Inn at Last Chance

CHAPTER
1

The bitter January wind had blown in a cold front. The clouds hung heavy and somber over the swamp. There would be rain. Possibly ice.

Jenny Carpenter wrapped a hand-knit shawl around her shoulders and gazed through the kitchen window of the house she'd bought last August. The tops of the Carolina pines bent in the wind. The weatherman said it was going to be quite a storm, and Allenberg County had already had one ice storm this year—on Christmas Eve. It was now just two weeks past New Year's Day.

She turned away from the window toward the heart of her house. Her kitchen restoration was nearly finished. Yellow subway tiles marched up the backsplash behind the Vulcan stove. An antique pie safe occupied the far wall. The curtains were gingham. Everything about this room was bright and cheerful, in sharp contrast with the weather outside.

Jenny closed her eyes and imagined the smell of apple pie cooking in her professional baker's oven. This kitchen would rival the one Savannah Randall had installed at the old movie theater in town. She smiled. Savannah's strudel was good, but Jenny's apple pie had still won the blue ribbon at the Watermelon Festival last summer. She could almost hear Mother sermonizing about pride, and her smile faded. She turned back toward the window.

She couldn't remember a colder January. And Jenny hated even the mild winters that usually visited South Carolina. Today she had good reason to hate the season. Winter was getting the best of her.

She'd hired a crew to cut back the overgrowth on either side of the driveway, but they had called to say that they wouldn't be out today, and probably not tomorrow. The movers weren't going to show up today either, which meant Mother's antique furniture would spend yet another night in the commercial storage space where it had been sitting for five years. Without furniture Jenny would have to postpone her plans to move in at the end of the week. Finally, Wilma Riley, the chair of the Methodist Women's Sewing Circle, had called five minutes ago all atwitter because there was ice in the forecast.

The sewing circle had graciously volunteered to help Jenny sew curtains for the bedrooms and sitting room. The fabric bolts—all traditional Low Country floral designs—were stacked in the room that would soon be the dining room. But as Wilma pointed out, the gals were not coming all the way out to the swamp on a stormy day in January. So today, Jenny might be the only one sitting out here sewing.

It wasn't just the weather that had her second-guessing herself. She'd taken a huge risk buying The Jonquil House. The old place wasn't anywhere near downtown. If she'd been able to buy Charlotte Wolfe's house, her bed-and-breakfast would have been located near the middle of things. And she would probably already be in business, since Charlotte's house was in perfect condition.

But Charlotte had changed her mind about selling. She'd returned from California with her son, Simon. And Simon had married Molly Canaday, and they were all living happily in Charlotte's beautiful house.

So Jenny had bought The Jonquil House, which was way out on Bluff Road, near the public boat launch on the Edisto River—a prime location for fishing and hunting. And you couldn't beat the view from the porch on a summer's day. She hoped to attract business from fishermen and hunters and eco-tourists anxious to canoe the Edisto or bird-watch in the swamp.

The Jonquil House had the additional benefit of being dirt-cheap, since it had been abandoned for years. But Jenny had to spend a lot of cash to shore up the foundation, replace the roof, and update the plumbing and electrical. Not to mention installing her state-of-the-art kitchen. Still, the purchase price had been so ridiculously low that, on balance, Jenny was financially ahead of where she would have been if she'd bought Charlotte's house.

And if all went well, The Jonquil House would be open for business by March first, just in time for the jonquils to be in full bloom. There were hundreds of them naturalized in the woods surrounding the house. No doubt they had been planted by the Raintree family, who had built the house more than a hundred years ago as a hunting camp and summer getaway.

Those jonquils were the reason she'd chosen yellow for her kitchen walls. She couldn't wait to take pictures of her beautiful white house against the backdrop of the dark Carolina woods, gray Spanish moss, and bright yellow daffodils. That photo would be posted right on the home page of the inn's website, which was still under construction, too.

She was thinking about her breakfast menu when there came a sudden pounding at her front door. Her new brass knocker had yet to be installed, but that didn't seem to bother whoever had come to call.

In fact, it sounded like someone was trying to knock the darn door down.

She hurried down the center hall, enjoying the rich patina of the restored wood floors and the simple country feeling of the white lath walls. Maybe the movers had changed their minds, and she'd be able to get Mother's furniture set up in the bedrooms after all.

She pulled open the door.

