Renee Roszel - Blue Moon Bride

He’d come to the Blue Moon Inn to get back his boyhood exuberance, and that’s what he planned to do. He straightened and sucked in a deep breath. Enough of this maudlin self-pity. He twisted the knob and strode inside.

The inn’s brightly lit foyer brought into sharp focus the worn wood floors and moldings, faded oriental rugs and dark oil paintings in need of cleaning. There were other art pieces tacked to walls. Newer works. Some exhibited talent. Others, in his opinion, ran more to smeared and spattered monstrosities.

The Blue Moon Inn wasn’t the sort of deluxe retreat he was accustomed to, but he hadn’t come for a luxurious vacation or a romantic getaway with a finicky girlfriend. This was the home of his heart, before it had been broken, then put to sleep as a safeguard against pain. He didn’t know if what he hoped for was possible, but he planned to spend these two weeks finding a way to repair his crumbling joie de vivre.

“Why, hello there, Mr., uh,” came a warbly female voice he recognized as that of his hostess.

He turned toward the sound of her shuffling approach. “Jerric,” he helped. “Roth Jerric.”

The pear-shaped, elderly woman crossed the parlor in his direction. Close behind her trailed a wire-haired, gray mongrel the size of a large cat. “Of course,” she said. “I thought you’d gone to bed.” The parlor from which his hostess exited was lit by one lamp, its shade yellowed with age. That lone lamp spilled jaundiced light across outdated, faded furnishings. Plainly the Blue Moon Inn had seen better days.

Out of years of habit, Roth pasted on a casual grin. “Hello, Mrs. Peterson.” He glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly midnight. “You’re up late.”

“Oh, there’s much to be done, Mr. Johnson.”

“Jerric,” he corrected.

“Yes, yes, certainly,” she said, sounding a bit preoccupied. Barely five feet tall, she wore a green shirtdress and crisp, white apron. She wasn’t smiling. “You were outside?”

He nodded. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Did you happen to see a woman out there? In the garden in the church ruins, perhaps?”

“Yes. Were you looking for her?” He felt something brush his leg and looked down to see the mutt, sniffing him. He shifted away. The dog seemed to get the hint, or lost interest, because it returned to stand beside the woman, its feet making light tapping sounds on the scarred oak.

“I sent her out there. I mean…” Mrs. Peterson’s worry-creased expression didn’t ease. “You didn’t go near her, did you?”

What an odd query. “Actually, yes. We spoke for a moment.”

“Oh, gracious!” The woman clasped both hands to her breast. “Are you saying you stood by that bench in the—the moonlight? With her?”

He nodded, bewildered by the alarm in the woman’s question.

“Oh, no!” she cried, startling the dog. It barked, the sound high-pitched and curiously reminiscent of its elderly owner. “Hush, Miss Mischief,” she admonished, not looking at the animal. She ran both hands through short-cropped, iron-colored hair. “All my work, my planning, ruined.”

He clenched his teeth. What in Hades was going on? He’d been at the inn for less than two hours, done nothing but unpack and take a blasted walk, and already two women were upset with him. “Your friend in the garden wasn’t thrilled about my being there, either,” he said. “Would you mind explaining what was so wrong with my speaking to her?”

“Wrong?” the woman echoed, her tone forlorn. “Everything!” Her plump cheeks pinkened with indignation. “Now you…” She glanced in the direction of the garden. “And she…oh, it’s all gone so badly.” She pulled a rumpled handkerchief from her apron pocket and pressed it to her lips.

“What’s gone badly?” he asked.

She swiped at her nose then pushed the kerchief back into her apron pocket. As she lifted her gaze to meet his, she looked as though she was trying to recapture her poise. “I’m sorry for my behavior, Mr. Johnson.”

“It’s Jerric,” he said, beginning to wonder if the woman would ever get his name right. “Roth Jerric.”

“Yes, yes.” She nodded. Looking distracted, she patted her hair, still not quite reclaiming her “hostess” aplomb. “Forgive me. I’m an old lady who had a lovely flight of fancy—a hope you might say—to enhance two deserving young people’s lives. And—well—because of you, all my effort has been smashed on the rocks of mischance.” She attempted a smile. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” he asked. Good Lord, he’d somehow smashed this woman’s hopes for something important enough to drive her to the brink of tears. How was that possible simply by speaking with Hannah Hudson? The experience hadn’t been any great thrill for him, that was certain.

“You didn’t know—about the blue moon, and about…” She shook her head. Her eyes, a faded dust-brown behind wire-rimmed spectacles, expressed a mournfulness she couldn’t mask with apologetic murmurings. “I trust you found her delightful,” she said.

That remark surprised him. He thought about saying, though he found her attractive, her disposition left a great deal to be desired. Instead he asked, “Why?”

“Because you must,” she said sadly. “Fate has spoken, dear boy.”

He had no idea what she meant and started to ask, but she wasn’t through speaking.

“When the sheriff comes, would you mind telling him he’s too late?”

“Sheriff?” He felt like he’d stepped into the twilight zone. Fate? Sheriff? “Too late for what?”

“For them.” She made a weak effort at a pleasant expression. “He should have been here an hour ago. When he comes, ask him why he was late. Deacon Vance is his name. A darling man. Widower, you know, and only thirty-five.” She turned away, heaving a ragged sigh. “So sad. But who am I to question Madam Fate?” Her back to Roth, she shuffled off down a dimly lit hallway toward the back of the house. “Come along, Missy Mis,” she said unnecessarily, since the dog trailed close behind her. “Good night, Mr. Johnson.”

He started to correct her mistake but decided it didn’t matter. Other problems loomed larger. Had he heard her right? She’d spoken more to herself than to him. What had she said about questioning Madam Fate? And the sheriff was too late? For what? And what had he ruined by simply speaking to the stormy Miss Hudson?

“What in Hades just happened here?” he muttered.

After a moment a distant door slammed. Apparently his hostess was now ensconced in her quarters.

A bell pealed nearby, jarring him. He shook his head at himself. It was only a damn phone. Clearly his nerves were shot, and so far his stay at the inn hadn’t helped his mental state. Facing the fact that he’d been put in charge, he walked to the reservation desk, outfitted in what was once a hallway closet. He grabbed the receiver. “Jerric here.”

“What?” the male voice on the other end of the line asked.

Roth felt like an idiot. “I mean, Blue Moon Inn.”

“Who is this?”

Roth didn’t enjoy this kind of phone call. “Who is this?” he asked.

“This is Sheriff Deacon Vance. I ask again, who is this?”

“Oh, Sheriff. This is Roth Jerric, a guest at the inn. Mrs. Peterson went to bed. She asked me to tell you you’re too late. I’m guessing you don’t need to come out.”

“Too late?”

Roth was relieved to hear the sheriff’s confusion. “That’s what she said, along with other things—something about Madam Fate and hopes crashing on rocks. To tell the truth…” He had a thought that seemed worth exploring. “Does the woman have a drinking problem?”

Hearty laughter exploded on the other end of the line. “What she has is a meddling problem. Tell me, Jerric, is a young, attractive female staying at the inn?”