Millie Criswell - Asking For Trouble

“I’m also expecting a young honeymoon couple to arrive at the end of the week,” she announced. “Joan and Charles Murray are from Virginia. They sounded very nice on the phone.”

“Oh good, that’s sure to liven things up around here. Put them in the room with the big brass head-board, so we can—”

“Ivy Swindel!” Iris shook her head in warning. “Merciful heavens! That will be quite enough. What would Papa think to hear you say such things? I’m sure he’s rolling over in his grave at this very moment.”

Looking hopeful, her older sister grinned. “Do you think so?”

Sniffing the air several times at the acrid odor filling the air, Beth scrunched her nose in distaste. “What’s that awful smell?” The lemon sachet, which usually permeated the large suite of rooms, had been replaced by something that smelled suspiciously like marijuana. Not that she’d ever smoked the potent weed, but her ex-husband had indulged, from time to time.

“Incense, dear. I’m trying out a new incantation and thought it would help set the mood.”

“Iris is trying to raise the dead.” Ivy grinned, which increased the multitude of wrinkles on a face that looked like a well-traveled road map. “I told her to start with Phinneas Pickens. That old coot could use some resuscitation. Why, I ran into him at the bank the other day and he pretended he didn’t remember that I’d taught him eighth-grade English. Can you imagine? The man must be senile.”

Iris was trying to raise the dead? Why on earth would she want to do that?

Beth decided she might have to reconsider which aunt was the nuttier of the two.

“Maybe Mr. Pickens is growing a bit forgetful,” she offered, glancing at the ormolu clock on the mantel and knowing what she’d suggested was very unlikely. The man had a mind like a steel trap. “At any rate, he’ll be here soon to inspect the inn for the loan I’ve applied for.”

And she had no doubt he’d remember every debt she owed. Beth wasn’t sure what she would do if she didn’t get the additional funds or how long she could keep operating the inn. Business had been slow these past six months. And though she had bookings for the upcoming Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, she wasn’t sure the revenue would be enough to sustain her through winter, when tourism slowed down in the rural Pennsylvania township.

Mediocrity received its share of snow, but it wasn’t reliable enough to base an entire industry on; and so the skiers and snowboarders went farther north, leaving only the die-hard antique lovers and Civil War buffs to spend tourist dollars in the quaint community.

“I wish we were able to help out more financially, Beth dear,” Iris said, biting her scone daintily, and then wiping crumbs from her lips with an embroidered napkin. “We never meant for this house to become a burden when we gave it to you. Did we, sister?” Ivy shook her head.

“Don’t be silly. I love this house. But it takes time to grow a business. There were repairs and alterations that needed to be done before we could open as an inn. This relic is a century old, after all.”

Iris still didn’t look convinced and Beth patted her hand reassuringly. “You’ll never know how grateful I am that you and Aunt Ivy chose to share your home with me. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t made the offer. You’ve always been there for me.” Their generous gift had been a godsend to Beth, whose life had fallen apart after finding out that her husband of three years had been having an affair with one of his coworkers.

Greg was the athletic director for Mediocrity High School and head coach of the Miners football team. Penelope Miller, his paramour, was a physical-education teacher who coached girl’s basketball and soccer.

Beth supposed their pairing had been inevitable. She’d never shared her husband’s enthusiasm for sports, while her husband’s lover fit his fantasy image of a female jock to a tee: big boobs, long legs and no brains, or at least none Beth could discern.

What seemed disastrous at the time had actually turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to her. Greg’s nasty moods and the venom that spewed forth from his mouth were now Penelope’s problem to deal with. They deserved each other, as far as Beth was concerned.

Unwilling to turn tail and run after her husband’s affair had become public knowledge, Beth had focused all of her energies on opening the inn, which had given her a chance to regain her self-worth and sanity, and a reason to get her life back in order, which hadn’t been easy on many levels. But she was determined to succeed.

“This house was just too much for a couple of old ladies to manage,” Ivy admitted. “And you love this Victorian as much as we do, so it seemed only fitting that you should have it. We wanted the house to remain in the family, and you’re the only family we have left, aside from your mother, who is quite content with her life in California.”

Thank God for that! Beth loved her mother, but she didn’t like her very much and had no intention of living any closer to the woman than three thousand miles.

Margaret Shaw had a nasty disposition and made everyone around her miserable. Beth had thirty-four years of good reasons to dread her visits, which fortunately were few and far between. They argued over the most trivial things whenever they were together. Margaret took great delight in telling Beth in excruciating detail every little thing that was wrong with her. And she had a very long list!

“This house was the best part of my childhood and holds so many wonderful memories.”

“You mean like the time you tried to help Elmer Forrest paint the front porch and ended up dumping a whole gallon of paint on his boots?” Ivy laughed and Beth smiled.

“Mr. Forrest wouldn’t talk to me for months after that.”

“Elmer felt badly about his behavior after we explained about your parents’ divorce.”

Thinking back to the heartache her parents’ divorce had caused, Beth sighed. She’d often wondered if she’d been the cause of their breakup, but her aunts had assured her that Margaret and Melvin Shaw’s failed marriage had been due to her father’s wandering eye. She hadn’t fully understood what that meant until the day her mother had explained in graphic, horrifying detail just what her father had done, shattering her childish illusions about a man she had worshipped and adored.

“My dear, are you all right?” Iris asked, her brow creased with worry. “You look positively glum.”

Forcing a smile, Beth nodded, picking up the thread of their conversation. “Once I get the loan I’ll be able to finish the landscaping and pay off the bulk of the debt I’ve accumulated trying to bring the inn up to code, which is why I intend to bribe Mr. Pickens with a jar of your damson plum jam. Mrs. Pickens is wild about it.”

Ivy pursed her lips. “Humph! If you ask me, Finnola Pickens thinks too highly of herself. She was a very poor student—didn’t know a verb from a preposition, as I recall.”

Neither did Beth, but she wasn’t about to admit that to the former schoolteachers. English, and grammar in particular, had never been her forte, though she adored reading, especially romantic novels. At least relationships in romance novels always worked out; they were required to have happy endings.

Too bad real life wasn’t like that.

“We don’t think you should show Mr. Pickens the cellar, dear. It’s so cold and musty down there. We think it would be best if you just ignored it completely. Don’t we, Ivy?” Iris appeared uneasy as she glanced at her sister, twisting her napkin into a tight knot.

“It’s so damp down there,” Ivy agreed. “And you know how much you dislike it.”