There were three things I firmly believed should never happen before seven in the morning.
Emergency phone calls.
Unexpected expenses.
And math.
Unfortunately, Monday had arrived with all three.
I sat at the small desk in my office, staring at a spreadsheet that had become increasingly offensive over the last twenty minutes.
The boiler replacement estimate was still open on my second monitor.
Eighteen thousand four hundred dollars.
I’d checked the number six times since yesterday, hoping it might eventually change out of embarrassment.
It hadn’t.
My phone buzzed beside my coffee.
Unknown Number.
I considered ignoring it.
Then I remembered I owned a hotel, which meant ignoring phone calls was about as realistic as taking a week off without checking my email.
“Briar House Inn, this is Eden.”
“Good morning, Ms. Walsh. This is Daniel from Hudson Valley Heating.”
Of course it was.
“Good morning, Daniel.”
“I’m just following up on the estimate we sent over. Wanted to see if you had any questions.”
Yes.
Several.
Starting with whether the boiler could be repaired using duct tape, positive affirmations, and a reasonably priced space heater.
Instead, I opened my notebook.
“Actually, I do. Is a full replacement absolutely necessary, or could we repair the system and schedule a replacement after the winter season?”
Daniel paused.
“We can replace some of the failing components, but given the age of the unit, I wouldn’t recommend relying on it through the winter. If something else goes, you could end up without heat when you need it most.”
I looked toward the window.
Outside, a gentle breeze moved through the maple trees, shaking loose a few orange leaves.
October was beautiful.
January in upstate New York without heat would be significantly less charming.
“Understood,” I said. “And the installation date?”
“We can get you on the schedule for the twentieth. We’d need approval and the deposit by Friday to hold that slot.”
The twentieth.
Two weeks.
“I’ll review everything and get back to you.”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Ms. Walsh.”
I hung up.
Then leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling.
“Fantastic.”
The ceiling, like the boiler, offered no assistance.
I opened my financial spreadsheet again.
Twelve thousand nine hundred dollars in the maintenance reserve.
A decent amount under normal circumstances.
Not nearly enough when a single piece of equipment threatened to swallow the entire account and ask for dessert.
I could finance part of the replacement. Move some planned renovations into next year. Shift a portion of the marketing budget.
There were options.
I just didn’t particularly like any of them.
A soft knock sounded against my open office door.
“Please tell me you have coffee,” I called.
“Better. Breakfast.”
Mina stepped inside carrying a paper plate with two slices of French toast and a small bowl of warm apple compote.
I almost loved her.
“You’re an angel.”
“I know.”
She set the plate on my desk, then glanced at the spreadsheets.
“Still dealing with the boiler?”
“Unfortunately.”
“How bad?”
“Eighteen thousand four hundred dollars.”
Mina winced.
“That seems rude.”
“Right? I feel like if you’re going to charge me that much money, you should at least include a vacation.”
“Or a new car.”
“Or a handsome contractor who brings me cocktails.”
Mina raised an eyebrow.
“I thought the handsome man brought you coffee yesterday.”
I looked at her.
“Don’t start.”
She smiled and pulled up the chair opposite my desk.
I took a bite of French toast.
Warm cinnamon. Soft bread. Sweet apples.
For approximately four seconds, life was worth living again.
“Ruth outdid herself,” I said around another bite.
“She said you didn’t eat dinner last night.”
“She’s a snitch.”
“She’s worried about you.”
“Everyone’s worried about me. I’m starting to feel very popular.”
Mina glanced toward my laptop.
“Did you sleep?”
“Define sleep.”
“Eden.”
“Yes, Mother. I slept.”
“How much?”
I took another bite.
She waited.
“Five hours.”
“That’s not terrible.”
“See? Thriving.”
Mina shook her head.
We’d developed a routine over the months she’d worked for me. She worried. I insisted I was fine. She ignored me and brought food anyway.
It worked surprisingly well.
She leaned forward to look at the spreadsheet.
“Have you talked to the bank about financing?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe you should. You don’t want to wipe out the repair reserve.”
“I know.”
