Kitabı oku: «Glory Be!», sayfa 3

THREE

The blue clapboard Victorian on Front Street was a smaller house than Rafe had wanted. It had only one full bathroom and a single-car garage, and cost half-again more than he had planned to spend, thanks to its stunning view of Albemarle Sound. But his teenage daughter, Kate, had loved the “gingerbread-detailed charmer” from the instant she saw its picture pinned up in the front window of the Realtor’s. That had been enough to sway Rafe.

Every light in the house was turned on when Rafe maneuvered his Corvette into the driveway—a gentle protest by Kate that he had left home before sunup and was returning fourteen hours later. A small-town policeman’s lot included long days, but Rafe usually managed to eat breakfast and supper at home. Today, the pranks had gotten in the way.

He found her in the living room watching a cheerleading DVD. He moved behind her and kissed the top of her head just as a blond cheerleader on the TV screen tumbled to the ground from the top of a three-layer pyramid of fellow cheerleaders.

“Oooh, that’s gotta hurt,” Kate said.

“Is this some sort of training video? Teaching you about safety, I hope.”

“Uh-uh. It’s an hour of cheerleading goofs and bloopers. Funny stuff.”

“Not for the gals who hit the ground hard. Or their parents.” Rafe came around to the front of the sofa and sat down next to Kate. She was fifteen, with a tall, long-legged, athletic build and a face that was pretty and intelligent at the same time. She had big brown eyes, fine features and shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. Rafe’s eyes flicked toward the framed photograph atop a bookcase. Kate was becoming more like her mother with every passing day.

“I’m on the freshman cheerleader squad, remember?” Kate said. “No jumps or stunts or pyramids.”

“For which I am exceptionally grateful.”

She used the remote to turn off the TV. “Anything interesting happen today?”

He grinned and tapped the end of her nose. “A good try, but I’m sure that every kid in town knows about the Volkswagen.”

She countered by tapping his nose. “How was choir practice? Anything unusual happen?”

“Wow. You even know about the fight. I’m impressed—the power of cell phones in the hands of teenagers is awesome.”

Rafe felt sure that she cracked a smile.

“I didn’t arrest anyone tonight,” he said, “but I will if there are any more wrestling matches at church. We actually had a pretty good rehearsal after the hotheads cooled down.”

Kate nodded.

“My theory,” he said, “is that the epidemic of pranks in Glory has put lots of people on edge.”

Kate focused her eyes on the remote control in her lap.

“Let’s go off the record,” he said. “I want to send a message to the student who’s planning the gags. I presume you know who’s in charge, since you know everything about everyone under the age of twenty-one within a radius of fifty miles.”

“Why assume a kid is responsible?”

“Because I don’t know any adults who could convince the high school football team to move a Volkswagen Beetle from a parking lot to a porch.”

“It’s not that simple….” She finished the sentence with a shrug.

“No?”

“There isn’t a single student in charge—it’s more of a committee.”

“Committees have chairpersons.”

“This one has a book.”

“A book…?”

“Great Practical Jokes of the 1950s and 1960s. It’s an antique, published way back in 1970. Kids are passing it around Glory High like the baton in a relay race. Whoever has the book must do one of the jokes. Then he or she gives the book to someone else who has the nerve to do another one.”

“Specifically, a high school student who also supports the contemporary service at Glory Community Church?”

“Well, duh!”

“Do you have to attend our church to receive the book?”

“Nope. You just have to know what kind of music you prefer.”

“Do I have to ask which side you’re on?”

“I think organ chords are icky. They make me think of old horror movies. Anyway, I like to hear drums when I listen to music, and they never have drums in a traditional service.”

“Never?”

“Never!” She added a definitive shake of her head.

Rafe thought about it and realized that Kate might be right. He had seen many kinds of musical instruments played at traditional church services—violins, cellos, trumpets, guitars, flutes, trombones, pianos, bells, even an accordion—but never a full drum set. Those who favored drum-accompanied music would probably prefer a contemporary service. Of course, Kate also seemed to have more than a passing interest in the seventeen-year-old male drummer who played at Glory Community every Sunday.

“Tell me more about this antique book,” he said.

“It’s incredibly cool…” she began, and then realized her mistake.

“I get it. The book was passed to you.”

“No comment.”

“I assume that means you committed a prank.”

Kate fiddled with the remote in her hands. “You’ll never get me to confess to anything.”