"It's about damn time; it's freezing out here." A man wearing a rain-spattered leather jacket, a soggy gray wool hat, and a steely scowl attempted to walk into her hallway. Jenny wasn't about to let this biker dude intimidate her, even if he was a head taller than she was.

His features were stern, and his nose a tad broad, as if it had been broken once. Several days' growth of slightly salt-and-pepper stubble shadowed his cheeks, and his eyebrows glowered above eyes so dark they might have been black. If he'd been handsome or heroic looking, she might have been afraid of him or lost her nerve. Handsome men always made Jenny nervous. But big guys with leather jackets and attitudes had never bothered her in the least. She always assumed that men like that were hiding a few deep insecurities.

"Can I help you?" she said in her most polite, future-innkeeper voice.

"You damn well can. I want a room."

"Um, I'm sorry but the inn isn't open."

"Of course it's open. You're here. The lights are on. There's heat."

"We're not open for business."

He leaned into the door frame. Jenny held her ground. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

She was tempted to tell him he was an ass, but she didn't use language like that. Mother had beaten that tendency out of her. It didn't stop her from thinking it, though.

When she didn't reply, he said, "I'm the man who sold you this house. I would like, very much, to come in out of the rain."

"The man who—"

"The name's Gabriel Raintree. My family built this house. Now let me in."

She studied his face. Gabriel Raintree was a New York Times bestselling author of at least twenty books, several of which had been made into blockbuster horror films. His books were not on her reading list. And she wasn't much of a moviegoer.

She'd never met Mr. Raintree. The sale of The Jonquil House had been undertaken by his business manager and attorney. So she had no idea if this guy was the real Gabriel Raintree or some poser. Either way she wasn't going to let him come in. Besides, the house was not ready for guests. The furniture had not even arrived.

"I'm sorry. The inn isn't open."

His black eyebrows lowered even farther, and his mouth kind of curled up at the corner in something like a sneer. He looked angry, and it occurred to Jenny that maybe she needed to bend a little. The minute that thought crossed her mind, she rejected it. She had inherited a steel backbone from Mother, and this was a good time to employ it. She wouldn't get very far as an innkeeper if she allowed herself to be a doormat.

"I need a place to stay," he said, "for at least three months. I'm behind on my deadline."

Three months. Good Lord, she wasn't running a boardinghouse. But then, she supposed that if anyone could afford three months' lodging at a B and B it would be someone like Gabriel Raintree.

The income would be nice. But she wasn't ready for any guests.

"I'm very sorry. The inn won't be open until March. If you need to stay in Last Chance, there's always the Peach Blossom Motor Court. Or you could see if Miriam Randall will take you in. She sometimes takes in boarders."

"Damn it all, woman, this is my house." He pushed against the door, and Jenny pushed back.

"Not anymore," she said.

He stopped pushing and stepped back from the threshold. By the deep furrows on his brow, she could only surmise that he was surprised anyone would stand in his way. She slammed the door on him to punctuate her point. Then she twisted the bolt lock and took a couple of steps back from it, her heart hammering in her chest.

Gabe stood on the porch breathing hard, trying to control his anger and a dozen other emotions he didn't want to feel, chief among them a deep, gnawing loneliness.

The hollow feeling had been with him for a long time—even before his breakup with Delilah years ago. And now, this place and the memories it raised made the loneliness feel deep and wide, like a gaping chasm. There was something dark and frightening down in the depths of that empty place. Something monstrous.

He leaned on the porch railing and looked around at the familiar scene. His younger self had been happy and carefree here. Christ, it had been a long, long time since he'd felt that way.

And The Jonquil House was perfect for what he needed right now, a quiet place almost entirely off the grid where he could wrestle with his writer's block and escape from his mistakes. Hiding out here in the middle of nowhere seemed like a good idea. He'd have solitude. He could be alone with his demons.

But a tiny little innkeeper stood between him and what he needed. It was worse than that—she hadn't even recognized him.

He let go of a short bark of laughter. He should be happy. In Charleston, he couldn't walk down a street without someone, usually dressed like a Goth, accosting him and wanting a piece of him.

He stared at the closed door. He was an idiot if he let that woman bruise his ego. Besides, he'd come here to hide out. And she'd just convinced him it was the perfect place for that singular activity.

He surveyed the overgrown drive, memories filling his head. Twenty-five years ago he would have been greeted by Zeph Gibbs, the hunting guide and caretaker. Lottie Easley would be back in the kitchen cooking up hoppin'-john and corn bread and fried okra. He could almost taste Lottie's cooking.