“And we have those bathroom upgrades scheduled for November.”
“Which are now looking more like February upgrades.”
“February works.”
“The guests in Room Six might disagree.”
Mina laughed.
“The tile is dated. It’s not falling apart.”
I looked at her.
“That’s how every disaster starts in this building. Something is just dated, or a little loose, or making a noise. Then suddenly I’m standing in the basement watching water pour out of a pipe like we’re operating an indoor attraction.”
“That happened once.”
“Once was plenty.”
She smiled.
“Well, whatever you decide, we’ll make it work.”
I appreciated the confidence.
I just wished I shared it.
Mina stood and headed toward the door.
“Oh, and before I forget, breakfast is getting busy. We had another walk-in inquiry asking about Room Thirteen.”
“Naturally.”
“Also, someone wants to know if we can arrange a private ghost tour.”
I looked up from my plate.
“Please tell me you didn’t call Kit Wilder.”
Mina’s smile turned suspicious.
“I didn’t.”
“Good.”
“I gave them his business information.”
I stared at her.
She shrugged.
“What? You said we should recommend local businesses.”
“Not when the business owner is a professional nuisance.”
“He’s a very successful professional nuisance.”
“Mina.”
“Fine. I’ll stop.”
She reached the doorway.
Then glanced back.
“For what it’s worth, he did bring you good coffee.”
“He brought me terrible coffee.”
“And then gave you the good one.”
I pointed my fork at her.
“Go manage something.”
She laughed and disappeared into the hallway.
I returned to my spreadsheet.
There were payroll figures to review, vendor invoices to approve, and a maintenance schedule that looked increasingly ambitious.
But before I could tackle any of it, a loud crash came from the dining room.
I closed my laptop.
Apparently, breakfast had other plans.
By eight thirty, Briar House’s dining room resembled the aftermath of a particularly polite natural disaster.
Every table was occupied.
The coffee station was running dangerously low.
One guest wanted an extra-soft poached egg, another insisted his toast was too toasted, and a woman near the window had been waiting twenty minutes for a latte we didn’t technically serve.
Our breakfast service was complimentary, which somehow made people more demanding.
I’d never fully understood that.
Give someone free coffee, and they’ll thank you.
Give someone free coffee in a hotel, and suddenly they want to know whether the beans were harvested by emotionally fulfilled farmers.
I stepped into the kitchen just as Ruth, our breakfast cook, was pulling another tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven.
The smell nearly brought me to my knees.
“Please tell me those are for me.”
Ruth glanced over her shoulder.
“Depends. Are you going to sit down and eat like a normal person?”
“Define normal.”
She pointed her spatula at me.
“That’s what I thought.”
At sixty-one, Ruth Parker had been working at Briar House longer than I’d been alive.
She was five-foot-three, wore her gray hair in a tight bun, and possessed the kind of authority that made grown men apologize for standing in the wrong place.
When I’d purchased the inn, she’d informed me she wasn’t interested in retiring and didn’t plan to start making fancy breakfast food just because I’d renovated the dining room.
I considered both statements excellent news.
“What’s happening out there?” I asked.
“People are hungry.”
“Helpful.”
“That man at Table Four sent his eggs back.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“He ordered them soft scrambled. Now he says they’re too soft.”
I stared at her.
“Did he specify a different definition of soft?”
Ruth gave me a look.
“Don’t encourage me.”
I laughed and reached for a clean plate.
“Need help running food?”
“Take these out before I say something that gets us reviewed.”
I picked up two breakfast plates and headed into the dining room.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the polished wooden tables and fresh flowers I’d arranged the previous afternoon.
At least the room looked peaceful.
The people inside it were another story.
Near the fireplace, a man in a navy polo shirt was attempting to flag down our youngest server.
“Tessa!”
Nineteen-year-old Tessa Martin stopped beside his table, holding a tray of empty dishes.
“Yes, sir?”
“I asked for these eggs to be cooked properly.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Doran. I can have the kitchen remake them.”
“They should’ve been right the first time.”
Tessa’s cheeks turned pink.
“I understand. I’ll take them back.”