“Then let me play detective. You don’t know much about cars, so you wouldn’t come up with the idea of moving a Volkswagen. You’re too smart—and I think too compassionate—to risk killing a fish. You don’t have easy access to the old clothing placed on Moira McGregor. But you do have a fancy computer, several graphics programs and a good ink-jet printer. I think you created the phony traffic ticket found dangling from Chief Porter’s radio antenna. In fact, the more I think about it the more sense it makes. You weren’t taking much risk marching into the parking lot behind Police Headquarters and affixing said ticket. If anyone spotted you, you could simply say you left something in my ’Vette.”

“I admit to nothing.”

“The clincher is the spelling error.”

Kate peered at him quizzically.

“You wrote ‘trafficing,’ without the k. The correct spelling is trafficking. We both know that spelling is your weakest subject.”

Kate pushed a lock of hair away from her face but said nothing. Rafe pressed on. “Where did the book come from? Don’t try to tell me it’s on loan from the school library.”

“Well, I don’t know this for a total fact, but I think the book came from Sam Lange’s bookstore.”

Rafe grunted. The Glory Book Nook was the logical source for an “antique” book. Although Sam sold both new and used books, he seemed to make more money from the old volumes on his shelves. He specialized in quirky topics and did a thriving Internet business with book collectors.

“Okay, I’ll do some more detecting. Jake Moore, a junior at Glory High, works three afternoons a week and all day Saturday at the Book Nook, so he had the means to acquire the book in question. Jake is also a member of the church choir, which gives him a motive…except…”

“Except what?”

“Jake doesn’t like the contemporary service. He’s supposed to be on the same side as Lily Kirk. So he can’t be involved.”

“Right.”

“Except…”

“Now what?”

“That ‘right’ you just spoke sounded suspicious. It’s got me thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how devilishly clever your side is.” He poked at her ribs. “Jake Moore is an undercover agent. You placed a spy in the opposition’s camp.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said airily.

“Okay, then let’s talk about the book some more. How nasty do the collected pranks get?”

“Well, the book shows you how to do lots of things that go ‘bang.’ A couple of guys were interested, but these days you can’t go to a drugstore and buy the ingredients to make homemade explosives.”

“And the people said, ‘Amen!’”

“Some of the pranks are impossibly gross. Itching powder, stink bombs and paper bags filled with horse manure.”

“I know that one! You put the paper bag on the victim’s porch, set fire to the top of the bag and ring the bell. Most people put out the fire by stomping on the bag.”

Kate grimaced. “That’s awful. I don’t like jokes that need to be cleaned up with a shovel. Pranks should make people laugh.”

“Like a phony parking ticket presented to the chief of police?”

“That sounds funny to me.”

“Actually, the Chief wasn’t amused in any way, shape or form. He offered to shoot the person responsible.”

Kate sat up straight. “Are we finished talking about practical jokes?”

“Do you have another topic in mind?”

“I’ve been told that you were checking out Emma McCall this morning at The Scottish Captain.”

“Checking her out?”

“Watching her with more than professional interest.”

“Who told you that?”

“You were also seen talking with her tonight at church.”

Rafe felt his eyebrows rise. Who, he wondered, was Kate’s source of information? He tried to remember if Jake Moore was also a member of the Glory Gremlins. He was certainly large enough to play football.

“And your point is?” Rafe said.

“You are considered absolutely awesome, while everyone knows that she’s a total loser. Think carefully before you do anything that might ruin your reputation.”

Rafe didn’t want to laugh aloud, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“The poppers are magnificent here,” Lily said, “I recommend them highly. I believe they’re homemade.”

Emma knew better. Dan’s Pizza Deluxe undoubtedly bought frozen, machine-made poppers, ten-pounds at a time, but why shatter Lily’s illusions or begin a pointless discussion about the tawdry secrets of cheap restaurants?

Emma scanned the menu quickly. It seemed late for deep-fried jalapeño peppers stuffed with cream cheese, but a greasy pizza might be even less digestible. And more expensive. She guessed that Lily was stretching a tight budget to pay for their impromptu after-rehearsal snack.

“Why don’t we share an order of poppers?” Emma said.

“That’s a grand idea.” Lily sounded relieved as she caught the waitress’s attention. “One order of poppers and two iced teas.”