And he longed to see their faces. But they were ghosts now. Especially Luke, the brother he'd lost twenty-five years ago in a hunting accident.

Ten-year-old Gabe had been there the day Luke died, but Gabe had no memory of what had happened that awful day. Those memories were locked behind a barrier as high and thick as Hadrian's Wall.

His heartbeat echoed inside his empty chest. He had worshiped his older brother, and Luke's death had changed everything.

He moved down onto the porch step and let the rain fall on his head and shoulders. It was quiet here. Peaceful. Precisely the kind of place he needed to get back in touch with his muse. The kind of place he needed to write the damn book that had been eluding him for almost a year. The kind of place where a lonely man could simply be left alone.

The muscles of his neck and shoulders tensed in frustration. If the inn wasn't going to open until March, he'd have to come up with another plan.

But he didn't want a Plan B. He wanted to come back here. Something in his gut told him that this was precisely the right place to be.

The rain was picking up, and sleet was beginning to mix with it. The roads were going to get bad before too much longer.

Either way, he'd have to stay the night at the seedy motel in town. But tomorrow, when the storm had passed, he'd come back out here and negotiate. The little innkeeper had her price. Everyone did.

Tomorrow he'd buy back The Jonquil House.

The wipers smeared the light from the motel's sign as Gabe pulled his Lexus SUV into the parking lot. Peach blossoms blinked on and off, like opening flowers, but the neon was burned out in a few places, so that the sign read "each Bosom Moo," which Gabe found vaguely hilarious, given the motel's reputation.

He remembered the motel from his boyhood. It hadn't looked nearly so run-down twenty-five years ago.

He sat in his car for a long moment, the wipers thumping a syncopated counterpoint to the recording of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto Number 1 coming from his top-of-the-line sound system.

Maybe he should turn around and head toward Columbia. Columbia might be a sleepy southern capital, but they had hotels there. Nice ones, with room service. He might be able to hide out in Columbia. Of course, he'd have to be careful not to go out to eat or walk the streets or any of those things. There were a lot of people in Columbia, and some of them were sure to recognize him. Someone would tweet about him. And his editor would come looking for him. And his crazy fans would find him and hound him.

But here, he was just one of the Raintree boys, come back to town after a long hiatus. If he wanted to be a hermit living out at The Jonquil House, the people here would let him be. Last Chance was full up to the brim with eccentric people and no one thought anything about it.

Besides, the fishing was better here.

He almost smiled at the thought, and then he remembered that it was the dead of winter and he'd pretty much freeze his ass off if he went fishing. And of course, he hadn't been fishing in years. But if he lived here, he might take it up again.

He weighed his options as he watched the icy rain splatter on his windshield. In the end, the sleet made the decision for him. The Lexus might have four-wheel drive, but that was next to useless on black ice.

He checked in, took one brief look at the run-down furniture in the room, and then headed back out into the weather. There had to be a café or something where he could get himself some dinner.

It occurred to him that he'd almost never eaten out when he'd come to visit this place as a boy. Lottie had done the cooking. He'd have to find himself a cook, once he bought The Jonquil House back.

Just thinking about Lottie's corn bread had his stomach growling. He hadn't eaten since this morning, and he was feeling a bit light-headed. His blood sugar was low.

He reached for the roll of LifeSavers he always carried and popped one into his mouth. It was cherry-flavored.

He stood on the concrete pad under the roof overhang that protected his room door from the rain. It wasn't a long walk from here into the heart of downtown Last Chance, but the ice was building on the sidewalks fast. The road, on the other hand, had been treated with sand and salt.

So he took a chance and drove the SUV slowly back into downtown. He found a parking spot in front of The Kismet movie theater. The old movie palace looked pretty good, especially compared with the run-down motel.

Looking up at the marquee, it finally hit him that it had been a quarter century since he'd set foot in this little town. Lethal Weapon had been the last movie he and Luke had seen in this old movie theater. Luke died three days later, on the Saturday before Easter.

The memory caught him unaware. He tried not to think too much about Luke.

Maybe that was the missing puzzle piece. Maybe that was why he'd awakened yesterday and knew that he had to return here. Who knew.

He climbed out of his car and stood for a long time under the marquee. It wasn't a first-run theater anymore, and that hardly surprised him. The signs on the front door said it was only open on Friday and Saturday nights. These days the movies came with dinner attached.

