The Love Trilogy

Chapter 4

The autumn night was drawing in fast, the evening breeze chilly through the open doorway. Carrie dumped her files on the reception desk and grabbed a coat from the rack tucked away beside the front door, only realising once she’d shut the door behind her that it was one of Nancy’s old knitted cardigans. It came down to Carrie’s knees, and the waist tie wrapped around twice, but the soft wool and the scent of roses comforted her enough to ignore even the garish cerise colour.

The summerhouse sat on the edge of the woods, through the gardens and past the fountain. Last time Carrie had been there, it had been filled to the rafters with Nancy’s boxes of junk. But theoretically it was a proper lodging; she’d even stayed there herself one summer when the inn proper was full. It would be interesting to see what Nate had done with the place.

The lights of the summerhouse were visible from a way back, glowing yellow against the dark of the woods, warm and inviting. Carrie wrapped her cardigan tighter around her, and stepped up the three wooden steps to the door.

Nate answered her knock quickly, a paperback in hand, and didn’t look in the least surprised to see her. Stepping aside with a smile she couldn’t quite read, he motioned her inside, and shut out the night air behind her.

“Drink?” he offered, moving to the kitchenette in the corner of the main room, which held a microwave and mini fridge. “I’ve got wine or beer, I think. Or whisky.” He looked up and saw her still hovering by the door and said, “Sit down, won’t you?”

Still Carrie hesitated as he stuck his head back into the fridge. The summerhouse looked nothing like she remembered. It looked like a proper home now, with a sofa, and a desk under the window, and even lamps and one of Nancy’s traditional lumpy patchwork blankets. The door to the bedroom was open, and she could see a real bed beyond, not just a camp bed. And she knew farther back was the tiny bathroom Nancy had put in when she had some idea of this being staff quarters one day. Which it was, now, Carrie supposed.

Nate stared at her from the kitchenette, a bottle of wine in one hand and whisky in the other. In a burst of movement, she threw herself down on one end of the sofa and said, “Actually, whisky would be great.”

The glass tumblers Nate provided looked like the odd ends of Nancy’s old sets, and probably were. As he settled onto the other end of the sofa, Carrie took a sip of the smooth amber liquid and started to feel properly at home for the first time that day.

Nate watched her, caution behind his eyes, and she tried to smile for him. “Nancy started me drinking whisky when I was sixteen,” she said. “Just a half-measure, before bed, when I couldn’t sleep. The next summer she decided that if I was going to drink it, I should at least learn what was decent and what would rot my insides.” She took another sip. “This is good stuff.”

“It should be,” Nate said, with a half-smile. “It was a Christmas present from Nancy.”

“That explains it, then.”

They sat in silence for a moment, until it started to feel awkward, and Nate said, “Did the papers tell you all you needed to know?”

Carrie sighed. “And much, much more.” She remembered the copy of Nancy’s will. “You were right; I have to keep you on.” She couldn’t bring herself to admit to the words ‘full control’.

Nate blew out a short breath. “Is that a problem?”

“Not as much as the bookings we apparently have until the end of time.”

“Ah.” Nate winced into his whisky. “The Seniors.”

“Yeah.” Carrie tried to catch his eye, but his attention was firmly focused on his drink. “You knew about that bit?”

Nate shrugged those wonderfully wide shoulders again. “Nancy mentioned she wanted them to still feel welcome at the Avalon.”

Carrie sipped at her whisky and considered. “It’s that important to them?”

“It’s their home.” Nate looked up, finally, and caught her eye. When he spoke again, it was with such conviction, Carrie almost wished he hadn’t. “None of them really have anyone, or anywhere, else. It’s not just the three of them, you realize. There’s a whole crowd of people for whom the highlight of their week is playing bridge with Stan, or dancing with Cyb. It’s important.”

“A community service,” Carrie said, with a half-smile. “Only problem is, I don’t see how it’ll go side by side with a boutique wedding-venue hotel.”

Nate settled back against the arm of the sofa, his left leg folded up over his right. It couldn’t be comfortable, Carrie thought, being such a tall man in a very small summerhouse. “That’s what you’ve got planned for the place?”

Carrie nodded. “It’s what I do: I’m a wedding organiser. When I was a child, I thought the Avalon would be the most perfect place in the world to have a wedding. I thought... Well, I guess I thought that was why Nancy left the place to me.”