Emma waited patiently for Lily to begin the conversation—almost certainly a long-winded recruiting speech encouraging Emma to become active in the ongoing church battle. Why couldn’t people understand that she didn’t care enough about the issue to take sides? Why couldn’t they simply leave her alone?

Emma had been walking to her Volvo when Lily suddenly appeared at her side. “We don’t know each other very well, Mrs. McCall, but I have a question that I must ask you.”

Emma didn’t point out that McCall was her maiden name and she had abandoned the “Mrs.” label when she moved to Glory. She simply said, “A question? About what?”

“The rain may begin again at any minute. Why don’t we go for quick snack? My treat, of course.” Lily gestured toward an old Ford Taurus sedan.

Reluctantly, Emma dropped her car keys into her purse. She had been awake since four-thirty and wanted to get to bed, but Lily possessed a peculiar authority—a strange presence—that compelled Emma to agree. She obediently followed the woman to the well-cared-for silver Ford and opened the passenger’s door. She paid little attention to the elderly vehicle until she slid past the high side bolsters on her bucket seat.

This feels like a sports car seat.

Emma looked around. Enough light spilled into the car from the lampposts in the church’s parking lot to see that the Taurus had black-leather interior and a five-speed manual transmission. Lily pushed the clutch pedal and worked the ignition key. The engine roared to life and settled into a thrumming idle.

Lily revved the engine and turned to Emma. “This is my baby, my one luxury. She’s a Taurus SHO, one of the first built in 1989. ‘SHO’ stands for super high output. There’s a three-liter Yamaha V6 under the hood. Top speed is supposed to be 143 miles per hour, but I’ve never had her above 120.”

Emma pulled her seat belt tight as Lily accelerated along King Street.

“I enjoy life in the fast lane,” Lily said, with a giggle, as she accelerated again. “But only at night when most of the cops in town are asleep.” She braked hard, downshifted and then made a screeching right turn onto Main Street.

Emma watched the dark road whiz past. Beyond Glory’s town limits, Main Street became State Route 34A, which ran north to Route 17 then on to Elizabeth City, some twenty miles away. Dan’s Pizza Deluxe was about a mile up the road. Halfway there, Lily tooted her car’s horn.

“What’s that for?” Emma had asked.

“I like to give the animals a fair warning,” Lily had said. “A honk now and then gives the raccoons and deer a chance to get out of our way.” Lily patted Emma’s hand. “You won’t tell anybody, will you?”

“Tell them what?”

“About my speeding and horn blowing.” Lily had laughed. “It’s my little secret. Only a few of my friends know. Most people in Glory think I’m a mild-mannered retired librarian who never drives faster than fifty-five miles per hour.”

Emma joined in the laughter. “Your little secret is safe with me.”

The waitress brought their drinks. She was a slender young woman with dyed red hair and a sour expression that Emma doubted did much to encourage food sales. “Your poppers will be out in a minute.”

Lily waited until they were alone before she said, “I appreciate your willingness to take time away from The Scottish Captain to meet with me. I’ve been told that innkeepers are on duty twenty-four hours a day.”

“Well, some days are longer than others,” Emma replied.

This one, for example.

Lily pressed on, “I’ve never stayed at a bed-and-breakfast, so I can only guess how much work is involved. Do your guests expect you to be on call throughout the day?”

Emma tried to read Lily’s face. She seemed genuinely interested in the mechanics of running a B and B.

“I try to be available when guests are up and about. My housekeeper holds down the fort two or three afternoons a week so that I can run errands. Today, for example, I had an appointment in Norfolk. Tomorrow, I have to drive to Elizabeth City to interview a new food supplier.”

“Ah.” Lily’s face brightened. “Then it is likely I will see you again tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening?” Emma felt bewildered by Lily’s sudden change of tack.

“I’ll be a guest at the next meeting of the Writing for Glory Club.”

“Now I understand,” Emma said. The local writer’s club, chaired by Sara Knoll met twice a month—the first and third Thursdays—at The Scottish Captain. “Are you a writer?”

“Oh, no. Sara Knoll invited me to hear her talk about her work in progress. We’ve become good friends during the past few months. She’s been exceptionally generous with her computer expertise.” Lily peered at Emma. “You do know that Ms. Knoll has authored more than a dozen published books.”