He sighed loudly.
“Does anyone here know what they’re doing?”
I changed direction.
“Good morning, Mr. Doran.”
He looked up as I approached.
“Finally. Someone in charge.”
Lucky me.
I set the plates on a nearby service stand and gave him a pleasant smile.
“I’m Eden Walsh, the owner. I understand there’s an issue with your breakfast.”
“These eggs are practically raw.”
I glanced at the plate.
They weren’t.
They were soft scrambled.
Exactly what he’d ordered.
But arguing over the culinary definition of scrambled eggs before nine in the morning seemed like a poor use of everyone’s time.
“I’m sorry they weren’t prepared the way you prefer. We can certainly make you a fresh plate.”
He gestured toward Tessa.
“I already told her that.”
“Yes, sir. Tessa was bringing your request back to the kitchen.”
Mr. Doran leaned back in his chair.
“Well, perhaps she should’ve gotten it right in the first place.”
I maintained my smile.
“Our kitchen prepares the meals, Mr. Doran. Tessa is responsible for making sure your requests reach them, and she’s doing exactly that.”
He looked mildly surprised.
Good.
“Now,” I continued, “would you prefer your eggs cooked a little firmer this time?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. I’ll let Ruth know.”
I picked up his plate.
Tessa followed me toward the kitchen, her expression tight.
“I’m really sorry,” she whispered.
I glanced at her.
“For what?”
“The eggs. I should’ve checked them.”
“You brought out what the kitchen prepared. That’s not something you need to apologize for.”
“He seemed really upset.”
“Some guests are particular about their breakfast.”
She gave a small, nervous laugh.
“He was pretty rude.”
“That he was.”
We stepped into the kitchen.
I lowered my voice.
“Listen, Tessa. We always try to fix a legitimate guest concern, even when the complaint seems small. But you don’t have to stand there and let someone personally insult you.”
She nodded.
“If someone starts making it about you instead of the food, come get me or Mina. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And for the record, you’re doing a great job.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
“Thanks, Eden.”
I handed the plate to Ruth.
“Table Four would like his eggs a little firmer.”
Ruth stared at me.
“Then why in God’s name did he order them soft?”
I sighed.
“Because the universe enjoys testing us.”
She shook her head and reached for a clean pan.
I headed back into the dining room.
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of coffee refills, breakfast plates, and increasingly specific guest requests.
A woman wanted a cinnamon roll without gluten, dairy, or sugar but was very concerned that it taste exactly like the regular version.
I offered her a packaged gluten-free muffin and fresh fruit, carefully explaining that our kitchen shared preparation equipment and couldn’t guarantee an allergen-free environment.
She chose the fruit.
A gentleman near the window wanted to know whether the dining room had always been used for breakfast.
I explained that it had once served as the boardinghouse’s formal parlor.
He asked whether Violet Ash had eaten there.
I told him I assumed she probably had.
He looked delighted.
Apparently, the possibility of sharing a room with a dead woman’s former breakfast table was more exciting than the actual breakfast.
At nine fifteen, I finally returned to the kitchen.
Ruth was pouring another batch of batter onto the griddle.
“Tell me something good,” I said.
She slid a plate toward me.
“Last cinnamon roll.”
I stared at it.
“Is this a marriage proposal?”
“Take it before I change my mind.”
I grabbed the plate.
“You’re my favorite employee.”
“You said that to Mina yesterday.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Ruth snorted.
For a few minutes, I sat on a stool near the kitchen doorway, eating my cinnamon roll while the breakfast rush settled down.
This part of the job was exhausting.
The early mornings.
The constant questions.
The endless small decisions.
But there was something about it I genuinely loved.
Watching a guest’s face light up when they tasted something delicious. Hearing someone compliment the room they’d stayed in. Seeing Tessa regain her confidence after a difficult interaction.
Those moments made the endless paperwork feel worthwhile.
I’d worked in hotels long enough to know that hospitality wasn’t really about chandeliers and fancy sheets.
It was about people.
Unfortunately, people were also the reason I occasionally fantasized about moving to a remote island and communicating exclusively with birds.
