inherited the place. When she became a widow, God rest her soul, she converted the house into an inn. The Carriage House, too. It has a suite and extra rooms.”
And a new roof. When driving around back to park her car, Bess had noted the Carriage House roof wasn’t yet weathered like that on the inn itself. “Are all the Freeports gone now, then?”
“Oh my, no. Mary Elizabeth’s son, Judge Nelson—he lives in Atlanta now—inherited the place. He opted for a bed-and-breakfast—no doubt due to my advancing years, treasure that he is—but neither of us saw any need to change the name. Seascape has been Seascape Inn for years and the locals would continue to call it that anyway.”
A ceiling fan’s spinning blades thumped overhead and smells of lemon oil and vanilla potpourri filled Bess’s nose. The paneling gleamed as if freshly oiled and a little sachet of burgundy tulle and white lace lay on the desk near a green banker’s lamp. She glanced over her right shoulder at the grandfather clock, oddly reassured by its steady ticks, and a sense of peace and calm similar to that she’d felt on looking at the painting of the inn at Lakeview Gallery washed through her. A smile curled her lips. “It’s charming, Miss Hattie.”
“It’s home.” Miss Hattie turned the registration book toward Bess, lifted then passed a pen from a wooden holder near the lamp. “I’ve lived here most of my life, dear. Can’t imagine thinking of Seascape as anything more than home.”
“You’re as special as T. J. and Maggie claim.” Angelic, through and through. Bess signed the register then returned the pen to its holder.
“Bah.” Miss Hattie smiled. “But I’ve heard some wonderful things about you.” She came around the desk and patted Bess’s arm. “I don’t care for feeling like a guest, so I never have them here. Think of Seascape as your home.”
“Thank you.” Bess cringed at what Miss Hattie would think at knowing how awful home had been.
She dabbed at her temple with the delicate white hankie. “Now, let’s get you settled into the Great White Room. First light hits there, so lower the shades at night, and take advantage of the sitting room in the adjoining turret, mmm? T. J. says you’re under a lot of pressure right now and we’re to see to it you relax.” She lifted a blue-veined hand and brushed back a lock of hair from Bess’s face, her gentle green eyes concerned and comforting. “Gaze upon the ocean and dream a little, dear. Very soothing, dreaming. Brings peace to a troubled soul.”
Peace to a troubled soul. All a home should do. Bess nearly cried. Home. Exactly what she needed to lick her wounds. How Miss Hattie had known that remained a mystery—and a blessing. Maggie often had said the innkeeper seemed aged and ageless, touched by magic. Maybe it was true. Bess gave Miss Hattie a watery smile. “I think T. J. and Maggie were right about you.”
“Don’t you worry, dear.” Empathy and then certainty rang in Miss Hattie’s tone. “Everything is going to be just fine. That’s why you’re here.”
An odd feeling shimmied through Bess’s chest. Miss Hattie knew the reason Bess had felt compelled to come here? “Why?”
The old woman smiled. “To heal.”
Bess didn’t want to dispute the woman, but she didn’t think for a second Seascape could cure her troubles. True, she did feel . . . comforted. And oddly at peace. Miracles, truly, considering her circumstances. But for a full-fledged healing, she’d need a fistful of miracles. And that would be asking for too much, even for Seascape.
A heavy summer shower had the Blue Moon Cafe bustling and its friendly owners, Fred and Lucy Baker, jumping to get everyone seated at the long wooden bar and at the red-checked, clothed tables fed and watered and comfortable.
Because Bess was from away, as Miss Hattie put it, the angelic old innkeeper filled Bess in on the identity of the rain-soaked people coming in to dry off: Horace
And a new roof. When driving around back to park her car, Bess had noted the Carriage House roof wasn’t yet weathered like that on the inn itself. “Are all the Freeports gone now, then?”
“Oh my, no. Mary Elizabeth’s son, Judge Nelson—he lives in Atlanta now—inherited the place. He opted for a bed-and-breakfast—no doubt due to my advancing years, treasure that he is—but neither of us saw any need to change the name. Seascape has been Seascape Inn for years and the locals would continue to call it that anyway.”
A ceiling fan’s spinning blades thumped overhead and smells of lemon oil and vanilla potpourri filled Bess’s nose. The paneling gleamed as if freshly oiled and a little sachet of burgundy tulle and white lace lay on the desk near a green banker’s lamp. She glanced over her right shoulder at the grandfather clock, oddly reassured by its steady ticks, and a sense of peace and calm similar to that she’d felt on looking at the painting of the inn at Lakeview Gallery washed through her. A smile curled her lips. “It’s charming, Miss Hattie.”
“It’s home.” Miss Hattie turned the registration book toward Bess, lifted then passed a pen from a wooden holder near the lamp. “I’ve lived here most of my life, dear. Can’t imagine thinking of Seascape as anything more than home.”
“You’re as special as T. J. and Maggie claim.” Angelic, through and through. Bess signed the register then returned the pen to its holder.
“Bah.” Miss Hattie smiled. “But I’ve heard some wonderful things about you.” She came around the desk and patted Bess’s arm. “I don’t care for feeling like a guest, so I never have them here. Think of Seascape as your home.”
“Thank you.” Bess cringed at what Miss Hattie would think at knowing how awful home had been.
She dabbed at her temple with the delicate white hankie. “Now, let’s get you settled into the Great White Room. First light hits there, so lower the shades at night, and take advantage of the sitting room in the adjoining turret, mmm? T. J. says you’re under a lot of pressure right now and we’re to see to it you relax.” She lifted a blue-veined hand and brushed back a lock of hair from Bess’s face, her gentle green eyes concerned and comforting. “Gaze upon the ocean and dream a little, dear. Very soothing, dreaming. Brings peace to a troubled soul.”
Peace to a troubled soul. All a home should do. Bess nearly cried. Home. Exactly what she needed to lick her wounds. How Miss Hattie had known that remained a mystery—and a blessing. Maggie often had said the innkeeper seemed aged and ageless, touched by magic. Maybe it was true. Bess gave Miss Hattie a watery smile. “I think T. J. and Maggie were right about you.”
“Don’t you worry, dear.” Empathy and then certainty rang in Miss Hattie’s tone. “Everything is going to be just fine. That’s why you’re here.”
An odd feeling shimmied through Bess’s chest. Miss Hattie knew the reason Bess had felt compelled to come here? “Why?”
The old woman smiled. “To heal.”
Bess didn’t want to dispute the woman, but she didn’t think for a second Seascape could cure her troubles. True, she did feel . . . comforted. And oddly at peace. Miracles, truly, considering her circumstances. But for a full-fledged healing, she’d need a fistful of miracles. And that would be asking for too much, even for Seascape.
A heavy summer shower had the Blue Moon Cafe bustling and its friendly owners, Fred and Lucy Baker, jumping to get everyone seated at the long wooden bar and at the red-checked, clothed tables fed and watered and comfortable.
Because Bess was from away, as Miss Hattie put it, the angelic old innkeeper filled Bess in on the identity of the rain-soaked people coming in to dry off: Horace
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