The Welcoming

squint-eyed survey. “Sit down, then,” she told him, jerking a thumb in the direction of a long wooden table.
    “Mae Jenkins, Roman DeWinter.”
    “Ma’am.”
    “And Dolores Rumsey.” The other woman was holding a jar of herbs. She was as narrow as Mae was wide. After giving Roman a nod, she began to ease her way toward the pot.
    “Keep away from that,” Mae ordered, “and get the man some fried chicken.”
    Muttering, Dolores stalked off to find a plate.
    “Roman’s going to pick up where George left off,” Charity explained. “He’ll be staying in the west wing.”
    “Not from around here.” Mae looked at him again, the way he imagined a nanny would look at a small, grubby child.
    “No.”
    With a sniff, she poured him some coffee. “Looks like you could use a couple of decent meals.”
    “You’ll get them here,” Charity put in, playing peacemaker. She winced only a little when Dolores slapped a plate of cold chicken and potato salad in front of Roman.
    “Needed more dill.” Dolores glared at him, as if she were daring him to disagree. “She wouldn’t listen.”
    Roman figured the best option was to grin at her and keep his mouth full. Before Mae could respond, the door swung open again.
    “Can a guy get a cup of coffee in here?” The man stopped and sent Roman a curious look.
    “Bob Mullins, Roman DeWinter. I hired him to finish the west wing. Bob’s one of my many right hands.”
    “Welcome aboard.” He moved to the stove to pour himself a cup of coffee, adding three lumps of sugar as Mae clucked her tongue at him. The sweet tooth didn’t seem to have an effect on him. He was tall, perhaps six-two, and he couldn’t weigh more than 160. His light brown hair was cut short around his ears and swept back from his high forehead.
    “You from back east?” Bob asked between sips of coffee.
    “East of here.”
    “Easy to do.” He grinned when Mae flapped a hand to move him away from her stove.
    “Did you get that invoice business straightened out with the greengrocer?” Charity asked.
    “All taken care of. You got a couple of calls while you were out. And there’s some papers you need to sign.”
    “I’ll get to it.” She checked her watch. “Now.” She glanced over at Roman. “I’ll be in the office off the lobby if there’s anything you need to know.”
    “I’ll be fine.”
    “Okay.” She studied him for another moment. She couldn’t quite figure out how he could be in a room with four other people and seem so alone. “See you later.”
    ***
    Roman took a long, casual tour of the inn before he began to haul tools into the west wing. He saw a young couple who had to be newlyweds locked in an embrace near the pond. A man and a young boy played one-on-one on a small concrete basketball court. The ladies, as he had come to think of them, had left their game to sit on the porch and discuss the garden. Looking exhausted, a family of four pulled up in a station wagon, then trooped toward the cabins. A man in a fielder’s cap walked down the pier with a video camera on his shoulder.
    There were birds trilling in the trees, and there was the distant sound of a motorboat. He heard a baby crying halfheartedly, and the strains of a Mozart piano sonata.
    If he hadn’t pored over the data himself he would have sworn he was in the wrong place.
    He chose the family suite and went to work, wondering how long it would take him to get into Charity’s rooms.
    There was something soothing about working with his hands. Two hours passed, and he relaxed a little. A check of his watch had him deciding to take another, unnecessary trip to the shed. Charity had mentioned that wine was served in what she called the gathering room every evening at five. It wouldn’t hurt for him to get another, closer look at the inn’s guests.
    He started out, then stopped by the doorway to his room. He’d heard something, a movement. Cautious, he eased inside the door and scanned the empty room.
    Humming under her breath, Charity came out of the bath, where she’d just placed fresh towels. She unfolded linens and began to make the bed.
    “What are you doing?”
    Muffling a scream, she stumbled backward, then eased down on the bed to catch her breath. “My God, Roman, don’t do that.”
    He stepped into the room, watching her with narrowed eyes. “I asked what you were doing.”
    “That should be obvious.” She patted the pile of linens with her hand.
    “You do the housekeeping,