The Welcoming

used to the silent way he moved. “Mostly. Mae was giving me chocolate and a pep talk. Want some cake?”
    “No.”
    “Just as well. If you had I’d have taken another piece and made myself sick. No willpower. How about a beer?”
    “Yeah. Thanks.”
    She got up lazily and moved to the refrigerator to rattle off a list of brands. He chose one and watched her pour it into a pilsner glass. She wasn’t angry, he noted, though she had certainly been the last time they were together. So Charity didn’t hold grudges. She wouldn’t, Roman decided as he took the glass from her. She would forgive almost anything, would trust everyone and would give more than was asked.
    “Why do you look at me that way?” she murmured.
    He caught himself, then took a long, thirsty pull on the beer. “You have a beautiful face.”
    She lifted a brow when he sat down and pulled out a cigarette. After taking an ashtray from a drawer, she sat beside him. “I like to accept compliments whenever I get them, but I don’t think that’s the reason.”
    “It’s reason enough for a man to look at a woman.” He sipped his beer. “You had a busy night.”
    Let it go, Charity told herself. “Busy enough that I need to hire another waitress fast. I didn’t get a chance to thank you for helping out with the dinner crowd.”
    “No problem. Lose the headache?”
    She glanced up sharply. But, no, he wasn’t making fun of her. It seemed, though she couldn’t be sure why the impression was so strong, that his question was a kind of apology. She decided to accept it.
    “Yes, thanks. Getting mad at you took my mind off Mary Alice, and Mae’s chocolate cake did the rest.” She thought about brewing some tea, then decided she was too lazy to bother. “So, how was your day?”
    She smiled at him in an easy offer of friendship that he found difficult to resist and impossible to accept. “Okay. Miss Millie said the door to her room was sticking, so I pretended to sand it.”
    “And made her day.”
    He couldn’t prevent the smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been ogled quite so completely before.”
    “Oh, I imagine you have.” She tilted her head to study him from a new angle. “But, with apologies to your ego, in Miss Millie’s case it’s more a matter of nearsightedness than lust. She’s too vain to wear her glasses in front of any male over twenty.”
    “I’d rather go on thinking she’s leering at me,” he said. “She said she’s been coming here twice a year since ’52.” He thought that over for a moment, amazed that anyone could return time after time to the same spot.
    “She and Miss Lucy are fixtures here. When I was young I thought we were related.”
    “You been running this place long?”
    “Off and on for all of my twenty-seven years.” Smiling, she tipped back in her chair. She was a woman who relaxed easily and enjoyed seeing others relaxed. He seemed so now, she thought, with his legs stretched out under the table and a glass in his hand. “You don’t really want to hear the story of my life, do you, Roman?”
    He blew out a stream of smoke. “I’ve got nothing to do.” And he wanted to hear her version of what he’d read in her file.
    “Okay. I was born here. My mother had fallen in love a bit later in life than most. She was nearly forty when she had me, and fragile. There were complications. After she died, my grandfather raised me, so I grew up here at the inn, except for the periods of time when he sent me away to school. I loved this place.” She glanced around the kitchen. “In school I pined for it, and for Pop. Even in college I missed it so much I’d ferry home every weekend. But he wanted me to see something else before I settled down here. I was going to travel some, get new ideas for the inn. See New York, New Orleans, Venice. I don’t know. . . .” Her words trailed off wistfully.
    “Why didn’t you?”
    “My grandfather was ill. I was in my last year of college when I found out
how
ill. I wanted to quit, come home, but the idea upset him so much I thought it was better to graduate. He hung on for another three years, but it was . . . difficult.” She didn’t want to talk about the tears and the terror, or about the exhaustion of running the inn while caring for a near-invalid. “He was the bravest, kindest man I’ve ever known. He was so much a part of this place that there are still times when I expect to walk into a room and see him checking for dust on the