing gratefully. “It’s a plan.”
The best plan she’d had in a long, long time.