It’s a money pit, Carrie. You don’t have to do this. You can’t do this.

Carrie stared out of the car window at the familiar, crumbling form of the Avalon Inn, her father’s words still echoing in her head. Fiveyears, and it barely seemed to have changed at all. The roof tiles still sat wonky, the terrace seemed to be sinking into the grass, and moss had crept so far up the building it appeared to have taken over the stonework.

In other words, it still looked like home.

The place she’d spent endless childhood summers, reading by firelight or adventuring through overgrown gardens. The scene of her first kiss. Fourteen years old, dressed in Grandma Nancy’s second-best silk gown, dancing on the terrace with one of the local boys. He’d sung along to the music, his breath warm against her ear as they’d hidden in the darkness, peering through the window at the women dancing, their long dresses swirling. Cigar smoke and music had filled the air, and Carrie had known in that moment that the Avalon Inn was where she truly belonged.

Even now, so many years later, she knew this place, deep in her bones. Just through the front door stood the ornate, curving main staircase, the site of her cousin Ruth’s many fictional weddings. And somewhere, shoved in the bottom of a cupboard, she’d probably find a dressing-up box holding the endless parade of second-hand bridesmaid’s dresses Ruth had dressed Carrie in for the occasions. The unicorn tapestry would still be hanging over the reception desk, and the old Welsh dresser must still dominate the dining room.

All so, so familiar.

She could almost see Grandma Nancy skipping down the front steps, if she tried. Carrie squinted for a second, before the twinge of guilt that always accompanied the thought of five yearsof absencecaught up with her. Because Grandma Nancy would never walk down those steps again. Because now the Avalon Inn belonged to Carrie.

She shouldn’t have done it, Carrie. It wasn’t fair. You don’t have the knowledge or the experience to run an inn. Especially not a crumbling old heap like the Avalon.

She could still see her father, shaking his head as he spoke, hands trembling as he held the whisky glass Uncle Patrick had forced into his hand the moment the funeral service was over.

“I’ve been organising society weddings for five years,” Carrie argued, even though her dad was two weeks and three hundred miles away. “I think I can manage one venue.”

Think of what you’re throwing away! It’ll swallow up all your savings in one gulp, and God knows Mum didn’t have much money to leave you. And what then? Do you think that boss of yours will take you back again? Anna gave you a job when you needed one, when no one else would, as a favour to Uncle Patrick. And now you’re walking out on her. You’re burning your bridges, Carrie.

Enough. She might have burned every bridge, aqueduct and underpass she had, but she was here. And she couldn’t just sit in her car waiting for something to happen. She was on her own now.

Sucking in a deep breath, Carrie opened the door and stepped out, locking the car behind her automatically before she caught herself. She almost laughed. Who did she think was going to steal her tiny city car here in the middle of the Welsh mountains? There probably wasn’t even anyone there to see it.

Behind her, the peaks and valleys of Snowdonia stretched out, green and vibrant and damp in the autumn afternoon. The air tasted different here. Fresher than London, of course, but more than that. Almost as if it had more lifein it.

For the first time in thetwo weeks since the funeral, since that awful fight with her father, Carrie felt something inside her relax. This was the right thing to do. Grandma Nancy had left herthe Avalon—not Dad, or Uncle Patrick, or even Ruth—so she’d obviously believed she was up to the challenge.

No matter what everyone else thought.

Carrie was going to save the Avalon Inn, all by herself. And then she was going to take great pleasure in saying ‘I told you so’ to everyone who said she couldn’t do it.

Just as Gran would have wanted.

* * * *

The heavy, dark-wood front door, with its stained-glass panel showering coloured light onto the stone floor of the reception area, felt like another old friend to Carrie. She remembered being too small to even open it on her own; sitting on the step outside waiting for Nancy to come back from the garden to help her, or for a kindly passing guest to let her in. Today, Carrie’s hand hovered above the wood; she was suddenly reluctant to enter. What if it wasn’t as she remembered?

Carrie closed her eyes and shoved. The door fell open under her hand, easier than she’d remembered, and she stumbled before finding her feet.

Her favourite tapestry still hung above the reception desk and the sparkling silver threads of the unicorn’s horn caught her eye immediately. Her gaze moved lower.

“Hello! Welcome to the Avalon Inn!” The alarmingly perky young blonde behind the reception desk beamed at her. “Are you here for dinner in the restaurant? Only it’s not actually open for the evening yet. And, well, we don’t have any bookings, so I’m not sure what Jacob has on the menu.”

