A Dream To Share. Irene Hannon
he rose and reached for the papers. “Thanks for the tour.”
For a second Abby seemed taken aback by his abruptness. Those big green eyes widened in surprise, and a flash of uncertainty flickered across her face. It was apparent that she didn’t like being thrown off balance any more than he did. Good, Mark decided. She needed to understand that two could play this game.
“No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. What time should I expect you?”
There was a challenge in her question. And in her eyes. It was obvious she’d already pegged him as a slacker, Mark deduced. He wasn’t about to reinforce that opinion.
“About seven o’clock. You did say you get here early, didn’t you?” he countered.
“Yes. Seven will be fine. Here’s a key to the office, in case you want to put in any extra hours.”
Her slight smirk as she handed it over told him he’d walked right into her trap. And as he exited her office, he had the distinct feeling that Abby Warner had won round one.
The thing was, he hadn’t realized until too late that he’d even stepped into the ring.
Chapter Four
Abby Warner didn’t have a college degree.
Mark stared at her bio in the file his father had given him and reread the information to ensure he hadn’t missed something. No, there it was in black and white. She’d left college one semester short of getting her journalism degree.
So how had she managed to put him on the defensive? Him, with his impressive MBA and CPA credentials? Nothing in the file had offered him a clue.
With a resigned sigh, he reached for the paper on top of the imposing stack of back issues, took a fortifying sip of the strong coffee the innkeeper had provided and began to read.
Two hours later and halfway through the stack, he leaned back and massaged the stiff muscles in his neck. His almost-untouched coffee had been pushed, unneeded, to the side as he’d become engrossed in the Gazette.
Instead of the garden club news and bingo results he’d expected, he’d found meaty stories on farm subsidies, corruption in city government, the use of inferior materials in the construction of a strip mall, a drug ring at an area high school—the same topics covered by big-city newspapers. And the articles were thoughtful, informative and unbiased. The physical assets of the Gazette might be second-rate, but the reporting was first-class.
Now he understood why his father was interested in the paper. And why Abby had been insulted when he’d impugned the Gazette’s content earlier in the day.
As he rose to stretch the kinks from his back, a knock sounded. Opening the door, he found his landlady on the other side. Though Marge Sullivan was well past middle age, her gray hair was cut in a trendy style and her hot-pink velour sweatsuit looked as if it had come from a hip teen shop. She was definitely not what he’d expected when he’d pulled up in front of the ornate Victorian house.
“I just wanted to see if you needed anything else before I call it a night,” she told him.
Surprised, he automatically lifted his hand to check his watch. Nine-thirty.
“We turn in early here in the sticks.” At the twinkle in her eye, his neck grew warm and he jammed the offending hand in his pocket. “So do you have everything you need?” She peeked around him to give the room a discreet inspection.
“Yes, thanks.”
Her attention was still on the room behind him, her expression assessing. “Why don’t I get rid of some of those froufrou pillows tomorrow? You don’t look like the ruffled-pillow type. And I can ditch those turn-of-the-century books and potpourri on the coffee table to give you a little more room to work. The doilies on the chairs can go, too.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.” His hopeful tone, however, belied his words. For a man used to minimalist decor, the frilly Victorian ornamentation was cloying.
She gave a hearty chuckle. “Honey, Victoriana makes me want to throw up. It’s way too cluttered for my taste. But that’s what folks seem to expect at a historic house like this. I’m a Frank Lloyd Wright fan, myself.”
A smile played at the corners of Mark’s mouth—the first natural one since his arrival in Oak Hill. “Then how, may I ask, did you end up with this—” he made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hand “—edifice?”
She gave an unladylike snort. “That’s a kind word for it. More like a money pit, truth be told. Do you know how much it costs to paint all that gingerbread trim outside? Anyway, to answer your question, I inherited it from an aunt a few years back. I was living in Boston and had hit some hard times. I figured I’d move down here and give this a shot. All in all, it’s been a good thing.”
“Boston to Oak Hill…that must have been quite a change,” he sympathized.
“Life is all about transitions.” She gave a philosophical shrug. “In my experience, you can always find something good in them if you have a positive attitude. I came here determined to like it, to become part of the community, and I did. It’s a nice town, and the people are the salt of the earth.”
She gave the room another sweeping perusal and wrinkled her nose. “The one thing I haven’t reconciled myself to is the decor. Trust me, I’ll be happy to de-Victorianize your room as much as possible. I don’t mind in the least, since you’ll be with me a while. And that reminds me…when would you like breakfast?”
The B and B was a mere five minutes from the Gazette office, but he’d still have to eat way too early to expect anyone to fix breakfast. “Since I told the editor I’d be in about seven, I’ll just grab a bite at the café on Main Street.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I’m up with the chickens, anyway. How about six-thirty? I can do sausages and eggs and biscuits, maybe some muffins.”
The thought of that much food early in the morning made him queasy. “Really, it’s okay. I’m not much of a breakfast eater, anyway.”
“Well, I don’t eat all that stuff myself, either. But most guests seems to expect it. If you ask me, it’s a heart attack on a plate. Let’s see…how about a simple omelet and English muffin? Or a whole-wheat waffle with fresh fruit?”
“Either one sounds great.”
“I’ll surprise you, then. And I’ll have you out of here in plenty of time to get to the Gazette by seven. But don’t you let Abby guilt you into putting in long hours just because she does. That woman works way too hard. Needs a little more fun in her life, if you ask me. I know she’s upset about this whole acquisition thing, but to tell the truth, it could be just what the doctor ordered. All that stress is taking a toll on her.”
It appeared he’d found an ally in the innkeeper, Mark realized with relief. That was refreshing after the wary reception he’d gotten from the staff at the Gazette. He smiled at her. “It’s nice to know I have one friend in town, Ms. Sullivan.”
“Call me Marge. And don’t be too hard on Abby. It’s a big responsibility to be the keeper of four generations of heritage. But she’s a reasonable person, and I’m betting that once she reconciles herself to this and gets to know you, she’ll give you a fair chance.”
As Marge bid him good-night and shut the door, Mark mulled over her last comment. Would Abby give him a fair chance? They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, that was for sure. Not that it should matter. His stay in Oak Hill would be brief. He had a job to do and Abby’s opinion of him was irrelevant. He shouldn’t even care what she thought about him.
But for some odd reason, he did.
After consulting his watch, Mark slipped the balance sheet back into the file and added it the stack on the table in front of him. In his first three and a half days he’d made tremendous progress on the financial audit at the