A light was burning in the theater's lobby. He took a step toward the glass doors and peered in. The place was much as he'd remembered. A gifted carpenter had created a masterpiece when he'd set his hand to The Kismet's lobby. It was awash with Moroccan motifs and Moorish archways. Gabe cocked his head to get an angle on the ceiling, but it was too dark. Once upon a time, the ceiling had been painted like a night sky with twinkling stars.

The theater was worthy of historic registry status, and it warmed him in some odd way to know that it hadn't been left to molder.

A moving shadow just beyond the candy counter momentarily startled him, until he remembered that the owner of The Kismet had always kept a cat—a black one. The shadow danced again, casting itself eerily against the walls. Gabe cupped his hands around his face to get a better look.

A black man with gray hair, wearing a pair of faded overalls and carrying a toolbox, stood up from behind the candy counter.

Gabe took a step back, his heart pounding. He would know that man anywhere. That face was from out of the distant past. Why had he assumed that Zeph Gibbs was dead and gone?

The hairs on the back of Gabe's neck rose, and the icy night got a little more frigid—cold enough to freeze him right where he stood while something hot and evil writhed in his gut.

The door opened. Zeph stepped out of the theater and stopped in his tracks. Time seemed to slow down as their gazes met and clashed.

"Gabe?" Zeph cocked his head.

"It's me."

"Lord a'mighty, what are you doin' here?"

It wasn't exactly a hearty welcome, but that didn't surprise Gabe for some reason he couldn't exactly articulate. Zeph had been a big part of his boyhood. This man had taught him to shoot a BB gun and bait a hook and walk quietly in the woods. And yet seeing him once again after a quarter century brought no joy.

"Hello, Zeph." There seemed to be a torrent of words locked up inside him, but the simple greeting was all he could manage. Christ on a crutch, he had some strange feelings about Zeph.

Gabe had turned Zeph into a villain named Zebulon Stroud in the novel titled Black Water. And Black Water had taken Gabe to the top of the New York Times bestseller list. Black Water was also the first of Gabe's novels to be made into a feature-length motion picture. Danny Glover had won an Oscar for his portrayal of the villain. Zeb Stroud was one of those characters people remembered, like Hannibal Lecter.

"You need to leave," Zeph said.

"That's going to be hard with all this ice."

"Tomorrow then, when it melts."

"Look, Zeph, about the character in Black Water, I sure don't want you to take it—"

"This has nothing to do with that story. I'm not mad at you for that. But you can't stay here."

"I can't stay here? Why not? I know The Jonquil House has been sold, but I can certainly book a room at the motel. In fact, I have."

"Why are you here?"

"I was thinking about buying The Jonquil House back from that little woman who owns it now."

"You can't. You have no business being in this town. Not now. Not ever."

This confused him. "Why not?"

"You know good and well why it's a bad idea to come back here." Zeph turned and locked the theater door.

Gabe couldn't think of one good reason why he shouldn't stay. But he understood why Zeph wouldn't be happy about him being here. After all, Zeph was responsible for Luke's death. The man probably didn't want Gabe hanging around reminding him of that tragedy all the time. Granddad had never forgiven Zeph.

But Gabe could.

"Look, Zeph, I'm not my grandfather. I don't blame you for what happened. I'm not here to rub your nose in it."

Zeph turned around. He didn't say a word, but he pressed his lips together as if he was trying damn hard not to say something ugly.

Gabe stuck out his hand. "I forgive you."

Zeph stood there staring at Gabe's outstretched hand as if he had been speaking in tongues or something. "What are you talking about, boy? You and I both know that's not why I want you to go."

"Then why?" He lowered his hand.

Zeph's eyes unfocused for a moment. It made him look a little wild-eyed and crazy, like Zebulon Stroud. Staring into those black eyes was more than unsettling. The bad guy in Black Water had been a psychopathic killer.

But of course Zeph wasn't like that at all. Luke's death was an accident.

"You don't remember, do you?" Zeph said.

"I don't remember what?"

Zeph shook his head. "Lord have mercy," he said, then blew out a long breath that created a cloud of steam.

"You mean about Luke?" Gabe said. "No I don't remember exactly what happened. Afterward, you know, I went to see a therapist, and she told Granddad that it was just as well that I didn't remember. But now I'm starting to think maybe that was bad advice. What happened, Zeph? You're the only one who can tell me."

"You should go back to Charleston. Don't come here turning over rocks. You might not like what you find underneath."

And with that, the man who'd once been Granddad's hunting and fishing guide turned on his well-worn boot and strode off into the storm.