“She left the inn to you because she loved you,” Nate said, and Carrie had to look away. She was going to have to work with this man. She needed to trust him.

“But she didn’t believe I could do it alone. She left you control of the grounds, so I’d have someone to help me out when I got stuck.” It hurt to admit that. Carrie wasn’t sure it ever wouldn’t.

Nate tipped his head to the side as he looked at her. “Does it really matter if you save the Avalon Inn single-handed or with help, as long as you save it?”

Carrie knew it shouldn’t. Knew that the right answer was that it was only the Avalon that mattered.

But it wasn’t, not to her. This was her chance—her first and only chance in twenty eight-years—to prove that she was good enough, all on her own. After a lifetime of having her dad, or uncle, or cousin, or boyfriend, or somebody step in every time life got hard, she needed this. Needed to prove to herself that she could make it on her own, for once.

So she turned the question back on him instead. “Why do you care so much about this place, anyway? Nancy said…” She tailed off, not sure if she wanted to share the contents of the letter with him. Would he be offended at Nancy’s telling her all about him?

“Nancy said what?” He kept his gaze fixed on her face as he sipped his whisky. Carrie shifted on the sofa, trying to get away from those slate-grey eyes.

“She said you needed the Avalon.”

Nate snorted a laugh. “Did she, indeed?”

“What did she mean, do you think?”

“It means that your grandmother wasn’t above a bit of meddling. Probably cooked the whole scheme up with my gran.” He sighed, and put his whisky glass down on the coffee table. “She knew I wasn’t…overly inclined to stay in one place too long. I figure this was her way of making me hang around a while.”

“Why? For your grandma?” Carrie thought of the straight-backed woman with the iPod she’d met that afternoon. Moira hadn’t looked as if she needed anyone.

“Perhaps. But I think Nancy…” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Who knows what she was thinking? But I know she thought I belonged here. So she made it harder for me to up and leave.” He looked up at her, and Carrie reached for her whisky. What was it about his eyes that made her lose her train of thought? “She knew you belonged here, too. Why else would she leave you the place?”

“Not all of it.”

Nate shook his head. “No. She wanted you here. Not either of her sons, or your cousin. She didn’t want it sold, or rented out, or turned into anything except what it is. She wanted you here to rebuild the Avalon Inn. Make it great again.”

What if I can’t? Carrie thought, but didn’t say. She couldn’t show that kind of weakness.

“There was a financial summary in the pile,” she said instead, and Nate winced.

“Yeah. It’s not great, I know.”

Carrie bit her lip. “We’re going to need backers. Investors.”

“We?” Nate asked with a grin.

“I’m still the boss,” Carrie clarified. “It’s my inn. But I admit that you have an interest in it too. So we’re going to need to work together.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Nate reached for the bottle of whisky and topped up both their glasses. “Where do we start?”

“With a business plan.” Carrie thought back to all the books she’d read over the last two weeks, on running your own business. “We need to convince people we’re a great investment.”

“Any idea how?”

“Not yet,” she admitted. “But I think that if we can make people see what a great wedding venue this could be—”

“Just weddings, though? Isn’t that a bit… restrictive?” Nate sat up so fast he sloshed whisky over his fingers, and brought them up to his mouth to lick them off. Carrie looked away. That was far hotter than it should be.

“Well, no, I suppose not. We could do other events too. But like I said, weddings…they’re kind of my thing. I’m good at weddings.”

“Is that why you haven’t been back for so long?” Nate asked, stretching an arm out along the back of the sofa. He could almost touch her, if he wanted, Carrie realised. He didn’t. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “Too busy organising other people’s weddings?”

“Something like that,” Carrie admitted. “I worked most weekends, all year round. And my boss was kinda…” she searched for the right word to describe Anna Yardley “…evil.”

Nate laughed. “Doesn’t everyone think that about their boss? Present company excluded, of course.”

“Yeah, maybe. Okay, not evil. But…demanding. And often unreasonable.”

“Sounds like your grandmother,” Nate muttered, although he grinned when Carrie raised an eyebrow. “But we all loved her, so it didn’t matter.”

“Anna’s not very loveable. Or likeable.”

“Then it’s a good job you’re not working for her any more.”

