Page 13 of Jack
Grover and Emily Kingston ran them all with their son Doyle, who occupied one of the smaller homes.
Smoke drifted from the largest chimney in the main home, and Harper took a breath and climbed the stairs to the porch. It creaked as she walked up to the main entrance with the Welcome to King’s Inn sign.
She opened it.
The smell of baking cookies nearly made her moan.Yes. This was home, really. When she stepped inside, to the warmth of the foyer, the laughter from the kitchen, deeper in the house, swept her back to dreams and hopes and the family she’d longed for.
Before, of course, she’d blown all that up.
She could do this.
A lemony verbena scent emanated off the gleaming woodwork. To her left, a small fire flickered in the heart of the parlor slash turret, and to her right, the dining-room table held cookies and cupcakes and chocolates all under glass domes for guests.
Ahead arched the rotunda that held the circular stairs leading to the second and third floors. The antique table in the center held a massive bouquet of holly leaves and pine boughs, velvety amaryllis, pristine white roses, and deep red peonies.
Harper, can you arrange the flowers? Make sure to use plenty of blue thistle and lavender.
She swallowed back the memory, pulled off her jacket, and hung it on a tree rack. Stamped off her boots then and followed the carpet through the rotunda to the massive sitting room that overlooked the lake.
A fire blazed in the tall stone hearth with the walnut mantel. A couple rounded sofas faced each other—a private chatting area.
Another grouping of overstuffed cigar chairs, all in a circle, sat near an alcove, and in the center of the room, two long tufted-leather sofas flanked a massive oak-slab coffee table, hauled from California that one summer.
A couple groupings of wingback chairs anchored the corners of the room.
Guests sat in the overstuffed leather chairs, and an older woman and a man in jeans stared out the massive picture windows overlooking the lake, talking.
She ducked into the kitchen.
Two women stood at the expansive stainless-steel island.
The room went silent, just for a second. Then Emily Kingston put down a bowl of batter, wiped her hands, and held out her arms. “Look what the wind blew in!”
Harper didn’t care about the flour or the fact that she would probably get batter on her cashmere sweater. “Mama Em.”
“You look amazing.” Mama Em held her by the shoulder. “That haircut—oh so cute.”
“You think? I took it off above the ear this time?—”
“I’m telling you—I always loved your summer cut. This is darling. Austen, don’t you agree?”
Austen came over, her dark chestnut hair long enough now to be tied back, wearing a hairnet and an apron, lean and tanned and gorgeous—oh, Harper had longed for one ounce of the older Kingston sister’s beauty.
“Girl, you look like you belong on a beach.” Austen gave Harper a hug. “Have you seen Brontë yet?”
“No. I uh?—”
“I think she’s getting your friend Penelope settled over at Doyle’s place.” Mama Em had returned to her batter. She wore her own short blonde hair tied back in a handkerchief, her King’s Inn apron cinched around her tiny waist. Not the picture of an award-winning baker, but the woman knew her cakes, breads, and cookies.
And she possessed the gift of hospitality like she’d written the book. “We had to double up on the accommodations with all of Oaken’s people staying on-site. They’re over at Grover House.”
Oh.“Um . . . do you . . . I mean . . . so, my mom is remodeling my bedroom?—”
Emily looked up at her. Blinked.
Oh.“Forget it—” Maybe she could find a room at the Duck Lake Motor Lodge. They usually had vacancies this time of year.
“What? Do you think we’d let you stay anywhere other than with us?” Mama Em added a little oomph to her words, the batter taking the brunt. “Brontë has you bunking with Penelope. I really like her, by the way.” She put the bowl down. “Brontë has gotten really close to her this past year with Penelope doing that murder podcast.”