Ruth set another cup of coffee beside me.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
I glanced up.
“Just thinking.”
“About that boiler?”
“Among other financial disasters.”
She leaned against the counter.
“You’ll figure it out.”
I smiled faintly.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because you usually do.”
I wanted to believe her.
Instead, I took another sip of coffee and hoped the next guest didn’t ask whether our orange juice was freshly squeezed by a Victorian ghost.
By eleven, the dining room was clean, the last breakfast dishes were in the kitchen, and I’d finally returned to my office.
My inbox had multiplied while I was gone.
Twenty-three unread messages.
Two vendor invoices.
A housekeeping supply order.
And a reminder that our annual fire alarm inspection was scheduled for Wednesday.
Wonderful.
I was halfway through approving the linen order when Mina appeared at my doorway.
“Got a minute?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
That caught my attention.
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” She sat across from me. “I wanted to talk about the staffing schedule.”
I immediately tensed.
“What about it?”
“You’ve been covering too many shifts.”
“I’m the owner.”
“Yes, Eden. I’m aware.”
“I have to be available.”
“Available isn’t the same as physically working every shift.”
I opened my mouth.
She held up a hand.
“Before you argue, hear me out.”
I leaned back.
“Fine.”
“You’re doing breakfast coverage, front desk coverage, maintenance calls, vendor scheduling, and payroll. I know we’re trying to keep expenses down, but that’s not sustainable.”
“I’m not doing all of it.”
“You’re doing most of it.”
I glanced at the stack of papers on my desk.
She had a point.
A deeply irritating point.
“We’re a small property,” I said. “Everyone wears multiple hats.”
“I know. But there’s a difference between helping when we’re short-staffed and never letting anyone else handle things.”
“I let you handle things.”
Mina raised an eyebrow.
“After reminding me three times how you’d handle them.”
I frowned.
“That’s not true.”
She gave me a look.
“Okay, maybe twice.”
“Yesterday you called me on my day off to ask whether the anniversary guests should get the chocolate-covered strawberries before or after dinner.”
“Timing is important.”
“Eden.”
“Fine.”
Mina folded her hands in her lap.
“Look, I know how much Briar House means to you. But you hired me to be your assistant manager. Let me manage some things.”
I studied her.
She wasn’t angry.
She wasn’t even frustrated, exactly.
She looked concerned.
Which somehow made the conversation harder.
“I just want everything done right,” I admitted.
“I know.”
“And I don’t want the staff feeling like I’m dumping responsibilities on them.”
“Delegating isn’t dumping.”
I looked away.
Mina waited.
That was another annoying thing about her.
She never rushed to fill silence.
Eventually, I sighed.
“Okay.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“Okay?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m just surprised.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Mina grinned.
“So, I’ll take over the linen orders, maintenance scheduling, and front desk coverage through next week.”
I hesitated.
“All of it?”
“Eden.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“And you can focus on the budget and the bigger decisions.”
I nodded.
“That actually sounds reasonable.”
“Imagine that.”
I smiled.
She stood, then paused near the door.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Apparently, that’s the theme of today.”
“Why do you feel like everything has to be your responsibility?”
The question landed harder than I expected.
I looked down at my hands.
There were a dozen easy answers.
Because I owned the business.
Because I’d invested my savings.
Because I was responsible for the employees and guests.
All true.
None quite enough.
“I guess I’ve had enough experience with people taking credit when things go right and disappearing when they go wrong,” I said.
Mina’s expression softened.
“Your old job?”
I nodded.
I’d told her bits and pieces over the months, but never the whole story.
Not because it was some great secret.
Mostly because remembering it still irritated me.
Before Briar House, I’d spent seven years working for a hotel management company.
I’d started at the front desk, worked my way into operations, and eventually helped oversee property openings and major renovations.
I loved the work.
The planning. The logistics. The chaos of turning an empty building into a functioning hotel.
Then came the Philadelphia project.
A beautiful boutique hotel in a converted historic building.
I spent nearly eleven months on that opening.
Long days.
Longer nights.