“It is.” Carrie had thought of Anna, when she realised they needed investors. She could make a pretty good case for Wedding Wishes having its own bespoke wedding venue two hours from Manchester. But that would mean working with Anna again, and she just couldn’t face that. They’d find someone else.

“So, it was Anna’s fault you didn’t visit?” Nate asked, and Carrie felt the guilt flood over her again.

“Partly, I suppose. I mean, I really was working, most of the time. But…” she thought back, remembering all the arguments between her dad and Nancy “…there were other…tensions, too. Family, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Your dad wanted Nancy to give up the Avalon and retire quietly, right?”

“Except Nancy really wasn’t the retiring quietly sort,” Carrie said with a wry smile.

“She really, really wasn’t.” Nate laughed. “So, what does your dad think about you being here now?”

Carrie froze. She didn’t want to answer that question. Didn’t want to get into the hideous fight at the funeral. Except…

“You were there, weren’t you? At the funeral. So you probably heard exactly what my dad thinks about it.”

Nate winced. “Yeah. He wasn’t exactly quiet, was he? So, is that why you’re so desperate to do this by yourself? Just because he said you couldn’t?”

“Not just him,” Carrie muttered.

“Right. Well, if you ask me that’s a rubbish reason. But what do I know? I’m just the gardener, after all.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over them, stretching out in the night until Carrie had to break it.

“What did you think I was going to do?” she asked, honestly curious. “With the Avalon, I mean.”

Nate looked as grateful for the change of subject as she was. “There were a number of theories. You could have sold the place for development into flats, for example, leaving me as a caretaker.”

“I’d never do that!”

“Yeah, well, we couldn’t be sure.” Nate sighed. “Stan will be relieved, anyway. He’s been imagining the worst for weeks.”

“You think they’ll come to a compromise?” Carrie asked, hopeful. “About the dance nights and the bridge?”

He eyed her speculatively. “I think it will be fun to watch you try,” he said, finishing off his whisky.

“As long as I’m entertaining,” Carrie said, and swallowed the last of her drink.

“I think you might be.” Nate got to his feet, unfolding slowly from the sofa. “Well, you can’t do anything about it tonight. So can I pour you another, or do you want me to walk you back to the inn?”

Carrie handed him her glass. “I’m done, thanks. Lots to do tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk you,” Nate said with a nod. Carrie tried to protest, but he stood firm. “I’m responsible for the grounds, remember? That means I’m responsible for you while you’re walking across the gardens.”

It was very dark out there, Carrie had to admit. “If you insist.”

“I do,” Nate said, grabbing his coat.

The gardens were invisible in the black night, which was a shame. Carrie would have liked to ask Nate what he was doing with them, but it would have to wait another day. And lovely as the gardens might be, the inn itself had to be a priority, anyway. She wondered if he was any good at DIY.

She’d turned all the lights on when she’d left earlier, knowing she wouldn’t want to come back to a dark and lonely inn. Knowing Nate was down in the summerhouse was reassuring, somehow.

To her surprise, Nate headed not for the front door, but for the dining-room end of the terrace, at the other side from where they’d met that afternoon. He held open the folding glass doors for her. “Don’t forget to lock these behind you,” he said, and Carrie nodded.

On impulse, she paused on the terrace before the door and turned to him. “Thank you for your help today,” she said. All that talk about Anna had reminded her of the sort of boss she wanted to be. But suddenly, all she could think was that Nate was really very close.

Close enough that she could watch his smile widen as he looked down at her, his dark grey eyes warm. So close that, when he bent his head to hers and kissed her, very softly, right on the lips, she couldn’t really have moved away if she’d wanted to.

“Welcome home, Carrie,” was all he said, before disappearing into the darkness of the night and leaving Carrie standing alone on the terrace.

“Apparently this is my number one spot for kissing,” she murmured to herself, remembering her first kiss there, half a lifetime ago. Then she shook her head. She was the boss now, not some kid looking in, wanting to be part of things. She was in charge.

Which meant she didn’t have time to be distracted by Nate Green’s dark eyes and wide shoulders, or the softness of his mouth against hers.

With a deep breath she went inside, locked the doors behind her, and took her files and notes up to Nancy’s attic room to sleep. Time to start dealing with things.

Chapter 5

Carrie knew the first step in any insurmountable task was prioritisation. She’d written her list while touring the hotel the previous day, and she had Nancy’s survey, so she’d already identified what needed to be done. Now she just needed to make a schedule based on priorities and timescales.