“Of course.” Everyone who attended Glory Community Church knew that Sara wrote the popular Martha Does It series of how-to books for women on subjects that ranged from household hints to electrical wiring to setting up a computer network. “Come a few minutes early and browse around the Captain. I’m proud of the renovations and redecorating I’ve done.”

“Renovations?” Lily said sharply. “Have you done any major reconstruction?”

“Our kitchen is new and so are the guest bathrooms. The six guest bedrooms have new wallpaper and carpeting.”

“Did you make any structural changes to the first floor?”

“Nothing significant. Do you know the Captain?”

“It’s been many years since I’ve been inside.” Lily stared into space for several seconds. “I may accept your kind offer to browse around—assuming of course that I survive those miserable pranksters.”

Emma took a sip of iced tea.

Here it comes. A sales pitch to join her “side.”

But Lily surprised Emma. She, too, began to sip her tea and said nothing more until the waitress arrived with a platter of poppers and two smaller plates.

“They look especially good tonight.” Lily slid a popper onto her plate. “I hope you enjoy them.”

The poppers provided a second surprise for Emma. They were baked rather than fried and didn’t look mass-produced. She sliced one into thirds and tasted a piece.

“These are superb,” she said. “They are homemade.”

“Dave is an extraordinary cook. He used to be the hors d’oeuvre chef at the Hamilton House Hotel in New York City. He’s another big-city native who moved to Glory.”

Emma felt mildly annoyed at the way Lily emphasized “another.” She responded with, “I believe you wanted to ask me a question.”

Lily flushed slightly. “Yes, although I’ve been doing my best to avoid it.” She sighed. “I’d best dive right in. I couldn’t help notice you speaking with Rafe Neilson at the church this evening. Did you by any chance discuss the wave of pranks sweeping Glory?”

“Among other things,” Emma said, in a harsher tone than she meant to.

Lily’s expression grew tense. “I’m not trying to pry into your personal relationships, Mrs. McCall. I have a reason for asking.”

Emma paused to regain her composure. “We did talk about the pranks. A total of four have been committed. I became the…subject of the fourth practical joke this morning.”

“So I heard. The ancient ‘Beetle on the porch’ gag.” Lily carefully set her knife and fork down on her plate. “Does he know whether any of the mischief was mean-spirited? Does the so-called ‘Phantom Avenger’ wish to cause physical harm to his victims?”

“The four pranks were silly attacks on property, not people.” Emma abruptly pictured a flock of pigeons settling on the real Lily Kirk. She swallowed a snigger. “Rafe doesn’t see any criminal intent in what was done.”

“He told you that?”

“Those are his words.”

Lily nodded slowly. “That makes me feel much better. You see, earlier this evening a pickup truck nearly pushed me off the road.”

“My goodness!” Emma set her own fork down. “When? Where?”

“Two miles north on State Route 34A. About a quarter to seven. I’d driven to an industrial supply shop in Elizabeth City to buy a tube of the glue I use to repair books and I was racing through the rain to be on time for choir practice.” Lily hesitated, as if she were reluctant to relive the memory.

“Go on.” Emma thought back to earlier that evening. At a quarter to seven she’d been on the same road, but had been farther away from town.

“All at once I saw a huge grill in my rearview mirror. The truck actually tapped me—you can see the dent in the back bumper. I tromped on the gas and got out of there. I didn’t see the truck after that.”

“Do you think the driver hit you on purpose?”

“My first thought was that a prankster was trying to frighten me. But it may have been nothing more than an exuberant teenager who got careless while driving his father’s pickup truck.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“I intended to talk to Rafe after choir practice. But now I don’t dare bother him—not after the contretemps at church this evening.”

Emma needed a moment to remember that contretemps meant quarrel. “A quarrel in the choir is one thing. But if someone tried to harm you…I think you should talk to Rafe. He seems reasonable.”

“Most women in Glory find him more than reasonable,” Lily smiled. “We don’t have an abundance of thirty-eight-year-old, good-looking single men in Glory.” She shook her head. “No. This time I won’t talk to Rafe. A dent in my back bumper doesn’t prove anything. And since the pranks are essentially harmless, Rafe is likely to conclude I’m a hysterical older woman who suffers from a touch of paranoia.”

Emma chewed on a piece of popper and made a mental note to talk to Dave about providing poppers—and other appetizers—to the Scottish Captain. She also wondered what she should do about the fear she heard in Lily’s voice.