Vendor delays, staffing shortages, budget changes, and enough construction surprises to make me question whether the building had been assembled by angry toddlers.
I’d given everything to that project.
And when it finally opened successfully, my regional director, Colin Baines, stood onstage at the grand opening and accepted an industry award for the launch.
He thanked the investors.
The corporate leadership team.
The development partners.
He even thanked the landscaping contractor.
My name never came up.
I was standing near the back of the room, holding a box of emergency name badges because two members of the event staff had called out.
The next week, Colin received a promotion.
I received an email reminding me to submit my expense reports.
That was the moment something changed.
Not all at once.
I didn’t storm out of the office or deliver some dramatic speech about knowing my worth.
I went back to work.
Finished the project.
Updated my résumé.
And quietly started looking for something else.
Six months later, I found Briar House.
It needed a ridiculous amount of work.
The seller was retiring.
The financial projections were promising, if a little optimistic.
And for the first time in years, I could picture building something without worrying whether someone else would take ownership of the results.
I wanted that.
More than anything.
“I spent a long time making other people successful,” I told Mina. “I just don’t want to lose control of something that’s finally mine.”
She nodded slowly.
“I get that.”
I looked at her.
“But?”
She smiled.
“But nobody’s trying to take Briar House away from you, Eden. We’re trying to help you run it.”
I let out a breath.
“I know.”
“And for what it’s worth, you’ve already made this place better.”
I glanced toward the window.
Beyond the garden, the restored carriage house stood beneath a cluster of maple trees.
When I’d first toured the property, its windows had been boarded up and the floors were warped from years of neglect.
Now it had beautiful wooden beams, working heat, and enough space for intimate dinners and private events.
It was one of my favorite renovations.
“I just want it to work,” I admitted.
“It will.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” Mina said. “But I can promise you don’t have to do everything by yourself.”
I smiled.
“You’re getting dangerously close to an inspirational speech.”
“Should I stop?”
“Immediately.”
She laughed.
“Fine. I’ll go order towels.”
“Thank you.”
Mina reached for the door.
Then stopped.
“Oh, by the way, someone asked whether we could arrange a private ghost tour for an anniversary package.”
I closed my eyes.
“Please tell me this isn’t becoming a regular thing.”
“Could be a good add-on experience.”
I opened one eye.
“You sound suspiciously enthusiastic.”
“I’m a hospitality professional. I recognize a revenue opportunity when I see one.”
I sighed.
“Look into it if you want. Just make sure anything we offer respects guest privacy.”
“Absolutely.”
She opened the door.
“And Eden?”
“Yes?”
“You know Kit has been getting great reviews for his tours.”
I gave her a look.
“Good for Kit.”
Mina smiled.
“That’s all I’m saying.”
I watched her leave.
Then returned to my laptop.
I had a growing suspicion that Mina’s idea of helping manage my business was going to involve entirely too many conversations about Christopher Wilder.
The afternoon passed more quietly.
After lunch, I walked through the property with our maintenance technician, reviewing a list of smaller repairs that needed attention before winter.
A loose handrail near the back stairs.
A bathroom fan in Room Four.
A guest-room window that occasionally refused to stay open.
Nothing dramatic.
Just the normal, never-ending maintenance of a historic building.
By three, I was back in the office, reviewing the October occupancy report.
The good news?
Weekend bookings were strong.
The ghost video had generated enough attention to fill several remaining rooms for Halloween weekend.
The bad news?
Weekdays were still slower than I’d hoped, and our winter reservations were nowhere near what they needed to be.
I ran the numbers again.
Then a third time.
Not because I expected them to change.
Because I was trying to figure out what I could change.
I could create a holiday package.
Partner with local restaurants.
Offer private event experiences.
Maybe promote the carriage house for intimate winter celebrations.
There were possibilities.
I just needed one that wouldn’t require spending a fortune to make a little money.
My phone buzzed.
This time, it was a text from my mother.
Mom: How’s the inn doing?
I stared at the question.
Such a simple sentence.
Such a complicated answer.
