The Love Trilogy: Room For Love / An A To Z Of Love / Summer Of Love. Sophie Pembroke
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those steps again. Because now the Avalon Inn belonged to Carrie.
She shouldn’t have done it, Carrie. It wasn’t fair. You don’t have the knowledge or the experience to run an inn. Especially not a crumbling old heap like the Avalon.
She could still see her father, shaking his head as he spoke, hands trembling as he held the whisky glass Uncle Patrick had forced into his hand the moment the funeral service was over.
“I’ve been organising society weddings for five years,” Carrie argued, even though her dad was two weeks and three hundred miles away. “I think I can manage one venue.”
Think of what you’re throwing away! It’ll swallow up all your savings in one gulp, and God knows Mum didn’t have much money to leave you. And what then? Do you think that boss of yours will take you back again? Anna gave you a job when you needed one, when no one else would, as a favour to Uncle Patrick. And now you’re walking out on her. You’re burning your bridges, Carrie.
Enough. She might have burned every bridge, aqueduct and underpass she had, but she was here. And she couldn’t just sit in her car waiting for something to happen. She was on her own now.
Sucking in a deep breath, Carrie opened the door and stepped out, locking the car behind her automatically before she caught herself. She almost laughed. Who did she think was going to steal her tiny city car here in the middle of the Welsh mountains? There probably wasn’t even anyone there to see it.
Behind her, the peaks and valleys of Snowdonia stretched out, green and vibrant and damp in the autumn afternoon. The air tasted different here. Fresher than London, of course, but more than that. Almost as if it had more life in it.
For the first time in the two weeks since the funeral, since that awful fight with her father, Carrie felt something inside her relax. This was the right thing to do. Grandma Nancy had left her the Avalon—not Dad, or Uncle Patrick, or even Ruth—so she’d obviously believed she was up to the challenge.
No matter what everyone else thought.
Carrie was going to save the Avalon Inn, all by herself. And then she was going to take great pleasure in saying ‘I told you so’ to everyone who said she couldn’t do it.
Just as Gran would have wanted.
* * * *
The heavy, dark-wood front door, with its stained-glass panel showering coloured light onto the stone floor of the reception area, felt like another old friend to Carrie. She remembered being too small to even open it on her own; sitting on the step outside waiting for Nancy to come back from the garden to help her, or for a kindly passing guest to let her in. Today, Carrie’s hand hovered above the wood; she was suddenly reluctant to enter. What if it wasn’t as she remembered?
Carrie closed her eyes and shoved. The door fell open under her hand, easier than she’d remembered, and she stumbled before finding her feet.
Her favourite tapestry still hung above the reception desk and the sparkling silver threads of the unicorn’s horn caught her eye immediately. Her gaze moved lower.
“Hello! Welcome to the Avalon Inn!” The alarmingly perky young blonde behind the reception desk beamed at her. “Are you here for dinner in the restaurant? Only it’s not actually open for the evening yet. And, well, we don’t have any bookings, so I’m not sure what Jacob has on the menu.”
“No,” Carrie said, trying to follow the stream of babble. “I’m—”
“Oh, are you looking for a room?” Her eyes widened. “Wow. I mean, hang on, I’m sure I have the reservations log around here somewhere…”
Carrie glanced at the name badge pinned on the blonde’s blouse as she rooted around on the desk. “Actually, Izzie, my name is Carrie Archer. I’m Nancy’s granddaughter… I, well…”
Izzie stopped shuffling papers around and stared at her. “You own the Avalon Inn. You’re my boss.”
That’s right. Carrie got to be a boss now. No more running around, dancing to the incomprehensible whims of Anna Yardley at Wedding Wishes Ltd. She got to run the show.
And she’d do it a hell of a lot better than Anna, thank you. After all, she had perfect experience of how not to treat employees.
She gave Izzie a warm smile. “I’m hoping we’ll all be able to work together as a team here at the Avalon.”
Izzie’s head bobbed up and down in agreement, but Carrie suspected she’d have said ‘yes, miss!’ to whatever she’d suggested.
“You’ll want to see Nate,” Izzie said, head still bobbing.
“Nate?” Carrie blinked. “Um, who’s Nate?”
“The gardener.”
“Right.” Why would she want to see the gardener? “Well, maybe I could have a look around the inside of the inn first? Meet the staff here?”
“You mean Jacob.”
“Jacob. And Jacob is…?”
“The chef.” Izzie’s smile turned a little softer talking about Jacob. Carrie had a feeling she wasn’t getting the receptionist’s full attention any more.
“Okay. Is there anyone else working here?” Like a manager, or someone who could tell her what had been going on at the Avalon since Nancy got sick, for preference.
Izzie looked thoughtful. “Well, there’s Henry, the part-time barman, but he doesn’t work today.”
“Why don’t we start with a tour of the inn?” Carrie asked with a sigh. Maybe they’d stumble across someone more useful on their travels.
But Izzie shook her head. “You really should wait for Nate for that.”
“Izzie, this is my inn.” She leant across the reception desk, just a little, in a ‘just between us girls’ way. “I think I can look around it without the gardener, don’t you?”
Izzie bit her lip, but eventually nodded.
“Right, then! Why don’t we start through here?” Carrie pushed open the door to the left of the reception desk, which led, if she remembered right, to the dining room. “Oh!”
She stopped in the doorway to take in the scene. One woman - who had to be eighty plus - in a flamenco dress. One fiddling with an iPod. And one old boy coiling up a line of red and black bunting.
“Hello!” The woman in the flamenco dress stepped down from the chair she was standing on, where she’d been taking down another line of bunting. “Are you here for the flamenco lesson? I’m sorry, we had to cancel it. The instructor got stranded in Aberarian when her car broke down. I thought we’d called everyone... But our next dance night is on Monday, and we could definitely do with some new blood!”
“Ah, no. I’m—” Carrie started, but Izzie interrupted her.
“This is Miss Archer, Cyb. Carrie Archer. Nancy’s—”
“Nancy’s granddaughter,” the man with the bunting said. “Well, well. They said you were coming, but we didn’t know when.” He gripped her hand hard enough to burn, and Carrie focused on the light reflecting off the row of military medals pinned to his knitted waistcoat. “Stan Baker. Pleased to meet you.”
“Yes, very!” said Cyb, the flamenco dancer. “I’m Mrs Cybella Charles. Widowed, of course. Almost everybody is these days, it seems. But we’re just so excited to have you here with us. Do you play bridge?”
Carrie blinked at the onslaught of words. She vaguely recalled a New Year’s Eve at the inn, ten or so years ago, when Nancy had tried to teach her over too much whisky. “Um, badly, I think.”
Mrs Charles gave a wide, still-toothy smile and clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”
“And