Really, it was just like organising a wedding, if you looked at it right. Most things were, Carrie had found.

It was Sunday, so Carrie was hoping for a peaceful day pottering around the inn, working on her lists and drinking tea. Nate would probably be sticking to his garden, hopefully embarrassed by his audacity at kissing the boss the night before—an incident Carrie had decided to chalk up to the notorious effects of Nancy’s best whisky, and chosen to ignore. Even if his lips had been much softer than she’d expected.

She shook her head. If it wasn’t on her list, it didn’t matter. That was the new philosophy.

Dance night wasn’t until tomorrow, so there was no reason for the Seniors to be around, and no catering events planned, so Jacob shouldn’t be in. There were no guests, so no reason for Izzie to be scheduled to work, and even if she was, there were plenty of jobs for her to do far out of Carrie’s way.

No, this was going to be her peaceful, planning day. She could review work schedules, figure out how Nancy had run the place, and then set about making things work her way.

Even she was surprised at how excited she was at the prospect of so many lists, schedules and timetables. But first, there needed to be tea. And maybe toast. Or crumpets.

Carrie had slept late, after the whisky, so it was gone nine when she slipped into the kitchen and found Jacob already prepping a huge joint of meat and another young man she hadn’t met peeling potatoes.

“Who is that for?” Carrie asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Sunday lunches,” Jacob said, flashing her a smile. Obviously he was hoping she’d forgotten about the childminder incident. “Even when we don’t have guests, there are a lot of locals who like to stop in for a decent roast. We get a few walkers and such, too.”

She’d known that, Carrie realised, feeling stupid. Or she should have done, anyway. How many Sundays had she spent at the inn over the years?

“Of course,” she said, wondering how this would affect her plans for the day. Not too much, she decided. She could hole up in the front drawing room, and the bedrooms were still empty for further inspection. And anything that brought money in had to be good. “I was just looking for some tea...”

Jacob nodded at a white plastic kettle and toaster in amongst all the industrial kitchen equipment. “That we can do. Mugs and bags are on the shelf above, fridge is under the counter.”

The corner he indicated was obviously the staff area of the kitchen. The small fridge held only spreadable butter, milk and a couple of Tupperware boxes with Nate’s name written on labels on their lids. The slanting, cursive print really wasn’t what Carrie would have expected from him.

“There are some muffins in the bread bin, too,” Jacob called over. “Help yourself.”

Carrie took her tea and hot buttered English muffins through to the front drawing room, settled in at the window table, and pulled out her list.

“Okay. Where to start?” Realising she was talking to herself, Carrie turned to a blank page in her pad and started to write notes to herself instead.

First question was, bedrooms or dining room? Which held top priority? They both needed doing, but which mattered most?

Without decent bedrooms, the Avalon really wasn’t much of an inn. But without a great reception room, what wedding party would want to stay there anyway?

On the other hand, most of the work in the bedrooms was cosmetic, so it might be quicker to get done. The dining room itself wasn’t bad, structurally, but the terrace outside needed considerable work, according to Nancy’s survey. And from what she’d seen that morning, the kitchen was going to need updating if they wanted to host full-on wedding breakfasts and evening suppers in addition to their normal fare.

“How many can the dining room hold, anyway?” She’d have to measure it for herself, before the lunch crowd arrived.

“We can fit seventy for our New Year’s Eve dinner dances,” Cyb said from behind her. “Although, to be honest, we don’t often get that many these days.”

Carrie blinked, turned and said mildly, “You’re here very early.”

Cyb grinned, and waved a handful of small, brightly coloured bunting at her. Carrie peered closer, and picked out the national flags of Brazil, China and Denmark in the mix. “Just dropping off the decorations for tomorrow night,” she explained. “I had to wash them after last month’s International Night. Walt managed to get Campari and soda all over the bunting during a particularly enthusiastic tango attempt. Stan’s always telling them to put their drinks down first.”

“Sounds like…fun.” Carrie turned her attention to her list and, to her relief, when she looked up again, Cyb and her bunting were gone.

So, seventy for a dinner dance. Maybe a hundred, a hundred and ten without the dance floor, then cart everyone off to the bar while they turned the room around for the disco, with tables around the outside. A healthy number.