“No,” Carrie said, trying to follow the stream of babble. “I’m—”

“Oh, are you looking for a room?” Her eyes widened. “Wow. I mean, hang on, I’m sure I have the reservations log around here somewhere…”

Carrie glanced at the name badge pinned on the blonde’s blouse as she rooted around on the desk. “Actually, Izzie, my name is Carrie Archer. I’m Nancy’s granddaughter… I, well…”

Izzie stopped shuffling papers around and stared at her. “You own the Avalon Inn. You’re my boss.”

That’s right. Carrie got to be a boss now. No more running around, dancing to the incomprehensible whims of Anna Yardley at Wedding Wishes Ltd. She got to run the show.

And she’d do it a hell of a lot better than Anna, thank you. After all, she had perfect experience of hownot to treat employees.

She gave Izzie a warm smile. “I’m hoping we’ll all be able to work together as a team here at the Avalon.”

Izzie’s head bobbed up and down in agreement, but Carrie suspected she’d have said ‘yes, miss!’ to whatever she’d suggested.

“You’ll want to see Nate,” Izzie said, head still bobbing.

“Nate?” Carrie blinked. “Um, who’s Nate?”

“The gardener.”

“Right.” Why would she want to see the gardener? “Well, maybe I could have a look around the inside of the inn first? Meet the staff here?”

“You mean Jacob.”

“Jacob. And Jacob is…?”

“The chef.” Izzie’s smile turned a little softer talking about Jacob. Carrie had a feeling she wasn’t getting the receptionist’s full attention any more.

“Okay. Is there anyone else working here?” Like a manager, or someone who could tell her what had been going on at the Avalon since Nancy got sick, for preference.

Izzie looked thoughtful. “Well, there’s Henry, the part-time barman, but he doesn’t work today.”

“Why don’t we start with a tour of the inn?” Carrie asked with a sigh. Maybe they’d stumble across someone more useful on their travels.

But Izzie shook her head. “You really should wait for Nate for that.”

“Izzie, this is my inn.” She leant across the reception desk, just a little, in a ‘just between us girls’ way. “I think I can look around it without the gardener, don’t you?”

Izzie bit her lip, but eventually nodded.

“Right, then! Why don’t we start through here?” Carrie pushed open the door to the left of the reception desk, which led, if she remembered right, to the dining room. “Oh!”

She stopped in the doorway to take in the scene. One woman – who had to be eighty plus – in a flamenco dress. One fiddling with an iPod. And one old boy coiling up a line of red and black bunting.

“Hello!” The woman in the flamenco dress stepped down from the chair she was standing on, where she’d been taking down another line of bunting. “Are you here for the flamenco lesson? I’m sorry, we had to cancel it. The instructor got stranded in Aberarian when her car broke down. I thought we’d called everyone… But our next dance night is on Monday, and we could definitely do with some new blood!”

“Ah, no. I’m—” Carrie started, but Izzie interrupted her.

“This is Miss Archer, Cyb. Carrie Archer. Nancy’s—”

“Nancy’s granddaughter,” the man with the bunting said. “Well, well. They said you were coming, but we didn’t know when.” Hegripped her hand hard enough to burn, and Carrie focused on the light reflecting off the row of military medals pinned to his knitted waistcoat. “Stan Baker. Pleased to meet you.”

“Yes, very!” said Cyb, the flamenco dancer. “I’m Mrs Cybella Charles. Widowed, of course. Almost everybody is these days, it seems. But we’re just so excited to have you here with us. Do you play bridge?”

Carrie blinked at the onslaught of words. She vaguely recalled a New Year’s Eve at the inn, ten or so years ago, when Nancy had tried to teach her over too much whisky. “Um, badly, I think.”

Mrs Charles gave a wide, still-toothy smile and clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”

“And I’m Moira Green,” the lady with the iPod said, her voice reassuringly gentle. “I was your grandmother’s best friend. But I don’t suppose you remember me. It’s been a long time.”

“Five years,” Carrie said, feeling that ping of guilt again. Ever since her dad started trying to persuade Nancy to give up the inn and move in with him. And ever since she took the job at Wedding Wishes and gave up her weekends for all time.“But I remember you.” Vaguely, anyway. Had Moira been one of those women in silk gowns dancing at Nancy’s parties, when Carrie was a child? She wasn’t sure. But she remembered some things. “You and Nancy used to take tea in the front parlour together, every afternoon.”

“That’s right!” Moira beamed. “And I remember you running in here with grass stains on your knees and your hair full of twigs from climbing the trees in the woods.”

Carrie winced. “I like to think I’ve grown up a little since then.”

“Of course you do,” Moira said. “Now, I suppose you’ll be wanting to see my Nate.”

“Your Nate?” What was it with this guy? Why did everyone think he was so important?

“Nate is Moira’s grandson,” Stan explained. “And I think he was in the kitchen with Jacob, last I saw.”

“I’ll take you!” Izzie said, too quickly. “We were headed that way anyway.”

