Anna DeStefano - All-American Father

Why had Beverly thought it was a good idea to have their addled, retired CPA neighbor do their taxes for free?

Because it was free!

For a word that basically meant nothing, free could be terribly important to a woman in Beverly’s financial bind. And the inn’s balance sheet had been chafing for years.

Seven o’clock on a Sunday morning was too early for dire business strategizing, but their weekend guests, including newlyweds, would be expecting breakfast soon. Four of the inn’s six suites were booked. A nice ratio for the fall season, and Beverly should be grateful for the business. Still, there’d be three loads of sheets and towels to do. Four, once the linens from the dining room were cleared. All before she started on the light lunch the inn now included in the room rate.

The day-to-day grind of keeping the family business afloat was fast becoming an exercise in futility.

There’d been little time for anything but survival the last couple of years. She and Bailey were exhausted. Bookings were down. Their inn didn’t have the high-end trappings vacation travelers looked for these days. Or the “location, location, location” on the San Francisco side of the bridge, that would have smoothed over the quainter parts of their establishment.

Beverly didn’t mind covering the housework, now that they’d cut their staff to the bone. Or cooking most of the day, since they could no longer afford to bring in even the simplest dishes from local vendors. This place was the only home, the only life, she’d ever known.

But her granddaughter, her beautiful, brilliant granddaughter…

Bailey had been running the business side of the inn since her father died. Not to mention scrambling for whatever money she could make elsewhere. She’d given up so much, taking more on her strong shoulders than should ever have been hers. Putting her own dreams on hold year after year.

“I should have double-checked Travis’s returns.” Bailey dropped her head into her hands.

“You’ve been a little busy lately, keeping our buns out of the bank’s fire.”

“Yeah, well, the government wants its crack at our buns now.” Bailey had meant to reassure her grandmother, but her pun fell flat. “We don’t have ten thousand dollars, Grams.”

The panic that came with the realization was nothing new. Bailey had once collected labels like promising and gifted. Her grandmother, her dad, had been so proud. They’d given her every chance to stretch her wings and fly into the future they’d assured her was within her grasp.

Then in a blink, that future was gone.

Her father’s fatal heart attack at forty-five had been explained away by a genetic defect. No one could have known anything was wrong. It hadn’t been anyone’s fault, the doctor kept saying. As if assigning blame was the point.

Bailey had lost her world. The center of everything that her life had revolved around.

Almost everything.

She hadn’t lost Grams. And they hadn’t lost the inn yet. Saving this place had gotten her and her grandmother through the darkest of the last eleven years.

“We can meet with the auditor, right?” There had to be a way to make this work. “We’ll explain our situation and figure something out.”

“Honey…” Her grandmother’s sigh reeked of giving up. “There’s just so much we can do. I didn’t mention it before, but a lawyer called a few months ago. He has a client looking to expand their spa franchise to the West Coast. Maybe we should—”

“No!”

Their family had scraped and fought through the Depression. After Grandpop died in World War Two and left Beverly to raise an infant son alone, Grams had somehow made it by. Then Bailey’s dad had slaved to turn the aging historical building into a thriving bed-and-breakfast, not once thinking of bailing, not even when Bailey’s mom had lost her battle with ovarian cancer when Bailey was still a baby. He’d taken care of what he’d had left—his mother and Bailey, and this house.

At eighteen and on her way to Yale on a full scholarship, Bailey had had bigger dreams to follow than picking up where he’d left off, but she’d stayed in Langston. Making sure Grams and this place kept going had become Bailey’s new dream.

“I’ll just work harder.” Hard work didn’t scare her. Giving up did. “Let me take a look at the returns. Maybe we have room to finagle the numbers, or work out a payment schedule with the IRS.”

“Our bills are already eating us alive,” Grams reasoned.

“There are better part-time jobs than the Stop Right. There’s always a demand for temp work, especially at night.”

“Oh, no you don’t. You almost killed yourself trying to keep up with that kind of schedule last time. You can’t work all night long, after putting in full days here.”

“It would only be for a while.”

“Ten thousand dollars isn’t a while. How much longer do you expect me to let you put your life on hold—”

“As long as it takes.” They weren’t selling their home to some megaconglomerate that would strip the floors and high-end upgrade everything in sight. Bailey refused to give up, no matter how easy an out Grams was trying to give her. “Maybe I can get a raise out of Drayton. I’ve been doing his books on the side for over a year now. He needs me. He can either make me a salaried manager, or I walk and find something else.”

“Excuse me,” a rough voice intruded.

The man standing in the kitchen’s doorway looked even rougher.

“There was no one at the reception desk, and I heard voices back here.” Derrick Cavenaugh didn’t do embarrassed well. He gifted Grams with an apologetic smile. “I know it’s early. I’m sorry to intrude, but I need to speak with Bailey, if she has a few minutes.”

He wore threadbare jeans and sneakers with the same effortless sophistication as the other day’s business suit. His white pullover spotlighted a chest just as drool-worthy as ever, sprinkled at the open neck with dark hair to match the unruly waves on his head. The beginnings of a scruffy beard had Bailey daydreaming about sexy beach strolls at dawn. Warm summer evenings spent on the inn’s wraparound porch, drinking wine and watching seagulls coast overhead on the wind that curled up from the bay…

She headed to their industrial-grade coffeemaker. Being blindsided by the inn’s latest financial black hole, Bailey could handle. Being stalked by Derrick Cavenaugh twice in one lifetime called for a fresh infusion of caffeine.

“Grams, you remember Derrick, don’t you?” she asked as she tripped over the frayed cuffs of her own jeans. The denim practically covered her toes.

Dressed to scrub bathrooms, not receive company, she’d grabbed the first thing she found in her closet. Not that today’s couture was much different than any other day’s. Just older. Not that she normally cared.

But nothing about how she felt around Derrick had ever been normal.

“Of course I remember Mr. Cavenaugh,” Grams gushed. “Everyone in the area followed the excitement of your college career. How you went on to work for one of the top law firms in Atlanta. It was big news, you moving back to the San Francisco area after making such a success of yourself.”

SUCCESS? Derrick mocked silently as he returned Mrs. Greenwood’s friendly smile.

He’d washed out of the career he’d been molded for from birth, and his father hadn’t been able to look at him the same way since. He’d chosen corporate law as his second career, because the high-profile work and the social schmoozing required to retain top-shelf clients were a playing field where he knew he could excel. And success was what he’d let himself believe he’d made, right up until his wife started screwing around with his best friend. Now he was divorced, starting over again, he’d lost complete control of his oldest daughter and he was living on borrowed time with his youngest.