“Maybe the bridal suite and the dining room first, then,” she muttered to herself, adding another note to her list.

“If you mean room twelve, then it needs new windows,” Nate said, and when she turned around he was actually peering over her shoulder at the list. Carrie resisted the urge to cover her notes with her hands and wondered why he didn’t seem in the least embarrassed about the previous evening.

“They all need new windows.” Carrie’s gaze flicked involuntarily back to the huge book of a survey. Many of them needed a great deal more.

“Yeah, but the bridal suite frames are rotted through. One of the perils of wooden frames.” Nate reached down and snagged half a muffin from her plate. Carrie was starting to think the man really had no concept of appropriate work relationships. “And the terrace isn’t looking great, either. I started patching up the kitchen end yesterday, but I noticed last night the left side’s sagging something awful too.”

Carrie wanted to ask if that was before or after he’d attempted to stick his tongue down her throat, but that wouldn’t be very appropriate, either. By the time she’d come up with an alternative response, Nate had already left.

Carrie slumped back in her chair and twisted her pen around her fingers. She wasn’t sure what bothered her more: the fact that he’d kissed her at all, or the way he really hadn’t tried to make it in any way passionate. Rather, it had been the sort of a kiss a brother might give, only on the lips rather than the cheek. Nothing like the inexperienced first kiss she’d received on the same spot.

And apparently he’d been thinking about the bloody woodwork the whole time, anyway. Really, she’d have thought being kissed by a devastatingly attractive man would be better for the self-esteem.

Not that relationships had ever been particularly good for her self-esteem. Her best ever relationship, lasting a full three years, had been the result of a blind date arranged by her cousin. She couldn’t even find love by herself. And look at what a disaster that had been, anyway. Turned out working a lot of weekends gave guys time to look for better options.

I don’t have time for this. Remember?

Even if she did have time for romance, Nate would not be her first choice. Or any choice. He admitted himself that he didn’t stick around. Hell, she actively wanted him to leave so she could have control over the whole inn! Not the best basis for a relationship.

She just had to wait him out. He’d leave eventually. That sort of person always did. Wasn’t her own mother proof enough of that?

Back to the list. Carrie pulled the survey onto her lap to see what else might be wrong with the bridal suite, besides the lilac walls and the hideous bedspread.

Apart from the windows, the room was pretty sound. And, actually, perhaps all the windows should be number one on the list. She’d hate to decorate, only to have to redo it once the windows were in, all because some cowboy of an installer had chipped her paintwork.

Finally, she was getting somewhere. Starting a new page, she wrote: 1. Windows.

She put her pen down. What next?

“Have you seen Nate?” Moira wandered into the drawing room, waving around a Tupperware box of the sort Carrie recognized from the staff fridge. It even had the label, which explained a lot. “I’ve brought him some lunch.”

“He was here a moment ago,” Carrie told her, picking up her pen again, in the hope of conveying an ‘I’m very busy here, don’t disturb me’ vibe. “I’m not sure where he went, though.”

Izzie appeared at the other door. “Nate’s sorting out some dinner-booking thing over in Reception. But Stan’s looking for you, Moira. Said something about the music for tomorrow.”

“Oh, dear.” Moira handed Carrie the Tupperware box. “Can you give this to Nate for me, dear? Or just put it in the fridge for him. I’d better go and see what Stan’s broken now.”

They were both gone before Carrie could argue that packed lunches really weren’t her job, and before she realised sorting out booking problems probably was.

It was so tempting just to let Nate deal with it. But if she wanted to run the Avalon Inn, she had to actually run it. So she packed up her lists, her survey and Nate’s lunch, and headed for Reception.

* * * *

“But we sent you all our menu choices three weeks ago!” The man on the other side of the reception desk wasn’t getting any less irate since Nate had taken over from a very flustered Izzie.

“So I understand,” Nate said, in his calmest, most understanding voice. “Only we don’t actually have any record of your booking, and we don’t have a set menu at the moment we could’ve sent out for you to choose from.”

The man wasn’t listening. Neither were the large group of his closest friends and family who’d come to help celebrate his wife’s sixty-fifth birthday.

“I’ve got the email right here!” Nate took the opportunity and grabbed the piece of paper that the man waved around the lobby.

Suddenly the problem became much clearer. “Um, sir, I think I understand what has happened here.”