I typed:
Me: Great! Busy weekend. Lots of fall travelers.
Technically true.
Three little dots appeared.
Mom: Wonderful! Are you getting enough rest?
I smiled.
Mothers.
Somehow, they could detect exhaustion through a text message.
Me: Plenty.
A lie.
Mom: Make sure you’re eating.
I looked at the empty coffee cup on my desk.
Me: Absolutely.
Another lie.
Mom: Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I set the phone aside.
My parents had been supportive when I told them I was buying Briar House.
Confused.
Concerned.
Occasionally convinced I’d lost my mind.
But supportive.
My mother had spent the entire first month sending me articles about small-business ownership. My father had driven up twice to help with repairs, despite my repeated insistence that I could hire someone.
They loved me.
I knew that.
I just didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of telling them I was struggling.
Not when I’d worked so hard to convince everyone—including myself—that this was the right decision.
A knock sounded at the door.
Our afternoon front-desk clerk, Nora, leaned inside.
“Hey, Eden? There’s a delivery for you.”
I looked up.
“From who?”
“Florist.”
I frowned.
“Florist?”
“Yep. Big arrangement.”
That was strange.
I hadn’t ordered flowers.
I followed Nora into the lobby.
A beautiful autumn arrangement sat on the front desk.
Deep red dahlias, orange roses, eucalyptus, and small decorative branches arranged in a rustic ceramic vase.
It was gorgeous.
And absolutely not something I’d approved in the floral budget.
“There’s a card,” Nora said.
I picked it up.
Thank you for a wonderful weekend. The anniversary surprise was perfect!
— The Petersons
I smiled.
The Petersons had stayed with us over the weekend to celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary.
I’d helped arrange dinner reservations, chocolate-covered strawberries, and a little handwritten note waiting in their room.
Nothing extravagant.
Just a few thoughtful details.
Apparently, they’d appreciated it.
“That’s really sweet,” Nora said.
“It is.”
I set the card beside the arrangement.
“Let’s put these in the lobby where everyone can enjoy them.”
Nora nodded and carried the vase toward the small table near the fireplace.
I watched her arrange it beneath the antique mirror.
For a moment, the room looked exactly the way I’d imagined when I bought the inn.
Warm.
Welcoming.
A place where people made memories.
My chest tightened unexpectedly.
Not from stress this time.
Something better.
I’d been so focused on everything that needed fixing that I’d almost forgotten to appreciate what was already working.
The Petersons had celebrated twenty years of marriage here.
The Martin family had spent the weekend exploring Briar Glen.
Mrs. Pritchard had survived her encounter with the supposedly supernatural and checked out Sunday morning with an extra bag of cinnamon muffins.
Despite the occasional disaster, people were enjoying Briar House.
That mattered.
Nora stepped back from the flowers.
“Looks good?”
“Perfect.”
I glanced at the guestbook resting on the table beneath the window.
It was filled with handwritten notes from travelers.
Some short.
Some funny.
A few surprisingly heartfelt.
I opened it to the latest page.
Beautiful place. Wonderful staff. We can’t wait to come back.
Simple.
But exactly what I needed to read.
I closed the book.
Then headed back to my office with a little more determination than I’d had that morning.
The boiler still needed replacing.
The budget still needed work.
And my winter bookings weren’t going to magically appear.
But I had something worth protecting.
That was enough to keep going.
At four forty-seven, my phone rang again.
I glanced at the screen.
Bea Holloway.
Well.
That was unexpected.
Bea was the president of the Briar Glen Tourism Association, a woman with enough energy to power the entire town and a remarkable ability to convince otherwise rational business owners to volunteer for community events.
She’d been one of the first people to welcome me when I purchased Briar House.
She’d also somehow talked me into donating gift certificates for three separate fundraisers during my first six months in business.
I liked Bea.
I was also slightly afraid of her.
“Hi, Bea,” I answered.
“Eden, sweetheart! How are you?”
There it was.
The voice.
Bright.
Enthusiastic.
Dangerously cheerful.
“I’m doing well. How about you?”
“Oh, you know. Busy as ever.”