Carrie allowed herself to be dragged across the dining room, and through the side door that led to the kitchen corridor. When she’d stayed at the inn the chef had been a terrifying woman called Frieda, so Carrie had never really spent much time in the kitchens.

But it seemed as though Izzie had.

“You’ll love Jacob,” she chattered as they walked. “He’s great. And his beer-battered fish and chips with homemade tartar sauce is to die for!”

Carrie’s stomach rumbled. Maybe food wouldn’t be such a bad idea…

“Who were those people?” she asked, to distract herself from her hunger. “Stan and Cyb and Moira, I mean?”

“The Seniors?” Izzie shrugged, which looked odd while she was still walking. “Just friends of Nancy’s.”

But Nancy was gone, and they were still there. “But what, exactly, do they do around here?” she asked.

But it was too late. They’d reached the kitchen door and Carrie no longer had any of Izzie’s attention.

Unfortunately, neither of them seemed to have the much-lauded Jacob’s either.

“I know that, Sally. But she promised…” The guy Carrie assumed was Jacob stopped shouting into his mobile and ran a hand through his disordered hair. “Look, I’m at work. Can’t you just—?-” Looking up, he spotted them in the doorway and abruptly fell silent.

“Don’t mind us,” Izzie said, smiling too brightly as she shuffled Carrie into the hallway. “We’ll come back later.”

“Who’s Sally?” Carrie asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

Izzie’s face clearly showed the debate that was raging in her head as she tried to choose between telling her new boss the truth and protecting Jacob. Carrie raised her eyebrows and waited patiently.

“Childminder,” Izzie said eventually. “Sounds like Jacob’s ex wasn’t able to pick Georgia up today. Bloody woman. She’s only supposed to have her daughter two afternoons a week.Not exactly hard to arrange, now, is it?”

“Happens a lot, does it?” Carrie asked. This was the kind of information she needed. She needed to know where things at the Avalon were weak. Not to use it against them, as Anna would have, but to help. To improve things.

God, what would Anna have made of a chef who kept having to run off to collect the kids? Her ex-boss had never been big on people having a life outside work.

“God, all the time,” Izzie said, rolling her eyes. “She’s such a…” She cut herself off, obviously aware she was approaching the TMI point. “Well, Nate obviously wasn’t there! He’s probably outside. Come on!”

Grabbing Carrie’s arm, Izzie dragged her out of the side door, onto the terrace. Carrie stumbled a little before finding her feet. Apparently Izzie had got over the intimidated-by-the-new-boss phase pretty quickly.

The terrace was exactly as Carrie remembered. Shady and cool, smelling of damp wood and wet grass. She wanted to take a moment, to remember sitting out here on folding chairs with Gran, talking about everything and nothing as they sipped lemonade. Maybe even remember the night of her first kiss, when everything had seemed possible.

But Izzie yelled, “There he is!” and tugged Carrie towards the sound of hammering, so private moments would have to wait.

“Nate!” Izzie called as they approached the edge of the terrace. “Look who’s here!”

Carrie couldn’t see anyone, but the repetitive banging of metal on wood stopped at least. Then, appearing over the wooden terrace rail like a swimmer from the sea, a man unfurled and stood, and leant against the bar.

“Carrie Archer,” he said, his voice low and warm. “You made it, then.”

She blinked. How did he know who she was? And why, of everyone she’d met today, did he feel so familiar?

“Hi. You must be Nate,” she said, holding out a hand over the rail. “I’ve heard…well, nothing about you except your name, actually. And that you’re the gardener here?”

Nate took her hand in his larger, warmer one, and Carrie felt something unfamiliar spark up her arm. Heat? Attraction? It had been so long since she’d felt either she wasn’t sure. But there was something beyond either of those. A feeling of comfort, maybe?

It was probably just the reassuring bulk of his presence. He was a good two feet lower than her, down on the grass below the terrace, but he barely had to reach up at all to shake her hand. He had to be well over six feet, and with the broad, strong shoulders of someone who spent his days working outdoors, lugging trees around or something. He was one solid thing, in an inn that was falling apart.

Maybe Nate was exactly what she needed here at the Avalon. A trusty support team was important to any manager, or leader. If she could get him on side, to help back her up, he could be a great asset.

She was already starting to feel better about the whole thing when Nate’s next words made the terrace shift under her feet and face a new reality.

“Not heard of me, huh? Well, that’s kind of weird, given that your grandmother left me control of the grounds to this place in her will.”

 

• Text Copyright © 2014 by Sophie Pembroke
• Cover Art Copyright © 2014 by HQ Digital
• Permission to reproduce text granted by HQ Digital. Cover art used by arrangement with HQ Digital. All rights reserved.