FOUR

Daniel Hartman peered into the church’s refrigerator and allowed himself to sigh. “No real cream, and no milk,” he said. “All I can offer you is powdered creamer.”

“That will do me fine,” Sara Knoll replied. “After twenty-five years as an international journalist, I’m used to tight rations and impromptu meeting places.”

“In that event, let’s talk right here. What could be more impromptu than our kitchen?” He handed her a ceramic mug full of coffee and gestured toward a pair of wooden stools next to a stainless-steel food preparation table. “I don’t want to keep you long tonight, but I do want to review the progress your committee is making.”

Daniel sipped his own coffee. The church’s Elder Board had appointed a committee to recommend how to spend the Caruthers bequest. Sara was its chair—an excellent choice, given her background and experience. Daniel considered Sara a no-nonsense, get-the-job-done professional. She would have made a fine army officer had she chosen a different career path.

“What progress?” She shrugged. “We’re deadlocked.”

“How can you be? You have five members. That means no tie votes.”

She smiled wryly. “We agreed from the start to require a minimum of four votes to make a final recommendation. Alas, our committee consists of two inflexible Contemporaries, two unyielding Traditionalists, and me. I abstain whenever we vote because that’s the only way I know to stay friendly with both sides.”

“Has it worked?

“So far.” Sara added a nod. “I’m perceived as neutral—which has helped both sides to remain civil to each other during our meetings.” A frown spread across her face. “But our civility hasn’t translated into progress. I can summarize what the committee has done with a single word—nothing.”

Daniel paused to gather his thoughts. “I fear for the future of Glory Community Church. Our highly polarized rift is the kind of conflict that can wreck a church fellowship. What bothers me most is that I don’t know how to get our people to back down from their sincerely held positions.” He added, “The elders rightly expect me to get everyone working toward a solution that will make the whole congregation happy.”

“Isn’t that a trick that pastors learn on the job?” she said with another smile.

He grinned back. “I spent twenty-one years in the U.S. Army and rose through the ranks to become a colonel, commanding a cadre of other chaplains. My experience taught me leadership, not conflict resolution.”

“I presume that shouting ‘Attention!’ has a greater effect in the army than in a church.”

“Oh, I can yell loud enough to stop a fight in the choir loft, but what do I do next? I wish that your ‘Martha’ books included a volume on compromise and forgiveness.” He toasted Sara with his coffee mug. “Your new book on working with stained glass will come in handy should we have to replace broken panels in the sanctuary.”

“Sorry, but Stained Glass Made Simple is the next book in the series. The one I have to deliver the day before Thanksgiving is called Finding Undiscovered Treasures in Your Attic.”

He chuckled. “That’s bound to be a bestseller in Glory. The older houses in town have upward of a hundred fifty years of accumulated junk in their attics.”

“All of which someone wants to buy. Thanks to the auction sites on the Internet, ‘junk’ is an obsolete concept. The trick is to locate the one person somewhere in the world who actually covets the trinket or doodad or knickknack your great-great grandmother stuffed into a cardboard box all those decades ago.”

“Getting back to our problem…” Daniel began.

Sara interrupted. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself. After all, fights about music in church are a recent phenomenon, a challenge that’s caught pastors by surprise.”

“Actually…” He spoke softly to avoid sounding like a schoolteacher giving a lecture. “Traditional music versus contemporary music has been a battleground for two thousand years. During the first century some Christians argued that the use of musical instruments of any kind during worship was either too much like the old Hebrew ceremonies or too pagan. Fifteen hundred years later the fight centered on whether secular music, harmony and folk melody should be banned from church, and whether all musical instruments except the organ should be eliminated.”

Sara made a face. “I stand corrected. Our fight is clearly part of a long tradition, but I can’t help feeling that the battle is unnecessary. We have two services, one traditional and one contemporary. The Caruthers bequest provides more than enough money to keep both sides happy.”

“True. We have plenty of cash but only one sanctuary, which both groups want to redesign. That’s really the crux of the disagreement.”

She threw up her hands. “Exactly! The Traditionalists want it to look like a European cathedral. The Contemporaries want to give it the feel of a modern megachurch.” She added, “The Traditionalists and the Contemporaries have both lost focus. We worship to please God, not ourselves.”