I could hear voices in the background.
A door closed.
Then Bea sighed.
That caught my attention.
Bea Holloway did not sigh.
She organized committees and made other people sigh.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Well, that’s actually why I’m calling.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“What’s going on?”
“We’ve had a little situation with the Halloween masquerade.”
I frowned.
“The Midnight Masquerade?”
“That’s the one.”
Every October, the tourism association hosted an elaborate Halloween celebration to raise funds for local tourism initiatives and community programs.
I’d attended the previous year, shortly after moving to Briar Glen.
It had been beautiful.
A historic venue.
Costumes.
Live music.
A full evening of entertainment.
I’d enjoyed it immensely, particularly because someone else was responsible for planning it.
“What kind of situation?” I asked.
Bea hesitated.
“Well, we’ve had some trouble with the venue.”
“Trouble?”
“There was a pipe issue at Foundry Hall.”
I glanced at the maintenance estimate still open on my computer.
“Plumbing?”
“Unfortunately.”
I winced.
“That’s never good.”
“No, it certainly isn’t.”
“What happened?”
“A pipe burst over the weekend. They’ve had quite a bit of water damage.”
“Ouch.”
“The restoration company says it could take weeks to get everything repaired and inspected.”
I sat straighter.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
The masquerade was less than four weeks away.
That was a serious problem.
“I’m so sorry, Bea. That’s awful.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“Have you looked at other venues?”
“We’re exploring options.”
She paused.
I waited.
A little too long.
“Bea?”
“Yes?”
“Why do I feel like you’re about to ask me something?”
She laughed.
“Oh, Eden. You always were quick.”
I closed my eyes.
There were certain phrases that should immediately trigger an emergency evacuation.
We need to talk.
It’s probably nothing.
Can I ask you a quick favor?
And, worst of all:
I have an exciting opportunity for you.
“Bea,” I said carefully, “what are you thinking?”
“Well, I was wondering if you might have time to meet tomorrow morning.”
“About the masquerade?”
“Yes.”
I glanced toward the window.
Beyond the garden, I could see the carriage house.
Its newly restored windows reflected the late-afternoon sunlight.
A beautiful building.
A completely empty building for most of October.
I suddenly had a very uncomfortable suspicion about where this conversation was going.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” I asked.
Bea laughed softly.
“Nothing you need to decide right now. I’d rather walk you through everything in person.”
I checked my calendar.
Tuesday morning was open except for a vendor call and a housekeeping meeting.
“What time?”
“Nine?”
I hesitated.
Then sighed.
“Nine works.”
“Wonderful! I’ll bring coffee.”
There seemed to be an alarming number of people using coffee to get things out of me lately.
“Sounds good, Bea.”
“Thank you, Eden. I really appreciate it.”
We said goodbye and hung up.
I remained in my chair for a moment, looking toward the garden.
The carriage house sat beneath the maple trees, its brick walkway scattered with red and gold leaves.
Last spring, I’d stood in that very building with a contractor, a renovation budget, and enough optimism to make a financial advisor nervous.
I’d pictured elegant rehearsal dinners.
Small weddings.
Private holiday celebrations.
I hadn’t pictured the town’s biggest Halloween event.
Then again, I hadn’t pictured replacing an eighteen-thousand-dollar boiler either.
I opened my calendar and added the meeting.
Tuesday, 9:00 a.m. — Bea Holloway
Under notes, I typed:
Find out what she wants before agreeing to anything.
I stared at the reminder.
Then added one more line.
Seriously, Eden.
Outside, a car pulled into the driveway, and I heard the familiar sound of luggage wheels bumping over the stone path.
Another check-in.
I closed my laptop and headed toward the front desk.
Whatever Bea wanted could wait until tomorrow.
Tonight, I had guests arriving, an evening shift to check on, and a very expensive boiler to figure out how to pay for.
As I passed through the lobby, my phone buzzed with another reservation notification.
Room Thirteen.
Again.
I glanced at the booking details and slipped the phone into my pocket.
At least someone around here was having a profitable week.
Even if she’d been dead for a hundred years.