“Well, I’m glad somebody does! I want to talk to your manager.”

Which was, of course, the exact moment that Carrie Archer chose to walk into the lobby. Carrying one of his gran’s bloody packed lunches to boot. “What seems to be the problem here, Nate?”

Nate glanced down at the email. “Mr, uh, Jenkins, this is Carrie Archer, owner of the Avalon Inn. Carrie...”

But Mr Jenkins wasn’t waiting for an explanation. He looked a little taken aback, whether at Carrie’s timely arrival, or her age, Nate wasn’t sure. Regardless, his demands hadn’t become any quieter. “I booked this private lunch three months ago. I paid a deposit. I sent menu choices. And now your staff are telling me they can’t find my booking!”

“I am so very sorry, sir.” Carrie shot a glare at Nate, and he clenched his jaw and stared down at the email. She wanted to handle it all on her own? Let her. Maybe it would help convince her that everyone needed a little help sometimes. “Why doesn’t your party come through to the bar for a complimentary drink while I try and resolve this issue for you?”

Mr Jenkins looked faintly mollified when Carrie led them all into the main bar, gave instructions to Henry the part-time barman to hand out as much free booze as necessary, then shut the door on them before coming into the lobby.

“Before you say anything—” Nate started, but Carrie was already talking over him.

“You’re not talking now,” she said, her voice much sharper than it had been in the dim light of his summerhouse the night before. “I don’t know how my grandmother ran this inn, and I know I’ve only been here one day, but my understanding is that your domain is the garden, and your input should end at the front door. A fact that was made abundantly clear by your treatment of our customer. So from now on, I would appreciate it if—”

“He isn’t our customer,” Nate broke in, attempting to keep a tight hold on his anger. Never mind that he’d been practically running the place since Nancy got ill and wouldn’t tell her family. No matter that he’d held everything together while they waited for Carrie to pack up her life in the city and grace them with her presence. Never mind that Mr Jenkins was an idiot.

It stopped Carrie’s tirade for a moment, anyway. “What?”

“Mr Jenkins. He’s not our customer.” Nate pushed the printout of the email across the reception desk and waited for Carrie to reach the hotel name in the signature.

“Arundel Hotel.” She didn’t sound particularly apologetic, Nate thought, but at least she seemed calmer.

“Yeah. It’s a couple of miles down the road.”

“Right.” Carrie shut her eyes and sighed. “Of course.”

Without an apology or a retraction, Carrie snatched the email from the desk and stalked off towards the bar to give Mr Jenkins the good news that out there somewhere was a dining table set for thirty, and their food was going cold.

* * * *

Once the Jenkins party had been dispatched in taxis to the Arundel Hotel, Carrie took her pile of papers back to the drawing room, determined to finally get some work done.

Passing through the lobby, she saw Izzie in place behind the reception desk, shuffling piles of junk mail. She glanced up at Carrie. “If you’re looking for Nate—”

“I’m not,” Carrie told her, without breaking pace. She was, after all, perfectly capable of running the Avalon Inn without him.

She sat at the window seat, this time, to avoid anyone else sneaking up on her, and turned to The List.

1. Windows.

She should probably apologise to Nate, she realised. Sighing, she turned to stare out at the gardens. Whatever the bushes were by the driveway needed cutting back. And the beds under the windows were empty, she remembered.

Maybe Nate needed to apologise to her, actually. Or at least start doing his job.

Still, the gardens hadn’t even made it onto her priorities list yet. They certainly came after the bedrooms and the dining room, but probably not too much farther down. Photo opportunities were a huge selling point for wedding venues. She wondered if the inn had a pagoda.

But the gardens were Nate’s responsibility now, not hers. She’d just have to trust him to get on with it and not invest in some offensive topiary just to get back at her for this morning.

The sharp beeping ringtone of her mobile phone seemed oddly out of place at the Avalon. Adding change ringtone to the mental list, Carrie answered it quickly. “Hello?”

“Carrie? It’s Vicky. Vicky Purcell. How are you?” Her ex-client’s voice was too overly cheery, Carrie thought, for this to be a good phone call.

“Fine, thanks, Vicky. Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yes, fine. Just…we were wondering. I know you’re not with Wedding Wishes any longer, but, really, you were the reason we decided to hire the company. And now you’re not there… Well, I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might be looking to take on a couple of clients on the side?”