“Both groups think they have that angle covered, too. Lily told me that God enjoys hymns and could not possibly be pleased with an insipid rock song that repeats the same simple words ten times over. Debbie Akers insists that God must be ‘bored off his gourd,’ as she put it, with a thousand years of dull hymn music and even duller words. Consequently, she says contemporary services have become wildly popular thanks to divine intervention.”

Sara laughed. “I’m sorry, Daniel, but the battle at Glory Community does have a humorous side.”

“I might have agreed with you a few months ago, but the truth is I don’t find our fight funny anymore. I’m too worried that someone will get hurt.”

Emma deftly carried a tray laden with an insulated carafe, two mugs and a plate of shortbread cookies as she led Simon Rogers to the gazebo in The Scottish Captain’s back garden. The old wooden octagon was a pretty spot for a chat after breakfast, and also far enough away from the main house that it afforded a measure of privacy. The sun felt delightfully warm that Thursday morning. The weather forecast called for the temperature to climb into the high sixties by lunchtime.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Simon said. “The other travel writers in our group are going fishing for striped bass in Albemarle Sound. I would rather chew on ground glass. I would certainly get seasick and, with my bad luck, I would catch a dozen fish and be required to eat them.”

“Assuming you could find someone to clean and cook them for you. We don’t clean and fry fish for our guests at The Scottish Captain.”

“Now I’m doubly glad I stayed behind. Today will be a perfect opportunity to recharge my batteries. There’s a day trip to the Outer Banks tomorrow.”

“Then you have no plans for this morning?”

“Not really. I shall pretend that I’m a road weary New England snowbird who decided to spend a down day in Glory, North Carolina. The tour of the grand houses and local museum yesterday was fascinating. I shall continue to browse around the town and soak up the ambience.” He brushed a cookie crumb out of his beard. “With luck I’ll find another Beetle on another porch.”

Emma hoped that Simon didn’t notice how she winced. The last thing Glory needed was a rowdy reputation among travel writers. Emma had her future tied up in The Scottish Captain. Her B and B must succeed and that would only happen if Glory prospered as she’d predicted it would.

“Please don’t get the wrong idea about Glory,” she said evenly. “We specialize in quiet, prank-free vacations.”

“Oh yes, Glory is definitely a quiet place—which leads me to ask an impertinent question. Why would someone like you decide to abandon Seattle, a vibrant big city, and move to a pastoral southern town that even the Union Army avoided during the Civil War?”

The jolt of astonishment she felt came out as a nervous hiccup. She hadn’t shared her biography with Simon Rogers, but he seemed to know a lot about her. Emma took a sip of coffee to help clear her throat. “You mentioned that I moved here from Seattle. Where did you come across that tidbit of information?”

“On the Internet, of course. Yesterday, I visited the Glory Public Library and typed your name into Google. Several ‘hits’ pointed to your biography.” He grinned. “That’s what happens when you become well-known enough in your field to make presentations at national hotel management conferences.”

Emma bit her tongue. When she’d calmed down, she said, “My presenting days are over. I didn’t realize that my bio was still online.”

“Oh, yes, once on the Internet, information seems to linger forever. I must say that your hostelry credentials are impressive. As I recall, you earned your bachelor’s degree from the prestigious Cornell University School of Hotel Administration, and you were appointed general manager of the Pacific Monarch Hotel in Seattle at the tender age of thirty-three. I’ve stayed at the Monarch—it’s one of the most elegant hotels in the west. You obviously know your stuff.”

Emma smiled. “Thank you. I like working in the hospitality business.”

“I’m equally fascinated by your athletic prowess. Imagine, a champion women’s softball pitcher serving us breakfast.”

“I loved softball when I was a kid. I played on an intramural team at Cornell, and I joined a women’s league in Seattle. My team, the Pacific Princesses, did manage to win the league championship three years ago. Softball is great fun and good exercise. End of story.”

“To restate my original question in different words,” Simon said, “why did you give up managing a world-class Seattle hotel and decide to run a small B and B?”

Emma tried to look thoughtful, as if she were pondering a difficult question. In fact, this was a question she had faced dozens of times, always with a pat answer that seemed to satisfy people—and had little to do with reality.

“After working in large hotels for more than a decade,” she said, “I decided that I prefer the personal touch of managing a B and B. Back in Seattle, I dealt with crises from dawn to dusk. I had no time to think, much less talk to the guests. I prefer sharing a pot of coffee with you and enjoying a pleasant fall morning.”